Leaf blowers and lawn mowers fill the air
With raucous sounds and hubbub to deplore
That keep my Muse at bay and cause despair
At this feindish mind-rattling uproar:
What is an ardent poet to do but cringe
When on his meditation sounds like these,
Such raucous cacophonics now impinge
Afflicting him with tremulous disease?
Nothing but pray that soon this blare abates
And finally his muddled mind may clear,
So what a poet dreams and contemplates
May come to view and a new verse appear.
Well now, at last, that raucousness has gone
And I may find fresh thoughts to ponder on.