Tuesday, December 22, 2015


                    Our squabbling squirrels contend with other noise                
                    That signifies the morning’s well begun,                   
                    But not the kind of sounds that one enjoys—                     
                    A loud leaf-blower braying, to name one,                   
                   No doubt to be soon followed by a mower                      
                   Then after that a Cessna’s passing drone,                    
                   A less distressing sound and somewhat lower,                    
                   But then the ringing of our telephone.                    
                   How everything today seems to conspire                    
                   Against the contemplation that I need                     
                   To lift my spirit to a realm that’s higher                     
                   For my poetical endeavors to succeed.                         
                        The best that I can make is this complaint                        
                        That may be verse, but poetry it ain’t.