Monday, July 10, 2017


                    While I sit now in silence and repose,
                    Attending to the sounds in the surround,
                    Cicadas and bird chirping fill my doze
                    And, up above, the more insistent sound
                    Of soaring planes descending to runways,
                    Then hammering from carpenters nearby
                    With floors to lay and tall roof beams to raise,
                    As now a grinding garbage truck roars nigh—
                    In such a hubbub, how may I attend
                    To subtle promptings from my baffled Muse,
                     Receiving inspirations she might send,
                     Instead of being, as  I
now am, obtuse?
                          All this poor verse can do here is complain,
                          Hoping the Muse a better may ordain.