I write because my time is limited and my imagination is not.
No utopia Makes the humans do the chores While robots "write" books
By D. J. Reddallabout a year ago in Poets
Infuse frost with a chilled, clear intellect Immunize it against all writer’s block Grant it the liberty now to select
Some nights, you move through The snow, and some nights, the snow Moves coldly through you
I can make my large form invisible Through stealth, cunning and a touch of magic Which lets me hear your complaints, risible
Winter in Quebec Speaks maple syrup French Sweetening the snow ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
The struggle to appear to be yourself Carefully curated, polished, refined; Your shame and guilt and strange flaws on the shelf
Juxtapositions Of icy doom and snug warmth Expose two beauties
Your beauty blossoms When the contents of a book Become parts of you
Temptations are ubiquitous and strong A swarm of appetites is every soul To some sort of demon, many belong Tranquil serenity should be our goal
Ominous headlines Warnings of imminent doom Just the new normal?
When I was small, Christmas was magical But mature reflection upon the past Fills me with guilt, for greed fanatical
I watched him write a novel and a play While smoking and drinking a cheap champagne; In another, ostentatious display He tied his shoes while fixing my sink drain
