From hopeful dreaming I awaken
and go to work at eight,
where peaceful passions lie forsaken
and God! I'm running late.
Now any poem set to pen
warrants strict attention,
and more than lunches offer men
for rational digestion.
My boss commands that I forsake
(not "safe for work" nor "fit")
the ballads writ by William Blake
and Wordsworth's worth to wit.
More, no more, to sea, to sea!
I will no captain be,
but could I not convincingly...?
but God! the phone is ringing!
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Author:
Andrew Russell (
Offline) - Published: June 19th, 2022 21:44
- Category: Reflection
- Views: 9
- Users favorite of this poem: L. B. Mek
Offline)
Comments2
I wrote the first stanza in class one day to make a point, then wrote the rest when I had the chance.
Brilliant!
poetry's existentialist, realms
of stream of consciousness
creative, inventiveness
in our expressiveness..
(classic poetic's, as
phrases and verses, tattooing
our traversed
everyday, moments and thoughts)
thank you!
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