Attempted Poetry

I have been arrested for attempted poetry! Please support my PayMe campaign. If you do not it will only rain. Urghhhh! There. I’m doing it again. Stop it!

The following is evidence in support of this accusation.

Don’t dig in those crypts of history,

Who knows what you will crack?

You might uncover your own ancestry.

But what’s past is buried, never to be resurrected. Unless, alas and alack.

We bring the past forward-not back,

In front of us, no. It is Us. We, the here and now.

The muck is a mirror. The mirror is fractal

Living in our own antiquity. Can we get that back?

Boy, this is getting away from me. The mirror is fractal? What next, I am the walrus? Ku-ku-ka-choo? They don’t make poets like they used to.

“Ya. In the old days we had a good Oscar Wilde or WB Yeats.”

“Robbie Burns!”

“Milton.”

“Well then, Willie Shakespeare.”

“Old Bill. Nothing to shake a stick at there, alright.”

“That was a good old boy, though.”

“The yank?”

“Ya. Cheeky kid. Took as good as he gave.”

“He was a good lad.”

“I guess we’ll let him live.”

“After the Scottish uprising, aye.”

That’s what I imagine the conversation went like after my visit to a pub in the isle of Islay in Scotland a few years ago. I was only there for a couple of days, but the stay was moving. The Laphroaig distillery. The North Sea. Peat bogs. The hurricane bearing down on us! Pfew! It wasn’t much. Don’t you yanks have weather? Stop exaggerating everything.

One fellow was a pensioner and was in for a shot and a beer and a right good conversation with whomever might happen by. The other was a road crewman who was in the area inspecting something and stopped in for a crisp and a cuppa. I was happy to provide them with all the conversation and entertainment they could desire.

I would like to go back. To settle in and develop my poetry writing skills, such as they are. I figure, what better place than the greatest critics of poetry on earth for me to hone my skills? If Vulcan with his awesome hammer can make gossamer thin silver netting, what must the Scots be capable of?

That’s pure poetry, indeed.