A Poet’s Rationalisation
She writes daytime and night.
Se’s neither stamina nor habit.
It’s because I’m lazy.
When she’s complimented (as she’s been at times)
The only word that has occurred’s: tenacity.
Reading, seeing reportages, message hitting the right the spot,
And lo, she’s hot!
Computer open, blank page there
And she am where she ought to be,
Comfy, lazy, some ability
Wakened for the sake of…
Prolific - she’s aware of it.
Gazillion ideas make her sit.
And when she sits and pushed to write
She writes because it’s what
She’s pushed to from within, without,
Stimulation like a clout from heaven -
Happy as sandboy,
Seventh heaven’s brand new toy,
Theory, philosophy, hypothesis,
This, her only explanation
For the many thousand extant stanzas
Published and unpublished
With no purpose whatsoever.
Thank you to whomever
Pays a tribute or has praised
Or lauded and applauded reveries;
The fantasies that intellect can cover.
What more can one ask for?
[I have neither habit nor stamina - at least not consciously. It’s more out of laziness. I see, hear or read a phrase or reportage and I’m off! That’s it! And because repetition creates habit, be it smoking, biting your nails, or practicing quilting - then if you have a particular talent, well, there it is - the automatic stamina and habit.]