Sunday, November 15, 2009

Poem of the Week #98


becomes annoyance.
Can one guiltlessly
delay the inevitable pressing
energetic urge to create beyond
flotsam and jetsam blocking the way;
gargantuan in proportion to the deeper things,
hastily glossed over? What is actually required daily,
is hard work, (seeming contradiction), time spent sitting still
jovial in the clover, smelling roses only shirkers share. Sharing
kisses and caresses, and whiffs and caresses and more of same,
languished lovingly and lastingly on a lad or lass of your choosing.
Muscular thrust and whichever way you prefer to go, whether fast or slow,
nasty or nice, but massively much more delicious than anything so dull as
organized left-brain thinking that can only bring forth some kind of
pseudo-progress as far as someone’s idea of real productivity goes.
Quixote went off looking for the impossible dream, thus leaving
rigorous milkmaids to rake their mown hay while the
sun shone for boys who graciously shivered their
timbers and knew how teasingly to play
under the budding cherry tree, freely
versed and finding absolutely nothing
wrong with certain maneuvers.
X-stasy will reward
your undone

Lisa Vihos

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