The Helter-skelter Pell-mell Davenport Poesy

A writer’s desk

a treasure trove

of unfinished projects, A clattered, unorganized mess

of strewn out papers and uttermost chaos;

A clove of ideas—

A bastion of creative thought,

Wishful

thinking; barnyard eggs that still need hatching;

Infants still need born—

fertilized embryos to be nurtured and matured;

ripened fruit to be plucked.

It a

mine

to be excavated,

abundant with raw ore

that still needs mining,

There’s bronze—silver

perhaps even gold! and jewels!

that need be found, refined or polished.

It is a hydra,

Cut off one head—and seventy seven grows back;

A dark forest

which easy to get lost;

An Amazonian jungle—filled with

lions and tigers and bears—oh my!

It is a womb of new ideas,

Tales untold; A bird feeder-bird bath for the Muse,

for Erato.

There are many maps to many journeys

to be take,

But which to be taken?

There are many monsters to be tamed-filed, Put away for a rainy day;

Babys

who cry LOUD to be written,

Spoilt, obnoxious bratts!

Only silenced when they are

fed, burped, and put to sleep.

Stories that need

be told,

Poems that need be read,

Songs that need be sung,

Folklore, Odes, Lyrics, Fairytales, Myths—

 

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