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- about 6 years ago
Dredging RockpoolsRussell wondered why his Daddy stayed up so late,for which shiny metaphorical pebbles Don used to satethe probing interrogation of his adolescent visitor,the innocent queries of his callow inquisitor.And here, I now flounder, also fishing for answers,dredging rockpools for couplets and imagined advances.But no shiny secrets show and no gem bonanzas,no polish to polish somniferous, somber stanzas.Instead, night long, I stare at a screen that remains bare,in my eyes, small digital squares, the only reflection there.Concluding, poems are pointless without brightness, colour,and paintless verses are without question, undoubtedly duller.So I sit there, steadfast, instead of ‘counting sheep’ in bed,tolerating insomnia, “nibbling my mind and arousing my head”.But, the problem I feel outstrips mere matters of sheer will,being more down to sheer ability and also sheer skill.So, no matter how much spit and polish it is that I can muster,the poems and pebbles that I write, will continue to lack luster.