Writing poetry and musings is work Not a job where I get paid Nor a short path to nobility In my mind, I sputter on The results may be precarious Thumbs will point in both directions I sometimes have trouble with its validity But I am at peace with myself because The element of truth always runs through it I am not fearful and my temperament is consistent I do not endure fools well or Snipers who attempt to crack my spiritual armor My work does not always enrich, nor Does it intentionally tear down, but is Inspirational, educational, or both I am alone as I write No one to answer to This is a strange phenomena In real life there have always been impediments Regular work and responsibilities of family life Amazing relevant thoughts go unwritten They were usually spent in conversation Soon they disappeared like dreams often do The basis for thinking them always remained I am not on a pilgrimage to prove anything My discourse is on life and possibilities I find it remarkable and exciting I sometime, after being out walking, come home I am greeted now by an empty home and wonder How did all of this marvel happen; how did it come to this? Stanski February 27, 2020 ^
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Steve Haarman 