Oakland, Or, USA
Here I sit contentedly writing,
When it's the house I should be cleaning.
The laundry and dishes all need washing,
And then there's dinner I should be cooking..
But I'm drawn to fill this void,
With a phrase or maybe a woid.
A part of me just can't resist,
The images and passions all insist.
I've forsaken my vaccuum and my broom,
Refused to clean my livingroom.
Turned in my featherduster and mop,
To pen these feelings inside pent up.
That I might a literary piece compose
Of poetry or of prose.
To retain the span of your attention,
For the length of this, my composition.
To write of love, won or lost,
For whatever chosen cost.
Is a much more agreeable release,
Than to scrub a pan of baked on grease.
To spin a yarn or tell a tale,
Of dragon's song or faery vaille.
Appeals more to all my external senses,
Than a fresh coat of whitewash applied to fences.
And I would much rather try to explain,
The reasons for the falling rain.
Than to rub and scrub and finally scower
The wall enclosing my bathroom shower.
If I search my soul and then express,
My belief in a magical enchantress.
Perhaps she'll find a way to magic,
My house from this absolute mess so tragic.
Or maybe she has a spell to spare,
To keep the dust from everywhere.
Then I could contentedly spend my time,
Composing and writing my verse and rhyme.
Sharon Lee Rotondi
[This message has been edited by Enotneicna (edited 08-02-99).]