When I'm having trouble resolving my thoughts, I have to turn to other people's work to slow me down. My head begins to spin a bit, and a dark violet anger subsumes me.
Today I'm considering my grandmother, who had always wanted to be a published poet.
When they were young, my mother and aunt put together a "book" for her of her work. My mom has it around somewhere, but she very selfishly refuses to turn over the entire contents of her house to me. However, I've got a sample of my grandma's old work. I can tell that at times she felt the same, or reasonably so. Here it is:
I NEED SOME INSPIRATION
I stood at the gates of morning
A harp within my arms
And breathed in fragrant freshness
Of all the morning's charms.
I played her songs at the sunrise
Of bluebirds, roses and dew
Rain on grazing cattle
And April skies of blue.
The morning was eager to journey
I followed in her way
Playing a song of gladness
Joy and laughter gay.
The evening was jealous of morning
Following after fast
And I tucked my harp next my bosom
To rest with evening at last.
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