It seems funny that I blogged about poetry yesterday and then had this email conversation with my friend DR today...he doesn't read my blog anymore, but he does have some fab ESP going on. Anyway, this is what happens when time weighs heavy on idle minds:
DR: We should be junk dealers like GrandMama.
Me: Junk dealers, eh? Sort of a little Sanford and Son establishment?
DR: Well, it's something. Maybe not. We should write something.
Me: A collaborative effort? We do need a group project I think....a group project. You may make the first suggestion. Really, I am fine with you going first!
DR: We will write a poem about the first noun in the third sentence of the 22nd page of the third closest book to you right now, to your right. If there are shelves, the second from the top, third book from the left.
by Laurich Bryaugh (ed. note: our names cleverly smashed up)
Little sapling, do you know
little sapling, how could you though
what the future holds for thee
beyond your first life as a tree
Me: Stretch your branches towards the sky
Inviting birds to rest, then fly
Spread your roots wide and deep
And never, never make a peep
DR: Yet sounds from you will be heard
when you fall in the forest without a word
Not an end but a new life, a change in direction
perhaps a table with four chairs and an elaborately detailed removable center section
Me: You may become paper or many a pencil
But there will be no more opossums with tails prehensile
No more nests, or leaves...but is this true?
Someone could carve these things upon you!
And here is me, talking to you again...that is all we have so far. Impressive, no? No? Well, that's okay...sometimes poetry is called doggerel and it is just for fun :-)