I am liable in saying I’m more relaxed than usual
for this time o’ day; tho that sort o’ claim’s likely
to excite irreverently fey hoots of blasé laughter;
its what comes after th’ outburst dwindles away
that might explain - there’s a School of Thought
eschewing hirsutely creative poetic connubiality
It is the enclave’s view that until I do my morning
chore - which is writing verse, I’m pensively, and
hopelessly terse t’ th’ point of being irrational, at
least until th’ job’s done, and then th’ fun begins
with an oral revision process - that is my version
of a mess that sorts th’ words into a viable order
so they can be read aloud; until you hear ‘em in
th’ prodigal redress o’ tonal sequencing, clouds
invade, muddling the puddles to discolouration
and even then we’re not free t’ discombobulate
unless there’s an atmosphere suggesting a free
t’ air version's unstintingly due too, & very soon
But I’m over th’ moon when th’ words blossom
in tune and flow like the tease they were meant
to be …
© 12 April 2018, I. D. Carswell
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