It Isn’t Pointless

You’d cracked me up, rambling
on and on, yet truth be told,
there’s always an explanation,
it isn’t pointless, quite the
opposite, all the festooning had
won me hands down, so I’d
have to pretend to hiccup or
something, not to be outdone,
doing it repeatedly in a kind of
pestering way so that you’d winced
and said something deja vu like
you don’t say.


This is the one I’d missed yesterday. It’s a word list: pest, crack, ramble, hiccup, wince, festoon. Use them in a poem–what Robert Brewer wants us to do. Truth be told we’re nearing the end of this delectable month, said with a bit of irony only. Stranger things have happened. Why do I say that? I thought about it and this isn’t the most natural thing to do, to write a poem a day. It isn’t. It’s even unnatural to a lot of people. And even pointless I suppose. Anyway I’ve better things to worry about than to think about what other people think. So this is just me trying to be in their shoes. Those shoes don’t fit obviously. I’m taking them off and putting on my own festooned sandals.


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