Saturday, December 11, 2021

3000 Posts


How many posts, how many boards,
how many rough-hewn beams
to insulate me from the hordes
in the fortress of my dreams?

The flimsy forms that I construct
don’t make me feel secure
and, I fear, will self-destruct,
foundations so unsure.

I should have picked a better hill
on which to make my stand
for this one’s kind of flat, but still
my mind insists it’s grand,

a massive site that I maintain
while laboring each day
to coax more output from my brain
so I can build away.


Timber! And another post
Is resolutely felled
And now I’ve got to get it where I want,
I have no mind or time to boast,
My noggin isn’t swelled
But should I use a plainer type of font?


Each day I build anew
With naught but raw sinew
I’ve labored sixteen years
And busted through veneers

For timber strong and true.
Each day I build anew
Like a beaver with his dam
Seeking shelter from the scam,

My posts, though sometimes short
Are handy for support,
Each day I build anew
And marvel how it grew

But I can’t ever stop
There will never be a top,
It’s what I was born to do
Each day I build anew.


I figured I would never amount to much
Intensely reluctant to endlessly compete,
Existing but still, forever out of touch.

Ambition is anathema to me (as such)
Survival in itself is quite a feat,
I figured I would never amount to much

But refused to use my failure as a crutch
I never was a fan of self deceit,
Existing, but still forever out of touch.

Each night in my quiet little hutch
I find something suitable to eat,
I figured I would never amount to much

While striving to be worthy in the clutch
And determined to always be discreet,
Existing but, still forever out of touch.

In search of solitude but finding nonesuch
My fortress is glaringly incomplete,
I figured I would never amount to much—
Existing, but still, forever out of touch.


My back is much less achy than my head
For all this labor happens in my mind,
It’s fortunate when I was young I fed
A fierce imagination fare designed
To foster flights of fancy far removed
From everyday concerns we all must face,
As less than ideal posts can be improved
Unlike some churlish people without grace.
Despite the strain, I cannot quell the urge
To keep on building at this site I chose,
Within, my stubborn juices fairly seethe—
Where faith and determination converge
There brims a soul that will always compose
Until the day that I no longer breathe.


This is it apparently
I’ve reached the final line
Terseness is inherently
My style, and that’s just fine.

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