Day’s spawn stirs
climbing light’s stairs to possible stars.
Or clings instead stark to dark
tossing hope to mope
on mind’s morass.
What was, was.
Soak in sulk of done gone past
or get off your ass.
Rise to wise.
Work the struggle puzzle.
Don’t rewalk past acts.
– Smith, 5.26.2016
Back 2006-9 when we were living for 31 months in 10 counbtries on 3 continents, this blog had a huge readership with many comments. When we returned to Cleveland March 2009, I still wrote a lot on the absurdities of returning to American kulchur and kept most of them.
Then I got tired of myself, my words, and went to posting a poem a day with 2 fotos. No one reads poetry so we lost pretty much every reader . . . although I’m surprised more folk didn’t follow the fotos.
So now no one’s reading, next month I’ll start writing stuff again. Of course there’ll be no one there to notice, which will make it hard to win readers back.
But there’s still a vague chance I’ll be recognized before I die for my art, poetry, and writing, so this will be a warehouse of delight if and when I am. And more importantly and logically, this is a storage locker for our future books.
It boggles my mind how large an audience a lot of famous folk have for their second rate output. Talent seldom trumps luck and who you know. Donald Trump is a perfect example of this.