I believe in being prepared for any given situation. It isn't because I'm a pessimistic person; I think it is just good common sense. Hence, I've entitled my blog "Even Nothing is Something."

This covers my butt in any event. On any given day I can feel great exaltation that I have done something grand. I can scribble fiercely when my thoughts are leaping across the meadows of my mind like a happy little colt in the month of May, or my mind and writing can be as dry and arid, as cold and without life, as the Gobi desert - because even Nothing is Something.

I want to thank all of my fellow artists who work through other means and forms and who sell their work on the wonderful artist's site "Etsy," a place to buy and sell all things handmade, along with vintage items and supplies for their craft. They are a great group of people.

Those who have links to their site on my blog represent only a few of those whom I wish to include. Just click on one of those links and join the Etsy community. It is free. They are a great group of artists who have relieved me of my money in the most delightful of ways. If it weren't for their encouragement, I would have never shared my work through this blog.

Thank you my darling friends!

Enjoy my blog - The Poet or Not - More or Less

Monday, June 15, 2009


Bombardier, Mustachio, Squint, Festooning, Shadowed, Rose


We raise our glasses filled with an English Bitter
As we sit in some cheery pub, a cask and a keg
Of ale, Bombardier; tis the day of St. George, April 23rd,
To Celebrate some ole chap who might never been British.

Those Englishmen tend to exaggerate the importance of
This man who may have been no Saint, wearing in their
Lapel a Red Rose and festooning their drinking dens with
Garlands of St. George’s cross. Yet, we find in the midst

Of their pleasure with malt, barley and hops, no invidious
Acrimony ‘gainst those who wear not the Rose. Instead there
Is an enormous congeniality and conviviality amidst the
Clinking of mugs. Crikey! Upon my word there are blokes

Wearing a fake mustachio and nose! Bombardier has made
Them cheerfully cockamamie, but pleasantly so, as we share
Their festivities and laughter. The ceiling fans whir without
Effect as we sit in some smoke filled shadowed tavern that

Makes us squint. We make our rounds from pub to pub, find
Our friends and make some new. Ah . . . but here’s the rub, let’s
Not become so drunk we can neither stand, nor sit upon our
Stool; for surely St. George has never been the patron of a tap house.

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