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

The Monk

Random words: monk, palace, café, bosom, dashing and bemused

The Monk

He used to live alone, a hermit, foregoing the
Tenderness of like companionship in those vows
Of chastity, celibacy, poverty and obedience.
There was nothing else preferred but for him to
Live for the contemplation of his god.

Yet, alone and bemused by his self-imposed isolation,
Seeking like fellowship, took him on a journey to
A Palace of Privation – this Medieval Monk. Seeing
In the distance a Monastery of like-hearted men, The
Monk held within his bosom a surging, dashing pleasure.

His only redemption for this abounding happiness that
Filled his lonesome heart was prayers for guidance and
Fasting. Working within a communal garden, making
Cheese and wine, The Monk, without an earthly father,
Given away by god, discovered Frangelico, a nutty liquor.

Hazelnut contained within a bottle shaped more like a
Friar wearing the monastic, ubiquitous roped belt, The Monk’s
Habit was of undyed wool, face hidden by a cowl. Shrouded
Away, deep within the monastic walls, The Monk pleasured his
Heart with café’ royale as he scratched dutifully upon parchment.

To him would come those poor seeking mercy, never turned
Away, alms shared, heads bowed. The Monk, ever joyful in his
Service, often sought his solace by walking the Flaminian Way,
That great artery between Rome and Italy, ancient and worn. He
Served, This Monk, passed his Middle Age, content and wedded to his god.

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