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

Tuesday, January 26, 2010

Sixty Minutes Away

Sixty Minutes Away

On a good day, without
traffic or incident,
you're sixty minutes
away. Yet the moon
is within reach. You
called me, as you sat
by the lake, and invited
me to share this moon,
which you said was a
brilliant globe surrounded
by a rainbow – God's promise
to Noah. Outside my window,
sixty minutes away, the lamp of
night fixed its generous eye
on me too. Its splendid light
seemed to have never shown
brighter than on this night,
when you were sixty
minutes away. High above
my window, just beyond the
glass, the moonbeam united
us; your beloved voice,
sixty minutes away. I could hear
the hymn of night and see,
through your eyes,
sixty minutes away, the lake
like a sheet of glass,
smooth and still, yet not
without life. Through the
wire, I could hear the
chant of crickets scratching
their fiddles of legs.
You told me three bull-frogs
trumped for supremacy.
The greatest miracle
of all was; you were no
longer sixty minutes away.

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