On my shelves are the books of many poets. Only three are with me  where’er I go.

inside my head  is Shel Silverstein whose poems made me laugh and chuckle and laugh some more.

“Sarah Silvia Cynthia Stout who would not take the garbage out” fills an entire book; the illustrations are Shel-Art.

Secondly, e e cummings who though possessed by  a sere sense of wry, never wrote a line or told a lie, which left me giddy.

He did  on at least one occasion, plant a smile inside and on another , with a single, well-chosen syllable inspired me to rise from a position of thoughtful repose to stomp around like Tonto’s Scout and voice a shout of quick-tempered agreement to something; that’s all, just “something”.

I ‘ve no name for the third poet but WHO lives in THE LAND OF “IT”. 

I wrote this about IT:



I have no name for IT. But I’ve been to pay a visit.

Allowed there for an instant

(An instant is all I need.)

I need only to know that IT is there.

I knew on arrival, what IT was, where IT was and how long IT had been there.

We knew each other right away.




 I knew that I could never describe IT to anyone who had not been there.

To do such a thing would require a monologue with no reference to time.

Or  of measure.


Sometimes IT comes to me.


Moving quickly I am for a moment in time, a stenographer for the voice of IT.

That may be as close to the truth as I will ever get.


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