Not Much Left to Say

It was inevitable, the day would come
After more than a thousand blog posts
I’d sit down to write and find I’m done.
No wit, no wisdom, to keep you all engrossed.
Two thousand two hundred and seventy nine
Days of good news, bad news, nature and dogs
Stories, poetry, Lamont and Dude, twine
Like tendrils through my daily morning log.
I must keep on writing or Bear won’t know
what to do. “I hate change!” and I must agree,
We all need routine, so I cannot throw
This time of writing out. Where would we be?
For the nonce I will write sonnets because
they’re a lovely way to fill this pause.


35 thoughts on “Not Much Left to Say

  1. I can identify, feeling a bit the same. A phase we go through? Anyway, I still have dozens of haiku with which to fill the gaps…and will be looking forward to your sonnets. 🙂

  2. I’m with Bear – but I do love this sonnet! A change of pace might just give your muse a “second wind” or maybe just gas, but either way there will be something to report about… Therefore write sonnets because you do do them so well!!

  3. Would be completely lost without your wit, your delightful humour, your take on the world, delivered by so many means and characters. Love your input thoughts ideas and you! Simple!

  4. Your uninspired day has made me think. Writing sonnets would come very hard to me: meter and rhyme and sense. Not my cuppa. Can I do two? Without meter it would be doggerel. Perhaps without rhyme, blank verse?

    On uninspired days I read. And I’m glad you’re still writing.

      • I suppose that is why I like the few works of ancient Indian mathematics which come down to us. The formal system they used was that mathematics had to be conveyed in a dead language (Sanskrit, by then already far from everyday language) in rhyme, rhythm, and metaphor. Piling barrier on barrier on barrier on barrier on barrier.

        • I have a dim memory of my dad telling me something like that. He was a theoretical mathematician (not that he was a mathematician theoretically ha ha) who had this deep understanding of math as a language and told me all kinds of stories of times and people who appreciated its beauty and truth. For me, a simple quadratic equation was already written in a non-living language, but I understood my dad’s point. It wasn’t about the numbers (as it was at my primitive level of understanding) it was about a higher kind of truth. My father DREAMED of being a poet but it wasn’t who he was. His poems are awful. Even I see it and I’m his daughter and I adored him. ❤

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