I am listening to Walt Whitman at the moment. I think he seems to lack a certain something, and I am trying to figure it out. His poetry is vain and seems a bit hippie, something to do with his method of observation and puttin ghimsel fin the middle of everything. Then, I think I am guilty of the same as I write in this blog/journal. I guess I should shrug my shoulders and just keep getting his point of view as given from so long ago, and enjoy it.
I have not written a poem in a long, long time. I think that is because the rythem of life is my poem right now, as I give the best not in verse, but in the work of my hands and the time I spend with the girls, especially Khallie, as I teach her the things she needs to get through life, and to love to learn for all her life.
There is also the efforts to keep this little farm, and make sure the animals get through, and the provisions are made for them.
Also is the rythem of the seaons, summer planting, winter staying warm, spring blossoms and autumn leaves falling to the earth. There is poetry in living the things, and in the little breakfasts I make for Missus, and a kiss from time to time.
I am no poet. But I live a poem.
It’s not as weird as Walt.