Thursday

 I am not inspired by anything much this morning.  Coffee is my bestie.  Sleep is not restful and I blame the pandemic.  I need a break.  Often, when I am bemoaning the current state of the world, I think about Anne Frank's mother.  Not Anne, but her mother.  How did she keep it together.  Anne had "Kitty" to pour everything into, but what about Edith ( I had to look up her name)  How did she cope?  Was she able to peer out a window and dream of her former life?  Did she even hope?   I doubt Anne mentions it,  as a typical teen probably saw her mother as the gatekeeper, keeping her from any fun.  How did she feed her family?  I don't really want to re-read Anne's book at this point, but maybe one day when I have time I will ( Otto edited it heavily, from what I hear, to present his daughter is a better light.)

Tiny Book writing

Write a poem about what you can see from your window in the style of William Carlos Williams "The Red wheelbarrow  Here's his poem;

so much depends

upon

a red wheel

barrow

glazed with rain

water

beside the white

chickens

Here is mine:

My neighbor's butterfly geegaw

spins

in the gusty morning air

startling sparrows

and the  yellow cat

who was sitting beneath it

Probably not as poignant as Williams, whose notes to his wife were more poetic than my little attempt.  I like Williams.  I wish I had a quarter of his talent.  Same with Mary Oliver.  Both write deceptively simple poems that have so many layers in them, you keep going back and seeing more meaning.

I'm quite a hack, by comparison, BUT poetry is a release for me and I write it to amuse myself, mostly.   I haven't been writing poetry lately.  Maybe I should go back to the medium to see how it goes.