A Poem In There Somewhere Maybe
I tried between
job work and shirk, to poeticize–
first, like a fern, springing,
then, growing sharpish, considered thistles, busy
with heedless bugs, bemoaned
Buddhists and the tugs
non-clinging missed,
but no poem clung
to the page,
being Buddhist perhaps
or a sprung fern
or a bug done
with its thistle,
now far flown.
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A belated 55 frustrated moans for the G-Man. Let him know.
Above and below, some thistles with bugs.
ManicDDaily 
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