No Poetry Poem by Quinn Graw

The sun is shining above
on a cool, windy Saturday morning
after the Friday night rain
made the garden a muddy rut.
No garden planting today
there is no poetry in this way.
Rocks not yet painted
no practice in art painting
others laugh
to the point of fainting.
A bag of potatoes
yes we need a bag of spuds now.
No food, no poetry
the soul starves without food
regardless if the muse is in the mood.
Shave my whiskers
let my hair be lawn mowed
as one's spirits can be invisibly bowed.
A twisted tree within
perhaps there is a sin
no one can see directly
but in the attitudes of life
that can be measured correctly.
No poetry, no poetry in the soul
even on the brightest spring day
lies within the dreary, grey clouds
the damp lump of coal
like trying to light wet kindling
into a blazing fire
the flickering embers
resound without poetry on a Saturday morning.