Another day of sticking my tongue out at the prompts. I feel so free. I write whatever grabs my interest, and have experienced the joy of interaction with my poet friends (much of it in email). It was nice to have something to talk about other than difficult prompts.
The last few days, between thunderstorms, I’ve dug a 60’ trench and buried the electric cable going to my shed. The interaction with my friends made it all bearable. Without them, I might not have posted anything, but now, my workload is down to hooking up a few receptacles and a switch. With those discussions of rhyme and meter floating around in my head, as I was feeling the aches and pains of age and unaccustomed labor, I began wondering what it was like for Shakespeare when he was older.
AGING SHAKESPEARE AT HOME
by Mike Patrick
Oh, fie! Why must Thy fiery globe arrive
Upon an hour before my rest is done?
Yet rise I must, into the bath to dive,
And war against my enemy, the sun.
Last night’s sweet wine is banging in my head.
My sleeping wife’s light snore becomes a roar
With strength enough to wake the very dead.
Have I become so old I now deplore
A simple night of drinking with my friends?
Why must I now condemn my father-time
For racing off with that, which now transcends
The joys of life, which once were freely mine?
To work I go, and if I live this day,
Tonight, I write, and once again, I’ll play.