the Pretensions of a Poet

     I open my eyes to the warm touch of the suns rays, crepuscular through the blinds of my room.  
     "OHMYGAWD SHUT UP" I think softly; my humble greeting to the celestial lord.
     Turning over to face the dead white wall, I remark to the inside of my head that the sun is like an annoying younger sibling who just can't wait any longer and needs you to get out of bed so the playday can begin.  A long grumble and an angry throwing back of the sheets is my consent.  
     The sun: nefarious foil to the sacrosanct Progress of sleep.

     What happens next I most certainly brought upon myself. 
     A shower would do me some good, I thought.  So I grabbed the towel and dragged it through the hall.
     A Wild Sister appears.  
     And she's ornery.  Standing in the bathroom next to the mirror drawing on her face with a pencil.  So I got my face as close to hers as possible and generously shared my halitosis with her and the now fogging mirror.  
     But she's the smart one, so I was in for real trouble.  Without skipping a beat she began retelling a story from a few months ago that we had decided was better left between the two of us.  It involved a car and some lights and a responsible interaction with a man of the law.  She began at a very hushed pace, slowly embracing a crescendo that would soon bring the story to the ears of those who would be better off ignorant. 
     I had one discourse, and I seized it.  I began playing some smooth jazz on the Stomach Drum, and yelled a haunting hymn like Yoko Ono at an art show.  
     Oh, the eye roll was glorious.  
     The story ceased and the pencil went back in the bag.  She stormed to the door (me still playing my Ono tribute), turned around, and shouted "that's not how adults handle their problems!"
     I ran to the door and yelled down the stairs, "HOW WOULD YOU KNOW?!" and slammed the door. 
     Family is the seedbed of all life.  

"Poets are the unacknowledged legislators of the world."  
"Prayer is the inner bath of love into which the soul purges itself."

     Percy Blysshe Shelley and John Marie Vianney.  Two men I admire greatly.  One was a Poet, and the other was a Poet.  One lived a Romantic life, while the other lived a Romantic life.  However, one understood things as they are, and the other struggled against them.  Though both lived and breathed Poetry, only one of them understood what it actually was.  
     Today we remember them both.  One of them was born today, and the other died today.  To be honest, I'd rather be the kind of person that is remembered on the day of his death rather than the day of his birth.  

"Poetry is a mirror that makes beautiful that which was distorted." 
"Prayer is to our soul what rain is to the soil. Fertilize the soil ever so richly, it will remain barren unless fed by frequent rains."