Temperature is mild.

On again, off again rain.

Changed the tackle in a downpour;

An act of will.

And back to where I hooked one yesterday

(and lost it).

Time to pack it in, 

When right in front of me

A big fish

jumps out of the water.

I chase after him,

Clumsy in boots and waders

But he’s gone.

Mist and rain;

Trees and stream remain.

The big trout

Still plays with me;

What was it about?

September 28, 2020

View the autosaveAdd title

Temperature is mild.

On again, off again rain.

Changed the tackle in a downpour;

An act of will.

And back to where I hooked one yesterday

(and lost it).

Time to pack it in, 

When right in front of me

A big fish

jumps out of the water.

I chase after him,

Clumsy in boots and waders

But he’s gone.

Mist and rain;

Trees and stream remain.

The big trout

Still plays with me;

What was it about?

September 28, 2020

Temperature is mild.

On again, off again rain.

Changed the tackle in a downpour;

An act of will.

And back to where I hooked one yesterday

(and lost it).

Time to pack it in, 

When right in front of me

A big fish

jumps out of the water.

I chase after him,

Clumsy in boots and waders

But he’s gone.

Mist and rain;

Trees and stream remain.

The big trout

Still plays with me;

What was it about?

September 28, 2020

(on her birthday)

This Bayside Bohemian breaks boundaries.

Down to earth ordinariness

with emotional and intellectual depth.

Her paintings speak to me.

They start in the here and now

And venture into new space and new forms.

Her gift for friendship

Embraces as it guides me.

And she likes burnt toast

September 21, 2020

by W.H. Auden

His peasant parents killed themselves with toil
To let their darling leave a stingy soil
For any of those smart professions which
Encourage shallow breathing, and grow rich.

The pressure of their fond ambition made
Their shy and country-loving child afraid
No sensible career was good enough,
Only a hero could deserve such love.

So here he was without maps or supplies,
A hundred miles from any decent town;
The desert glared into his blood-shot eyes;

The silence roared displeasure: looking down,
He saw the shadow of an Average Man
Attempting the exceptional, and ran.

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Further test

That didn’t work. Let’s try again

Mary had a little lamb

It’s fleece was white as snow

And everywhere that Mary went

The lamb was sure to go.

this is to see if I can make the spacing between stanzas work

Mary had a little lamb

It’s fleece was white as snow

And everywhere that Mary went 

The Lamb was sure to go