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My Book
I am a mere page in history’s book.
OK, half a page
A sentence even
More than a word, surely,
And not just a letter.
But, what sort of book?
What genre best reflects me?
Sums me up?
Page filler or thriller,
A cold-blooded chiller?
A semantic romantic
A frantic pedantic?
Obvious or discreet
Tattered, perhaps neat?
Remaindered, deleted,
Victorious or defeated?
Pages torn
Plot stillborn?
A weighty tome,
Still out on loan?
Not understandable,
Or un-put-downable?
Whichever best describes my path
A simpleton, a polymath?
I wonder how I’ll be considered.
A wordsmith wizard
Bewildered, jiggered?
Too slick for some,
Too twee for others.
But please, I beg,
Let it be said –
He wrote with ease
The day to seize,
Not just to please
The passing breeze.
Both clever and deep poem, Roland. How indeed can we describe ourselves in genres when
most of the time there are so many hues that shine through in our actions, writing, conversations …
Your last stanza is an important clue to the romantic of the North.
Miriam
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Thank you so much, Miriam, for your welcome response.
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All of the above, most likely
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Thank you, Derrick.
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Clever, rhythmic and profound! I love this!
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So pleased with your response, Eugenia. Many thanks for the reblog.
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You’re welcome!
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Wonderful, Roland!
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My thanks to you for commenting, Bette.
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