Day 108.

When I Started

When I started I admit I seriously intended

That each poem I wrote would be a sonnet

With words like music beautifully crafted,

Scanning and rhyming in wondrous harmonic.

But I have to admit I am feeling the pressure,

Albeit it mixed with considerable pleasure,

Of composing each day some new-born creation

With which to afflict an indifferent nation.

I wonder if Shakespeare ever had all this trouble,

Some poetic mountain he just couldn't climb

When life took a needle and punctured his bubble,

The plays left unwritten when he ran out of time.

Were there scenes deleted that he just could not write,

Fresh out of ideas long into the night?

Were Boudicca or Alfred tossed into the fire

Or Lear disappoint him for his aim was much higher?

Sooner or later we collide with our limits

Each one of us thwarted by the bounds that he chooses,

Some higher, some lower but each self-inflicted

'Til we're out of ideas but never excuses.