It’s September

but the summer of hell continues. A dear friend of mine lost his mother yesterday. That makes three deaths this summer for people close to me. I’m not really feeling the urge to write or blog or whatever. Two more people close to me are ill. And my house is possessed by demons if the way pieces of it (including things inside) keep breaking is any indication.

With that, I leave you with a poem by Coleridge that feels strangely appropriate, via Poets.org:

Work Without Hope

Coleridge is the author of the first poem I ever memorized so I have a special fondness for his work. If only I could be reciting Kubla Khan and reveling in that pleasure dome, but alas, I think that might actually require psychotropic drugs, of which I have none. I have only my tea and the view from my office window. Yesterday a hummingbird dive bombed a monarch butterfly. It was awesome. I also have my kids who continue to amuse me. Today my 14 year old emailed me this video: Yeah, toast (warning: video game violence). So funny!

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6 thoughts on “It’s September

  1. I came across your site in the poetryblogs.org listing. I have never read this poem before. It is definitely one that deserves to be read out loud. Hang in there, these ghosts in your house shall pass.

  2. I enjoyed the poem my friend. I would love to be able to sit and visit over a bottle of wine, good books or perhaps a cup of earl grey, and take a walk in the woods. You are in my thoghts. XXOOO 🙂 bebe

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