The Tragedy of Poemlessness

By Jim Hagarty

I find this so hard to say:
There will not be a poem today.
I had planned to tap out a new one
But my poemiano is way out of tune.

I thought I would write about birds
But I just couldn’t find the right words.
I might make a comment on life.
So many ideas, they are rife.

But I can’t get my brain to stand still.
Some days it won’t, some it will.
It’s like a runaway train in my head
And the bridge is washed out straight ahead.

So I guess you will have to make do
With the poems I wrote last week for you.
But if a wee bit of luck comes my way.
I’ll write a new poem on Tuesday.

Author: Jim Hagarty

I am a 72-year-old retired journalist, busy recovering from a lifelong career as an unretired journalist. This year marks a half century of my scratching out little fables about life. My interests include genealogy, humour and music. I live in a little blue shack in Canada and spend most of my time trying to stay out of trouble. I am not that good at it. I also spent years teaching journalism. Poor state of journalism today: My fault. I have a family I don't deserve, a dog that adores me, and two cars the junk yard refuses to accept. My prized possessions include my old guitar and a razor my Dad gave me when I was 14 and which I still use when I bother to shave. Oh, and my great-great-grandfather's blackthorn stick he brought from Ireland in the 1850s. I have only one opinion but it is a good one: People take too many showers.