Another Dumb Chicken Joke

As I say on my profile, I know a lot of stuff.  The problem is that writing a Shakespearean sonnet is not amid the stuff I know how to do.  I'm posting a wretched attempt in an effort to tease my poet muse out of hiding.

This is an account of our recent trip to Arkansas. 

Poet muse, aren't you ashamed for letting me struggle like this?

I’m following a loaded Tyson truck 

on winding roads over broccoli hills.

As I slow to a stop and curse my luck--

a chicken escapes and becomes road kill.

A distant reflection—is that a lake?

No, the roof of poultry barns shining steel.

They’re on every hillside, for goodness sake--

growing turkeys fat for Thanksgiving meals.

On down the road, Fort Smith to Little Rock,

the road is smoother now 'tween fields of hay

where Oreo cows graze with white goat flocks;

pretty painted horses outside Conway.

     Destination reached: State decathalon

     Our grandson excelled and second place won.

Here's what I'm wondering:

Something always seems to be churning around in me.  I’m endlessly self-focused and introspective and yet I’m probably not as ashamed of that as I ought to be.

Here are some of the many things I wonder about: 

     

     Do other people give themselves time to think? 

     With TV, cell phones, tweeting, texting, endlessly social networking, when do people think their own thoughts?

 

     And who says introspection is a suckers game?  Well, Alex Delaware, that’s who, but he’s a fictional shrink in a fictional book.

     If we're constantly bombarded by noise of one kind or another, how much does that noise influence our thought life? 

     Are we really thinking our own thoughts or are we processing, in our own particular and perhaps peculiar method, through an already warped mindset and worldview?  

     Is there anything left to invent? 

     Any there new plots to be written?

 

     Is there such a thing as a new poem?  We’re limited to a finite vocabulary; after all, what are the odds that someone somewhere has not already written the poem I so carefully crafted. Perhaps refrigerator poetry is an art form after all.

It's time to quit wondering for a few minutes and read a story someone else has already written.

My new blog

Hello!  I've been blogging at another address for a while, but I think it's time to start something new.  I haven't decided how or if I'll divide the content.  I just need a fresh start.