Writing In My Sleep

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Today was such a perfect day that I did no useful work at all.  Mostly I wandered about outside, enjoying the spring weather.  But I also took in John Carter, the movie that Disney in its wisdom decided shouldn't have the words of Mars appended to its title.  Synoptic review:  If you  liked the books when you were young, you'll enjoy it greatly.  But if this isn't your sort of thing, then I don't expect you'll give it a try.


And I was writing in my sleep again . . .

I've written in my sleep before, but this time was different.  This time, and for the first time ever, I wrote poetry.  Well, doggerel.  I make no claim as to its merit, other than the inherent interest of a piece written without the intervention of consciousness.  The title, however, is a retrofit because my sleeping self did not bother to provide one.

Joyce Kilmer Updated
I think that I shall never see
A poem lovely as a tree
A tree whose hungry mouth is pressed
Against the earth's sweet-flowing breasts
With limbs lopped off by power lines
And stapled posters threatening fines
For wanderers who trespass here
And at its feet crushed cans of beer
Poems are made by fools like me
But modern life defiles a tree

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