CONTENTMENT

Why is it that whenever my poetry muse decides to be kind and lend me some inspiration, I'm always anywhere else but here? The first time I wrote a haiku, I did it on Belle's site. Yesterday, I was commenting on cbs's site and came up with this...

elusive contentment
let the devil kiss your cheeks
I will not fly to neverwhere
if that is where you run to
not as if I am not wont to do
as I am unable
as I simply can't...
yet if you'd care to meet me
in the middle of a rugged cliff
on the edge of a craggy mountain
I will take the road less traveled
and I will be there

Perhaps it's because there's only so much that could be made to bear on my little life... and so I need to go out, in a manner of speaking, and sieve through the flotsam and jetsam of this world, and this life, to create something. Or perhaps poetry comes to me in a conspiracy... I thrive on a proffered idea. And then again, this might just be something lent to me by a beginner's luck.

Well, just my luck then. And to think that I've always played with a bad hand...

Incidentally, the terms 'flotsam and jetsam,' whether taken in conjunction or individually, means 'fragments' or debris.' Imagine if I married somebody whose last name was 'Sam'... I would become Mrs. Jet Sam and my life would probably have taken on a different color but it would be diminished to a 'debris.' Hmmm... I guess I really am better off where I am and that's contentment right there.