3 thoughts on “Desk

  1. NOTE: The following reply is chiefly fiction, led by the author’s enjoyment of following Wordsworth beyond an initial acknowledgement of delight at seeing a crowd, a host of blogposts.Beyond the initial encounter, the path follows language and contrast and familiar imagery and is not intended to obliquely suggest dementia or death as anything more than familiar fears.
    I wandered scrolling lonely as an iglooed Inuit in the first winter of old age when all at once I saw a crowd, A host, of golden blogposts Beside the waiting in-box queue, bold-faced behind the lurid images of “the Turpins’ Texas home” and All-in Entertainment on Direct TV, Fluttering and dancing in what surely seemed a breeze. Continuous as the stars that shine and twinkle on the netflix array, They stretched amid the never-ending scroll beyond the margin of the page, Ten thousand, no, but saw I at a glance, fresh words and images Tossing their heads in sprightly dance.
    The waves beside them danced their daily dance of dull routine and predictable tides drowning dying dendrites; but they Out-did the sparkling waves in splashing living light across the darkling shore. A poet could be gay or straight or named by any letter of the alphabet and welcome such a jocund company of images, ideas, insights, inspirations, and intellectual curiosities with little thought but gratitude for the feast to be gazed—and gazed—for days and days such wealth the waiting in-box to me had brought: For oft, when on my couch I lie In vacant or in pensive mood,
    there flash upon that inward eye only the ancient daffodils pressed and preserved on pages of the past, long-bypassed by lively light, Which is, amid the quiet bliss of solitude, the dusky delivery of the decline of days. But then my heart with pleasure fills, And dances with fresh daffodils – posthuman before posthumous..

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