Meriel's Hydrangea

Here we are again. Ready for our third go around. I have assembled the usual suspects and you, are my usual audience. It should be easy. The subject too hasn´t changed. The world still resembles poetry. Not the kind you have to read over three times to get what they are saying to you. The kind which hits you over the head like a waterballoon. The kind of poetry I write can be understood by anybody. It has to be. Don´t ask me what it all means. I haven´t a clue. Neither does Chipper, my...
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Here we are again. Ready for our third go around. I have assembled the usual suspects and you, are my usual audience. It should be easy. The subject too hasn´t changed. The world still resembles poetry. Not the kind you have to read over three times to get what they are saying to you. The kind which hits you over the head like a waterballoon. The kind of poetry I write can be understood by anybody. It has to be. Don´t ask me what it all means. I haven´t a clue. Neither does Chipper, my chipmunk pal, or Max the mole, or Sammy the squirrel, or Rodney the rabbit, or even that crazy couple whose sexy dialogue I overhear all the time. We all are just trying to be present in spite of it all. That´s quite a challenge as you will discover reading the book. Our lives truly are the last poetry frontier. We don´t have to have the rhymes and measure and incredible metaphors. We just need to look as if it were all a great mystery and we had all the time there was, to figure it all out. If they can do it, so can you.