Owl

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Owl

“The owl he was a wise old bird:
the less he spoke, the more he heard.

The more he heard, the less he spoke.
There never was such a wise old bloke.”

I feel a little bit like an owl. I am hearing so much, from all sides, and really have very little to say. If I publish poetry here, I cannot publish it elsewhere. Same goes with short stories. If I publish inconsequential nonsense, why would anyone read it. If I publish nothing, I am silenced. Am I therefore deemed wise?

What is the definition of a conundrum?
Someone.
Please?

 

7 thoughts on “Owl

    • Love it, Roland, you comment. I guess it’s partly “the hump on the camel and the Sphinx’s inscrutable smile.” I wonder if we can somehow bridge the distance? The solution may be to republish already published work. But I have loved the feed back on work in progress which can no longer be published because it has appeared on social media. Oh what a tangled web they weave …

      Like

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