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?
rogermoorepoet 
I know what Yossarian would say…
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As for me, my raison d’etre is: “to live forever, or to die in the attempt.” Who is Yossarian, incidentally? I guess it’s a variation of “if moonshine don’t kill me, I’ll live till I die.” Good to see you again, Colin. Dare I ask how Brexit is doing in your corner of the land?
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He’s a character from Joseph Heller’s ‘Catch 22’, hence that’s what he’d say 😉
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As to Brexit, don’t ask!
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I was afraid of that. I am very worried about the turn the world is taking. In my part of Canada, we are more isolated than most. I am very pleased with that.
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Me sphynx it’s a question too far.
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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 …
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