Olga's Poetry & Thoughts

Though the following is not a poem, it links to poetry and personal experience, so enjoy nonetheless. This blog is in dire need of some comic relief, wouldn't you agree? ;) Why is the term, "Poetic Scout" an oxymoron? I learned this from experience. No sooner had I been persuaded to join the army of scouts and tacky uniforms than I begun to have the growing urge to quit and get the hell out of there! Poets do not belong in scouts- this is just a fact of life. You cannot expect an absurd, artistic, and obediency-challenged poet to blend in with the flow of people who all dress and march exactly alike. What is the point of lifting your feet off of the ground at the same tempo as everyone else in the group, when you could concentrate less on your feet and more on your surroundings? A poet is distracted by the chirping of the birds and observes snowflakes gracefully falling to the ground. Just when I have an ideal start to a poem stuck in my head, I am disrupted by dr

Time It is not animal nor being Owns not a pair of wings yet Can travel so quickly it feels like Quicksand slips out of your feeble, wrinkly hands Fingers shrivelling, deep blue veins Poking through a shallow used layer of skin Oh, time does indeed cause pain If that minute hand just suddenly froze For a mere millisecond, the world would Be a catastrophe in two For time, like glue Makes it certain that the planet spins 'round If the second hand tick tocked In the wrong direction The future would come yet too soon For us human weaklings, it would be An overload of agony to bear So let us leave time just the peaceful way it is For all things are beautiful if they Are taken in reasonable doses And not mistreated or misunderstood Time The main factor of crow's feet On the other hand, time Is as bitter as it is sweet