We are all toy robots, Continue reading
Toy Robots
Leave a reply
Words Arranged As Though They Mean Something
Poems are words arranged as though they meant something. Continue reading
being Ernest
We are all toy robots
Yes, it’s a bit puny. Oscar Wilde wasn’t wrong, unlikely as that may seem, but those of us named “Ernest” tend to march to a slightly different beat, and like anything unusual, we’re occasionally valued for our point of view. Or ridden out of town on a rail.
Actually, the name of the blog is taken from the frequently heard comment, offered by someone who knows me to someone just coming up to speed, that while whatever I’m doing may seem a bit out of step, in fact I’m just “being Ernest”. Again.
Morning Walk (with Rover)
Morning Walk
Poopinator and I are off at dawn,
or nearly so,
to mark the world anew,
and so proclaim that we,
and it, are both still here,
leaving marks so strong and clear
that every nose may attest
that here we roved on dewy grass
and stopped at every tree we passed
To leave a clue that others may attend
with scrutiny that would surpass
the divination of seers
over dark and bitter dregs,
or fowl entrails,
though it must be said,
that these would offer other tales,
no less compelling to our writer
or his kind.
Out, out as far as the nose can see,
beyond this block, beyond that tree,
out as far as the leash will stretch.
Until it snaps taught, leaving us straining
at the distant shore.
Then back, short leashed, past chances lost,
past roads not taken, and those not crossed,
until at last the scent of home
a new drive awakens.