the poet’s barren tale
They came for the feast of phrases,
gathered ‘round the wordless flame.
Empty cups clinked, unsated,
as the poet shrugged—his muse unspoken.
“There’s no story here,” he muttered,
his mind a drought-struck desert.
And so they sat, grasping shadows,
a poem promised but never served.
Red Brick Keshner
Sun 15th Jun 2025 11:04
Hay @Auracle - I do like your take on what is 'broadcast.' I stopped being an avid fan of journalism right around the turn of the century when all this gateway, gaslighting, and grooming narratives have become less yellow all around. I also like getting out of the comfort zone or jump out with fellow aficionados, and yes- so much more to learn and experience should we care and dare. 🌷
P.S. Perhaps you could check on the permissions on your page as it at present keeps me from contacting you there and on your posts. lol 😁👍