M-O-O-N (That Spells Dun)

Well this wraps up my week of future poets.

Yep, M-O-O-N that spells dun.

I’ve probably read close to 100 poems trying to find just the right one to end my Not Yet Notorious week of poetry.

I wanted something (I liked) to reflect the unsung working class by a humble individual who wasn’t tooting their own horn.

Don’t get me wrong, we must all toot every now and again. Oops, I just did. Excuse me.

I crammed in so many units and stanzas it all started running together like Scary Movie 3 so I took a break and looked at photographs like the one that I stole you see here.

Sue's Swans

Sue’s Swans

In case you didn’t know photography is a hobby that helps me to ‘not think’. There are a lot of attention-seeking characters living in my head. No, really! Sometimes I show them a pretty picture so they’ll shut up.

Photography is my yang to the yin of self-help.

So… I was scrolling along and low and behold it was one of those I never knew that or maybe I did and just forgot moments. That happens. Anyway there it was. Monday Morning Hike right there under my nose.
Did you know the anatomical position of the eyes prevents us from being able to see those things that are right under our nose? That’s my excuse. That’s also why I try to inform every self-confident male that he has a partially dried glob of mucus dangling from his moustache. I can’t believe they fall for it – even the clean shaven ones.

Alas to conclude (dear lord let me shut up) I’d like to share this poem by a fellow blogger and photo hobbyist. It has nothing to do with toots, noses or boogers so clear your mind.
Take a deep breath. Hummmmm….

Monday Morning Hike

by Sued51

When I park my car
the music stops.
I shuffle to the front door
of my brick purgatory
a little late,
head down,
watching my feet
go through the motions.
At the front steps
a pack is
put on my back–
every soldier’s companion;
gravity pulls
my shoulders earthward;
a groan slips out
as I yank open
cumbrous glass doors.
With every step
down the stale hall,
my pack gets heavier.
I imagine the silent
figures I pass
loading me up
behind my back,
as I struggle along,
bound for my trench.
By the time I reach
that terminus
my canteen is empty;
any weekend peace
it held drained away.
Another deadend
week has begun.