On the grid

I admit it.
I’ve been spoiled;
too much free time
a life untoiled.

Oh, I sweat-shopped some
in an earlier time
but I now spend my days
calculating rhyme.

Is there reason for this?
Oh, probably not
but being a poet
and mostly self-taught

allows me a freedom
to wander my heart,
to climb distant hills
and practice my art.

I admit it;
and try as I might,
there is rhythm to each day
and a pulse to each night.

small poems of pleasure;
smaller poems of pain;
poems of old loves
time and again.

Poems against war;
and more poems of peace
poetically dreaming
that wars might some day cease.

But what I need most,
and usually get
are my electrical needs
regularly met.

I need the grid;
locked into my life
generating power;
reducing my strife;

When the outage comes,
I’m a powerless schlep;
a headless chicken
bereft of my pep.

I cower in the dark
and dream of the light
and moan that the day
will forever be night.

The winds swirling about;
the trees bending low;
power hanging by a thread
as southeasterly winds blow.

No time to edit
this poetical whim;
lock it and send it
as the lights start to dim.

For as sure as the sun
is shining in Spain,
the power will go out
for sure, once again.