I'm a writer, but not a poet. Poetry remains a mystery to me, tho there are many, many poems I've enjoyed, that have touched me in unexpected ways. I have tried my hand at writing poetry on occasion, a couple of which I've posted previously. This one is from 1982, during a hard time in my life.  And, following this, another episode from "Trite, of the Squad!"

The Blues aren't really mine. I just borrow them.

I call and they respond.

I use them  and they work.

I wear them. They fit.

The Blues is a fellow-traveler who knows the way far better

than I and is more than willing to be my accompanist on

long, dark journeys.

One's lonely. Two's company.

No, the Blues aren't mine. I'm just borrowin' 'em for a while.

The Blues, they know me and they listen and they nod their

blue note heads in sympathetic unison, soothing with sevenths . . .

They visit and are welcomed.

They don't belong to me, but I sure do appreciate the loan!

I met a man once who claimed never to have had the Blues, though

he looked kinda sad when he said it. No, thanks. Not for me the

"I-Can't-Get-the-Blues" Blues. I gotta have somewhere to

store sorrows, some place to hang up the pain that drops in,

sometimes often, sometimes not, and seldom calling ahead.

But the Blues, man!

Mine? Nah. They're just stayin' a spell.

The Blues is a wee-hours friend sharing dark space under an indigo

umbrella. The Blues is a friend indeed, with storage for my sorrows,

hooks for my pains. The Blues is a milk run and there are no seats on

the Blues. But everybody gets a strap.

The Blues aren't mine. Everybody belongs to the Blues.

This was in the Times some years ago. I've no idea what it's about
and I never called. It's much more fun to imagine.

THE TURN OF THE PHRASE – II

     "Whoa, big fella!" Trite gently reined in his horse. "I see smoke and where there's smoke, there's fire."  Realizing that time was of the essence, Trite had pushed on through the night after leaving Inspector Bromide. Even though it was darker than the inside of a tar-papered coal bin at midnight, he had spared neither himself nor his horse. Now he was ready to spring the trap.

     Trite dismounted and began to move forward. His years of experience had taught him that    silence was golden and he proceeded as though walking on eggs. Pushing aside a last bit of foliage Trite stepped into a clearing. There, no more than a stone's throw away, lay the man he had been pursuing so relentlessly these many months: Black Bart!

     "He's catching 40 winks, I see," Trite remarked softly to himself. "May the arms of Morpheus embrace him just a while longer, knock on wood."

     Slowly but surely he closed the distance between them. Soon, he was but a few feet from Black Bart. Taking the bull by the horns, Trite called out, "Rise and shine, Black Bart! As always, the early bird gets the worm. You're under arrest!" (To be continued.)