I understand this niggling annoyance.
The interminable itch that gives twitch
to every grumpiness; groan and grievance.
The useless bits of nonsense that won’t switch
to off; won’t give reason to time-of-day;
bits that go on and on ad nauseam;
the incessant barking and raucous affray
that underwrites this state of tedium.
I understand, but can not comprehend
what benefit from this a fool derives.
Why promote stupidity, why defend
a cause that surely craziness contrives?
. Is there not some rule or code of practice
. that might blunt the prick of thorn and cactus?
© Tim Grace, 14 September 2011
To the reader: An artefact of age is wisdom. Unfortunately, the suffering of fools is a patient art that gets no easier with age… and there lies the rub! That the grumpy old man becomes himself a fool is a cruel irony. As time progresses, our time on Earth compresses; and so, quite rightly, we become less tolerant of wastrels and their stupid contrivances. For a short while, after the heat of Summer has subdued, we reap with abundance Autumn’s harvest. In these years, before the permafrost of Winter sets us still, we protect our investments from ill-witted fools that cause us angst.
To the poet: Spelling… all very clever, but don’t get me going. A check through my draft of this sonnet reveals my unique take on letter arrangements. First issue was interminable; far too many non-specific syllables. Then we came to ‘adnausium’ – obviously needed some Latin attention before arriving at ‘derives’ which in my draft possessed a second ‘r’ (don’t ask me why). Raucous began life without the unnecessary ‘o’ – as in caucus. “For those who can spell, it’s all very well…”