Waves that carry the sailboat in a beautiful. Zigzag line to where ever its sailor wants. To go The sailor, call him Bob, wants. The weather, call it. And the world, his. To be circumnavigated on weekends and paid. There are other Bobs, but he never.

The shrike strives to do me in. So much I see and hear pierces. Me And yet I wing to safer skies, preferring. To ignore the threat implied,. Of mocking birds of all bents. Words of woe spoken,. Words of disaster intoned,. Notes of fear and terror trilled. Dear Poets who Write Open Letter Poems. In response to a daily prompt of which I am not fond.