I whiny-faced to Sfingi last night, that the blog hasn't seen any poetry in long while, so I elected to channel some Whitman this morning, I hope you enjoy.

As I ponder'd in silence,
Returning upon my poems, considering, lingering on our voyage,
A midget arose before me, with distrustful aspect,
Terrible in beauty, hygiene, and knowledge of seductive dance

Seated nearby
The genius of of old lands and consumer of scotch,
Being hand fed sweet morsels of exotic meats

With finger pointing to trapped mysteries of white and brown,
Scantily clad voice
Where ist thou digital camera? it said;
T'is not feminine linen, but stained refuse.
Horror.

But that is the theme of war,
the famed TV host feared not
and welcomed its presence
encouraged me to not flee the wicked scene.

2
Be it so, then I answer'd,
I too, haughty Shade, also sing war—and shall photograph myself with this midget.

3.
True horror, dear friends,
is the long painful wait for Georgi's pictures.