The moose at the top of the bookshelf

There’s a moose at the top of my bookshelf,
His antlers are touching the ceiling.
He always looks warm with his sweater and scarf
And he sees everything in the room.
He never says a word, just surveys the scene
And reminds me to look to my whimsey.
He doesn’t mind if my poems don’t rhyme
And forgives when my words are too flimsy.
At least I think he doesn’t mind because, as I said,
He doesn’t speak. He just sits up there being cute
While I slog along forgetting he’s there
Until sometimes I look up: I raise my eyes
And see and remember. I think everyone
Needs a moose at the top of their bookshelf.

+ + + + +

“That’s not a sonnet,” Beauregard sniffed.

“It has 14 lines, a certain rhythm,” I offered.

“It’s not consistent, there’s no rhyming pattern,” he insisted.

“Fair enough, I won’t call it a sonnet,” I conceded.

“Thank the stars,” Beauregard exhaled.

“I like it just the same,” I exulted.

Published by WarrenBluhm

Wordsmith and podcaster, Warren is a reporter, editor and storyteller who lives near the shores of Green Bay with his wife, two golden retrievers, Dejah and Summer, and Blackberry, an insistent cat. Author of It's Going to Be All Right, Echoes of Freedom Past, Full, Refuse to be Afraid, Gladness is Infectious, 24 flashes, How to Play a Blue Guitar, Myke Phoenix: The Complete Novelettes, A Bridge at Crossroads, The Imaginary Bomb, A Scream of Consciousness, and The Imaginary Revolution.

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