Recently, my brother said that I was quite prolific.
Proceeding cautiously, I asked if he’d be more specific.
He said, “Prolific means many… and that I can’t deny.
You’re blogging yourself crazy. I’m afraid your brain will fry.”
I told him I appreciated his genuine concern.
I let him make his point, and then I took my turn.
I know I’ve been a writing fool. Please let me tell you why.
The more I get distressed… the more my fingers fly.
I sit by my computer and I know I have to type.
I don’t have a beginning, much less an end in site.
My mind goes other places. It knows I need relief.
So much is happening in this world. It’s way beyond belief.
COVID is a scary word. It fills our hearts with fear.
My brother said, “I get it…I feel the same, my dear.
I said, “I thought you would be the one to understand.
Do you think my blogging has gotten out of hand?”
“Blog away,” he said. “If it helps to calm your mind.
But can’t you write in prose? Must every story rhyme?”
Holy cow! Have I gone crazy? Is my brain fried like he said?
I can’t stop all the rhyming going on inside my head!
I saw my brother’s eyes get big and I knew he understood.
All his thoughts were rhyming, too… but in his case that’s not good.
He called a few weeks later, asking if they’d found a cure.
He couldn’t stop from rhyming, and had all he could endure.
“I don’t believe they have,” I said, as I folded rhyming clothes.
“They need to find a cure for COVID before our woes will be in prose.
Those 70ish Girls 