I’ve been writing almost all of my life. My wife saves all notebooks and scraps of paper she has found lying around, and in my pockets at the washing machine. Recently, some limericks arrived in a box of my stuff my mother (86) saved from grade school, scout camp, high school, and college. I’ve written ideas down, short stories, memories, and of course, poetry.

My most current writing adventures are in what started out to be a political blog. I’ve spent two years bloviating, and actually created some articles worthy of national attention. Some of my comments in a Washington, D.C. daily, actually changed conversation threads and terrorized the opposition.

I’ve been a member of WDC since 2007. At first, I read and critiqued other writers gently. I slowly began to create my own writings capable of the top twenty-five percent, maybe. There are exceptionally talented people leaving great creations here!

There is also a plethora (herd) of others. I’m trying extremely hard not to be one of that herd. Even though, I’ve been writing for years, I realize that I need to develop further as a writer, so I try writing something of everything. I could best be described as having moments of pure genius surrounded by a ring of mediocrity.

One night, while trying to write a stock poem called “I Am a Weary Traveler”, a whole nonrelated stanza popped into my mind. I’d been reading about the different contests to be entered. One was a limerick contest as we were close to St. Patrick’s Day. This must have been working in a corner of my brain because out popped this non-limerick (but close) stanza:

I began to write the perfect poem,

But realized I can’t!

To close the door on other’s dreams,

Is something that I shan’t!

I began to laugh out loud. I ran into the living room and recited it to my daughter, who also began to belly laugh. There was a short rocks glass with ice and Coke Zero in my hand, which usually had a little Bacardi in it. She asked me how many of those I’d had and I told her there was only Coke Zero in it. She laughed some more and told me, I needed rest.

After looking up the word shan’t, and inserting the apostrophe that was not there, I realized writings this important need a name. I also realized if I wrote the perfect poem, I would ruin poetry for everyone for evermore. I’m too new at this writing art to do that to everyone. I’d had one of those “genius” moments too early in my career. Alas, through the eyes of the professionals, I had not paid my dues!

I would end up ruining it for every little girl and boy that wanted to write about love and their first love, the darkness of reality, and their hopes for the future.

I would ruin it for all of those poets that write line after line with a word brush I just don’t have yet. But what shall I call these four lines that saved poetry for the world? It’s not a limerick! It’s way too historical to be a just a four line poem! I left it on my “white board” for a couple of days with the trial title “Poetry Reprieve”, and let it digest.

On Saturday afternoon, I woke from a nap and immediately looked up at the “white board”. It’s a Hubrilic*. Hopefully the last one the world will ever see! There just isn’t room for another poet, that writes as good as me!

Gees, I did it again. IS THERE NO END!

*A combination of hubris and limerick. (Hubrilic)

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