Grandmother, Peot, writes her peotry
inspired, last night, by thoughts of gardening:
its language ungrammatic, flowery;
and, in three thousand verses' multiplicity,
one hears her arteries---and they are hardening.
Author's Notes/Comments:
"Peot" and "peotry" are words I found among an old lady's "peoms"---typos, but indicative of the type of writing she posts, when not engaged in other activities---like gardening, canning, scrapbooking, and quilting. Blissfully unaware of Poetry as literature, and of the heritage of poets, these peots write their peoms with utter disregard not only for literature, but for the common grammar of English. The depth of their peoms is as shallow as the lids on their jars of jelly, and as soggy as the vegetables they can in the bitterest of vinegars. Hats off to the peots and their peoms, because their peotry, like the painted sawhorses that mark a pothole in the road, let us know where the actual poets, poems and poetry can be found.
