February 2018
Laurie Byro
philbop@warwick.net
philbop@warwick.net
In 1985, while pursuing a business degree, I unhappily landed in a creative writing class and announced to the group that I thought Walt Whitman was a chain of schools throughout the United States. To my astonishment, I had found my pacing, abandoned prose, and started a poetry circle that has been meeting for 16 years. I have published four poetry collections, most recently: “The Bloomsberries and Other Curiosities” Kelsay Books and “Wonder” Little Lantern Press (out of Wales). https://www.amazon.com/s/ref=nb_sb_noss_2?url=search-alias%3Daps&field-keywords=Laurie+Byro I am the Poet in Residence at the West Milford Township Library and despite it all, love New Jersey, and have lived here almost 60 years.
The Mouse's Reply
After Robert Burns's "To a Mouse" [https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/43816/to-a-mouse-56d222ab36e33]
To: Mr. R. Burns
From: A Wee Mouse
Sir. I didn’t return for ages after my children
were chewed and spat out by your murderous
plow. When I dared encroach my field, summer
time was finished, all we creatures were preparing
for a winter’s rest. Some of my friends blinked
into the sun, and I knew the warmth in our whiskers
had to last for eternity. I didn’t call you Beast.
I never said you were cowardly, but haughty
as death. My old nest is now in ruins. You
speak of lofty endeavors, meanwhile I need a new
hidey hole, a stable address. A litter destroyed
can be replaced, it is our instinct to increase
the world and procreate. But I remind you, Demon
Death, there is quiet nation in this field beneath
the cover of snow. My whole life is written
in stones that resemble stars. That mica
shining up like silver will lead us away
to a gentle community. Never assume
that something unseen by you is worth nothing,
is something, like faith, to be discarded.
After Robert Burns's "To a Mouse" [https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/43816/to-a-mouse-56d222ab36e33]
To: Mr. R. Burns
From: A Wee Mouse
Sir. I didn’t return for ages after my children
were chewed and spat out by your murderous
plow. When I dared encroach my field, summer
time was finished, all we creatures were preparing
for a winter’s rest. Some of my friends blinked
into the sun, and I knew the warmth in our whiskers
had to last for eternity. I didn’t call you Beast.
I never said you were cowardly, but haughty
as death. My old nest is now in ruins. You
speak of lofty endeavors, meanwhile I need a new
hidey hole, a stable address. A litter destroyed
can be replaced, it is our instinct to increase
the world and procreate. But I remind you, Demon
Death, there is quiet nation in this field beneath
the cover of snow. My whole life is written
in stones that resemble stars. That mica
shining up like silver will lead us away
to a gentle community. Never assume
that something unseen by you is worth nothing,
is something, like faith, to be discarded.
© 2018 Laurie Byro
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