This is one of those random thoughts that litter the floor.

I'm reading some older poetry today. Not old
--you have to try and grok out the words-- old. I'm talking a newer old. 19th century old. Carl Sandburg old.

The new and old poets are beginning to feel the need to fight it out on my bookshelf. Neither set wants to be replaced. I keep telling them they have nothing to worry about. I value them all. But, I can see little lines of doubt crinkle up their dust jackets. And if this keeps up, I'm going to have to separate them. Coexistence is best, but sometimes it's too much to hope for. I think I better buy a new bookshelf. When living conditions become too cramped less than ideal situations can occur. Yep, I'll definitely get another bookshelf.

Ok.
Back to Carl Sandburg.

Here's one for you:

GYPSY

I ASKED a gypsy pal
To imitate an old image
And speak old wisdom.
She drew in her chin,
Made her neck and head
The top piece of a Nile obelisk
and said:
Snatch off the gag from thy mouth, child,
And be free to keep silence.
Tell no man anything for no man listens,
Yet hold thy lips ready to speak.