Where it came from I have no idea (well, yes I do, but…..) the poetry bug has hit me and I haven’t written any of that stuff in ages. But alas (love that word,alas) the bug has bit me and I drift to la la land and listen to the muse. (Hate that word, muse).
As I’ve stated in my writing classes, in poetry every word has a place. Every word is there for a reason. In prose (regular writing) every sentence is there for a reason.
Hope you like this dear readers:


What a strange word
 modicum is. Just a small
word and not even precise.
Who would think
it could mean so much,
or that it could suffice.

He utilizes a modicum of
 his strength. She possessed
a modicum of sanity.
They lived a modicum of
style and elan. He speaks
a modicum of profanity.

It seems all things come
in modicums. One size
fits all. Albeit a small fitting.
Worth, perhaps dictates
what one selects.What worn
it seems, is not unwitting.

How could one live
without a modicum of joy, of
 peace, of love, of kindness.
Not to mention understanding,
patience, trust, faith, and
oh yes, conscience.

But it is truth and more than
a modicum of it, that once tasted
makes us yearn for more.
It stirs the fire, it calls.
But, if only, just once, say never again.
Why wait behind the door.

Open the damn thing,
If only a crack. Listen if you dare.
Peek inside for simple crumbs.
For hope’s sake, make fear
and doubt and pain, all of those
exist in modicums.

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