“As long as habit and routine dictate the pattern of living, new dimensions of the soul will not emerge.”

Poetry is often seen as a departure from monotony.

What is a monotone life? What does it mean?

        **Wearisome routine; dullness**
         **Lack of variety in pitch or cadence**

Do you agree with that idea?

Does monotony mean the same thing as boredom?

Do you ever wrestle with boredom?

Listen to Andy Gullahorn’s Song: Robert’s Like a Train

LYRICS:
Robert’s off and on like a switch on the wall. His wagon’s not as strong as we hoped that it was.

Robert’s like a train stuck inside the tracks every day’s the same slipping through the crack. Robert’s like a train.

Robert’s shifty eyes never do let him rest. They spend all their time looking for something else.

Robert’s like a wheel taken for a spin. It’s just the same old deal round and round again. Robert’s like a wheel.

You tell yourself you want to be free then the quicksand covers your feet. The more you fight the deeper you sink.

Robert’s tired smile is only there to cover up all the dark desires he does not really want.

Robert’s like a child cause children never know what’s pleasing to the eye can steal away your soul.

Robert’s like a train.

After Thirty Years by David Budbill


Thirty years in one place.
Thirty vegetable gardens in the same soil.
Thirty woodsheds filled and emptied.
Thirty years through the woods and mountains
on the same trails.
 
This is an age of frantic travel and people
 think I am a fool for never going anywhere.
It’s okay. I don’t care.
In another time I would have been a sage
for doing what I haven’t done.

Source: Moment to Moment
When I work outdoors all day, every day, as I do now, in the fall, getting ready for winter, tearing up the garden, digging potatoes, gathering the squash, cutting firewood, making kindling, repairing bridges over the brook, clearing trails in the woods, doing the last of the fall mowing, pruning apple trees, taking down the screens, putting up the storm windows, banking the house—all these things, as preparation for the coming cold…
 
When I am every day all day all body and no mind, when I am physically, wholly and completely, in this world with the birds, the deer, the sky, the wind, the trees…
 
When day after day I think of nothing but what the next chore is, when I go from clearing woods roads, to sharpening a chain saw, to changing the oil in a mower, to stacking wood, when I am all body and no mind…
 
When I am only here and now and nowhere else—then, and only then, do I see the crippling power of mind, the curse of thought, and I pause and wonder why I so seldom find this shining moment in the now.
 
David Budbill

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