I wondered over Christmas Chestnuts about my New Year’s Resolution of complete and total honesty to myself, others and whilst on the internet. The hazard of operating poetry without a permit basically makes me a liar by occupation.
So I says to Satchel, who seems to have a cheeky wisdom in these witchy matters, “How can we bring such truth in every breath, every word we chatter. What action decelerates the reckless tide of words?”
Sharp as a thistle, he moistened his lips, “What if,” he brilliantly articulated, “we are so conscientious of every utterance, that we opt to distinctly enunciate the silent T in those thorny epistles?”
“Even if this word has the silent T?” I protesteth. “Hast thou attempted these acts, for a year?”
He didn’t drop a stitch. “Often.” Says he, subtly, “Fasten your Seatbelt.
I hasten o’er trestle to yon chalet and castle.
I soften my sentiment as I bustle about gourmet victuals.
Mustn’t nestle, Valet, Hustle! It’s your own Mortgage!”
I began to twitch, “Satchel! Settle!” The static on the mobile line sputtered. “How wouldst one, then, pronounce Tsunami or ditch?”
I didn’t catch his retort o’er the whistle of the T kettle in the kitchen.
author's note. This is nearly my 100th post. And I thank all of you