The Sanctum

Welcome, traveller. This be the realm of Jay Niner, where everything be possible, and nothing ever happens. If, perchance, thou wisheth to tarry, then find thou a page from the Grimoire and read. For we are here in eternity, and we are in medias res.


Pets- just who did the training?

This is one of those blogs where I feel my pen (read keyboard) can flow without restraint. But this time I'll be putting in a story.
The night was dark as all nights are
I drove on the empty roads in my car.
Suddenly there was a flash of light
I hit the brake with superhuman might.
There, its nose pressed to the wheel lay
A puppy, who'd seen not too many a day.
I picked it up and put it aside
Then gave it a few comments snide.
You're too young for this, I told it.
It came forward, and my thumb, bit.
I took it home with me.
Now it contented be-
Living off my money and food
Its condition is now very good.
I rush home to feed the dog
And find myself in a bog
Of troubles, small and big;
THrough which I must always dig
And find my sanity buried deep below.
While the dog does leave after giving his bow.
I began to wonder, and I thought long
Was I completely and irrevocably wrong?
Or does the phrase take on a new meaning?
Was it I between us who did the gleaning
Come, sit, stay, and go
Was it I who went low?
Or has the country well and truly gone to the dogs?
Pets of any kind are being treated like kings these days. They're treated like members of the family, which is fine as long as anyone remembers that they're pets, not siblings or children. Calling them that is an insult to the animal.
And so it becomes that we, the humans, learn to heed their each and every call, we learn to "come" back from office, "sit" in the kitchen, "stay" at home to entertain them, and so on.



Inspiration is something we all need almost all the time. And of course, we need to use it, too.

What is inspiration?
Is it born of desperation?
The dissolver of a writer’s block.
That helps people ’round the clock?
How does it work, I often wonder;
Does it help, or make us ponder?
Does it give hope or joy or satisfaction?
Or is it just for beautification?

To me, the idea that hits my head,
Like a brick wrapped in a flower dead,
It comes with its price that needs payment.
And in the repayment I haven’t made a dent.
Still a way to go before I rest,
Many months, or perhaps years at best.
When I can spin stories from the air,
Like a spider weaves webs in its lair,
When I will have a well-known name
Like that of Burns, more or less the same

And then inspiration will no longer visit me;
Hopefully it’ll finally let me be;
For then I’ll be in my grave for my final breath.
It won’t touch me there, not in death.
But now death itself is an inspiration,
And I’d better give it some satisfaction
I’ll get to work, and start right away.
Well begun is half-done, as they say.
But here my hand will certainly stop.
My pen is closed securely with its top.
I have re-paid the price of inspiration.
This poem, written to its satisfaction.
No longer am I afraid of its price.
Or of the Reaper coming to slice.
But here we go again, for more inspiration.
M’pen is uncorked to improve my station.
Another poem will I write,
To release me from this new tax’s bite.
That another time can be.
Right now, I must save me.
So, all y'all writers, singers, artists galore, and just everybody else who gets inspired out there, don't forget to pay inspiration's price. Signing off.