Stories from a lifetime of confrontation and romance, some brutal and some exquisite, some light-hearted and some breathtaking. Because most other poetry just sucks. Featured again recently with the Society of Classical Poets, my poetry has (from my MBA days), a 'distinct competitive advantage': it is memorable and, where needed, beautiful. Rhyme and meter, once soaring, now dismissed to a vanishing point? Maybe it can make a comeback. Here's the title poem. Hope you enjoy. That Same Sun Now frowning at that same sun that she tamed, Her lovely visage lifted from the east, The day behind, at last-another framed In herds of heat, each wave of wildebeest Small thanks for several of the same, procured; Perhaps content, again unsatisfied She turns now towards the dusk; a smaller herd, The restless lion, and her stubborn pride. Dave Blanchard
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