Plethora

Plethora! I love the word and the way it rolls off the tongue. Plethora.

I love the way it vaguely describes my mood when I travel.

Everything must go: my clothes, my shoes, my, under hirelings (ha), my jewels, my hair ribbons, my perfume, my soaps, my political satire, my political playmates, my political enemies, and my very important documents. Strictly plethora.

If only I could learn to pare down and take less, but why? There's no harm in moving one's entire possessions with one's faculties trailing in the breeze. Plethora!

Lots of stories, mega poems, sonnets, haiku for you, and blog spots for me. Articles of faith, articles to anger, remind them of the danger, nailing it like a stranger, after lying in a manger, and did I mention jokes?

Lots of insider tips to make you money, make one funny, be all that you can be... that's me... a wandering spirit, looking for passion that's over when the night is. Plethora.

My final leg of journey takes me across the seas, and I languish on beaches with lots of toy buckets and shovels; lots of very small people, charming individuals, always smiling, mostly giggling until the air ships approach. Running little people finding bigger people who place them in cages and send them off. I offer my plethora but they'll have none of it. Plethora?

I walked into the water watching as the gun ships and little people left. All around me adults are moaning and groaning in horror. One by one the little people are thrown from the air ships. There is no way to get to them in time to keep them from drowning. Who is the ghastly beast that takes them yet doesn't use them. They would have offered many years in servitude. Just as well I suppose and I stayed down in the water. Generous waves kept me down and I stripped off my clothes, my hair ribbon, my under hirelings, and my jewels: I will be their nanny under the sea. That's why I came. That's how I'll go... with my things. Plethora.