(haiku’s sooooo boring)
Shadorma will change the world!
Change! Change! Change! Change?? NOT!!
Math and poetry do not mix.)
will do in a pinch
A Limerick is easy to write
(the rhyme scheme’s a poet’s delight)
and if you don’t gaff
you’ll make people laugh
and you’re not at the keyboard all night.
Or should I try a midnight sonnet verse
despite the fact that midnight’s come and gone;
despite the fact that I should be in bed,
asleep but dreamless, just awaiting dawn?
Perhaps, instead, I’ll leave the work undone
and turn away to
—still no leaves to hide among—
Poets And Storytellers United
Weekly Scribble #65
~ For The Birds ~
Everybody thinks they know my name.
Everybody thinks my name is: (Ron.).
Ron with a dot. Period. Not Ron,
(ignore that comma) or Ronald,
and it’s certainly not Ronnie.
I only answer to Ron..
Nobody, these days, thank God,
thinks my name is Ronnie.
(My “little” sister, now in her 60s,
sometimes still calls me that
just so she can feel like a kid again.)
I looked it up once, just to see
what Ron or (Ron.) or Ronald means,
but I forget what Wikipedia told me,
and I don’t give a rat’s ass anyway.
Blah, blah, blah, blah, blah. Enough.
Everybody thinks my name is (Ron.).
I let them go right on believing.
It’s a myth worth perpetuating…
If people knew my real name
they’d call me something else
and I’d feel obliged to respond.
I spotted it on the sill first; then
about a minute later, fluttering like crazy,
bashing itself on the filthy glass
doing its best to be anywhere outside.
I did my best to emanate my empathy,
to let it know that I, too, know how it feels
to be forced to remain where you are
when your lost and longed-for Nirvana
lies just beyond an almost invisible
but adamantly unbreakable barrier.
~ 1st Person Animalia ~
This morning’s forecast
requires no translation.
There is nothing unintelligible
about the sunshine, nothing
open to interpretation, nothing
the lawn—if brown can be a lawn,
if a lawn is a mat of last year’s leaves—
this morning, then, at long last
is finally and totally frost-free,
no snow left anywhere, just a
slowly warming too-long cold
and the promise of a soon Spring.
~ News In Verse ~
Sevenling (all language became) *
All language became foreign language;
all messages became wasted breath.
Not much later, The Great Silence.
The Year of Dictionary Bonfires:
People finally had a chance to think.
The world became a better place.
Freegottin and Surfived
*Not familiar with the Sevenling form? You can read all about it HERE.
Fair Warning: Addictive
“I do,” they promised
slipping on their golden rings
— wedding ceremony —
Poets And Storytellers United
Writers’ Pantry #65
~ CONFIDENCE ~
To whom It May Concern:
Please don’t be concerned.
Dear Mr. Lavalette:
As regards your latest missive:
not to worry, Dude. All’s well.
Well, at least we’re not, ummm…
Well, let’s just put it like this:
Given the nature of The Universe,
it is our firm belief that “concern”
and/or any conviction that it
may or may not generate
is truly a waste of time
(assuming, of course, that
one accepts the commonly held
but erroneous assumption that
“The Universe” has parameters
and that any and all attempts
to either analyze or record it
will inevitably fail because, um,
after all, there is no “All”).
So: thanks for your concern about
our level of concern but, ummm…
(Wait; we’ve already said “ummm…”
a couple of times, haven’t we?)
Rest assured; we’re not.
Thanks again for your interest.
~ Correspondence ~
What?!? Write A Poem? Every Day?!?
National Poetry Month(*1) Can Be(*2) Difficult(*3)
2) Is totally
More Cool Sixers Here
—sweatpants, keyboard, black coffee—
Every day, day in and day out, same old same old: nothing. Every room’s a waiting room. Every room holds its breath, waiting. Wait; what? No. Every room is just a room, waiting, breathless. He does his best to hold on. He holds his breath. He hopes. He moves from room to room. Every room is an empty holding room. All day long he comes up short. He hopes to hold on a little longer. He’s almost out of time.
time to call it quits
—earlier than usual—
~ Day #10 ~