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I wish to be the
early bird (The second mouse catches the cheese!) So I could meet those wormy deadlines (I'd still have time to sneeze!)
My feathers could dust my furniture As I peck out poem after poem. My tail would never turn me to spin (I'd go by my outline and show 'em.)
My early bird ventures would earn lots of dough I'd surely be rollin' in bread. I'd be the early bird-- The first mouse is probably dead. |
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My thought for the day has escaped me; My little wisdom just left me. What sense I could find has passed from my
mind And now a big blank overtakes me. I'm feeling like a dinosaur; I'm finding food for thought no more; The lack of migration to my 'magination Contributes to my discomfurtore. So now I tend to be blue. My head holds together with glue; My thoughts are so trite it's silly to
write Since I have no more input. Do you? |
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Insert your honorary carnations, Multicolored of hue Into your honored irons Retired, old, or new While singing Moon River. Picnic on crackers, cheese and fruit, Sip drinks best loved by your man. Speak on the evils of a starched stiff suit, Sizing, and heat damage Until the thought makes you shiver. Hold contests of folding and stacking Your laundry in baskets today. For the lowly pressing tool is honored By our Ironing Reprieve Day Holiday And oh how it makes my heart quiver! |
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To bounce about our day in the Bare indecent minimum To catch those ultraviolet rays. We play our games - oh what sport! We let no weather cut us short As long as we have fun, Especially under our god - the Sun! Oh-- you can tell the faithful few Be they fair or darker skinned. Look for the glorious layers of wrinkles Darkened, hardenend by sun, heat, and
wind. One day, older, and maybe wiser, Our wrinkled bodies will remind us We should not have stayed so long;
"Go on, Have fun - you know you got
it made, Worship the sun all day if you like, But do so in the shade!!!" |
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The Muse has come and gone, My words are all but written— My idea is strong, my focus sure, The editor will be smitten. I begin to query. Suddenly my throat goes dry, My fingers lose their touch; I tremble in my writer’s shoes; Why does it scare me so much? It’s just a simple query. I force myself to click on send; I drench myself in sweat. The editor loves my tremendous idea, I’m almost done, and yet I still have to query. “Query with clips and a resume.” The line echoes loud and clear. What could possibly stop me now? I say, “Trepidation! I’m paralyzed with fear— I’ll die before sending a query.” One day the tombstone at the head of my grave Will cause passersby to laugh, For when they come near, they’ll have but to read The words of my epitaph As it regarded a query: “She might have been published hither and yon Had she mustered the courage to send A concise presentation of her idea To the editor. Alas, but her end Was a heart attack while drafting a query.” |
I glazed the turkey, prepared the dressing,
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They lie in repose,
again--side by side. Death by hanging--they are groom and bride. Nary a crime they didn't commit. She gave the order; he did submit.
The markers reflect the criminal intent Displayed in their conduct. And so they were sent To the gallows with crowds surrounding the stand. The judge told the sheriff to lower his hand.
Two coffins, two bodies celebrate death. Two souls split the scene having taken last breath. Two hearts descend now to their eternal doom. They lay side by side, still on the honeymoon. |
Our custom (it seems,) a tradition, a
law:
Valentine