Blog Archives

Proceeding

It was two glasses in
And the curling memory of brunette hair,
But she has erewhile gone
And Sonoma Merlot just doesn’t care.
The rhymes won’t come—
Here I am inside this couplet mess.
I guess it takes more than mere Love
To complete this synapsing poetic process.
Meld two roughs into one,
Balance the scan and mind the rhyme,
Maybe I’ll get some ‘Likes’;
I manage to do so from time to time.
Fear floods in;
I managed to lose my job.
Now with gray hairs and beard
Who now would care to hobnob.
Today next-door neighbor
Pleasantly responded to my hi and hello.
There’s no ‘there’ there
And it’s so past time for me to go.
Brother turned sixty—
Who knows about sixty-one.
Wish we were better friends;
A brother would be nice on this long end run.
We need a finishing couplet to release our tortured reader;
It’s all good, love from your poet, another forgotten bottom feeder.

Just A Number

Misbehaving twenty-somethings—
Marching in a row
Aggravated sixty-somethings—
Have forgotten what they ought to know

Oldish and youngish—
Not sure wherefore is the right
Love comes in from the other way;
It’s gonna be a very long night

End stage eighty-somethings—
Head for their nursing home bed
Unaccountable teenyboppers—
Would rather be most anywhere else instead

Newborn steamy babies—
Shine with all their total love
Dead and buried 100-somethings—
Soar with the praeternatural deities above

Numbers adhere to the ages—
It pretty much adds up well
Who old are are you?
Won’t you tell?