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Friday The 13th Acadien

He ain’t user friendly
He prefers bottom shelf
You’ll never see it coming
He won’t much mind, himself
“Baby’s toys gracing the floor”
She asks if there’s gonna be another stanza—
“Baby breathless, asking for more”
He gets the glasses down from the credenza
He don’t care who won the game
He hates to mow the lawn
He’d like to return to Barcelona
But, well, he’s slightly overdrawn
“So, what are we up now, love?”
His muse has some quite juicy lines—
“Don’t worry, baby, we have the time.”
She has the all of everything for which he pines.
He writes the stuff after dark
He likes his second glass
The neighbors seem to cringe:
Pity, he really hasn’t much class
Remember, deeply, the seventies
When Zeppelin was all the rage?
(This rhymester’s saddest secret:
Why wasn’t he born Jimmy Page?)
He steals words from his muse:
“Carefully caressing every soft contour”
Anticipation sweet, removing those fancy shoes:
“Even her red toes, that he does adore”
He thinks he can dance
He’s torn it up with the best.
But here comes Friday the 13th
He won’t much mind this test.

–thanks for writing assist by June O!

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Am I Close

I would like to be a poet
Am I getting close?
Metaphors mixed and tenses slashed
Imagery by a nose
Broken hearts and thanes slain
Damsels worshipped ever again and again
Perhaps a cheery rhymester
Bereft of similes orange
Sunsets abandoned
By courageous estrange
Does my poesy suffer to suffice?
Are you moved to a nether coast?
Or do you need more fodder
To render the lonely heart closed
Pay for my lines
Don’t you dare wonder?
Most of the good stuff
Passes thru the penchant blunder
Like me stuff—
Or turn to a kindred page
Drinking the lines ethereal
Is all the millennial rage

Candle Light Blazes In Your Eyes

The stout little candle flickered its last
And scuttered out and left the oldster in the dark
He thought he’d attempt the 15th century
And imagine a time of dragons, for a lark

The safety matches safely lit a new wick
And the poet lifted his quill again
Skritter scratch and his lines pricked to life
Another damsel rejects a lonely swain

Refilling the merlot-stained glass
The oldess sat next to her oldster
The muse again amused, the poet grinned
Wishing he hadn’t sold that roadster

Gray hairs and faded eyes
But a mind keen as ever
Maybe he can’t drive
But his lines still tickle clever

Half-passed a candle later
The oldess kissed her oldster
The poet abandoned his quill
Surely, later those lines he’d bolster

Later, the stout little candle flickered its last….