Misspent

This one’s different. You’ll have to work out the words and the rhyme. Enjoy with a friend!

I hven’t the rords to rhme
in theis bucket of misspent time
hoping for coquetry
i’be resoted to poetry
not so messy this night
anyway she left inspite
of promises for forever
crushed under the sublime and the clever
words spoke in jest
why is evething a test
cacoggrafie isw such fun
so is staring at the sun
but wouldn’t recommend
with dar glasses and cane to contend
twood rather dance til dawn
but the glass is full drawn
and we ought sleep
nite [bleep!]

Slaughtered

Oh such sadness
Oh such deep remorse
The old poet has lost the rhyme
For him there’s no recourse
In vino veritas
Has left for brighter shores
The laundry needs folding
Our simile likes whatever’s yours
Oh my my, O mercy me
Here comes that Kentwood child
Scrumptious in all her filigree
Goodness gracious, why must she sashay so wild
The taliban slaughtered some high schoolers
Six o’clock news as old as Cain and Abel
Want to understand the matter black of it all—
Best lay all your cards on the table
Oh dearie dear me
One’s mere life is no bull
9-1-1 has lost your address—
Hope your unsurance is paid in full

One For Laura

C’mon let’s go
I’ve been waiting for hours
Time to conquer
All poetry’s towers

Open the doors
Let loose the knowledge
I gotta learn this stuff
If I wanna get into college

Dickinson and Eliot,
Starting with Gilgamesh,
But trust me, you’ll lose me
If you include ole John Tesh

So, let’s learn about rhyme
In all its naïf pentameter
Hey, this isn’t too bad
For an old rhyming amateur

A Safe Place

I’ve lost that place to let a tear;
My heart’s gone to its safe place.
How could things go so wrong?
What new horrors must we face?

Barricades fall from Seattle town,
But nothing’s better, not at all.
I’ve no stamp for my letter
Begging to be allowed to call.

Things today sing with a minor key,
But youngin there’s just one thing:
Passion stills, for just a moment, the longing—
Yet loneliness in old age still prides its sting.

Did she survive the novel virus?
Will she return to us fully alive?
Glasses for all to share the sauterne!
Breathe the air! Dance! Sing! Thrive!

I’ve lost the time to shed a tear,
My words go without a decent rhyme,
The End: how will we deeply know?
What new pain unfolds with wrinkled time?

Aloning on New Year’s

Tried to share her in a poem,
But the heart would not scan.
Trying to forget all about her—
I fail, trying as hard as I can.
Winds turned to colding;
The heater runs all day;
I can see each wispy breath—
Singled out in about every way.
Staple-gun together some words,
But joy and doubt won’t rhyme.
Aloning it again on New Year’s—
It’s Love for sometwo else’s this time.
But, it’s all good for this po little coda.
And, yes please, a lil more rum for my soda.

On A Sea Cruise

Words from around the corner
Came in and fell down
Missing the rhyme and
Acting the clown
No reason or rhythm—
Nothing made sense;
Twas half in caps
And in dodgy tense.
But Einaudi cast ripples
The ivories in congeal
Nouns akimbo
Verbs of steel
The kid goes to the Caribbean
Only seventeen
And still has her glee on
Happily, she’s chaste
And none the wiser
A pittance of allowance
From one co-Dad the Miser
Girl be wise
Woman be stronger
You’re soon to be 18
Your shield no longer!
Words arose
And fled the scene
What a question:
How do I know what I mean?

Another Poet’s Power Trip

7pm Friday evening:
The loner ponders a new blank page;
You’d think he’d have better
At his now advanced presenile age.
But no prospects permit,
And no leads present,
All in all
He remained a proper gent.

7:08pm Friday evening:
Some words managed to flow
Out of prompt sinus gyrae
And across the page, to and fro.
The rhyme lofted well,
The context sufficiently obtuse,
Pondering current lost lovers
[As usual TV fare was of no use].
But no prospects permit,
And no leads present,
All in all
He remained a proper gent.

9:30 Friday evening:
The night’s offering to WordPress Publish—
He’d not edited much,
Twas all a spot of heartache and sly rubbish.

10pm Friday night:
Off went the power strip.
Another headache for morning,
But for now: another poet’s power trip.
But no prospects permit,
And no leads present,
All in all
He remained a proper gent.