“Write a poem a day for a month.”
Sayeth NaPoWriMo.
How hard can that be?
April’s only a thirty-day month.
Hmmm.
I’m really stuck this time.
It happens every year.
Usually, once a day or so.
I need an idea.
I tried to order one,
From Amazon Prime,
But it won’t arrive until tomorrow.
It would be nice if you could
Order an idea from Amazon.
I know a few people
That could use a place
To get a clue.
Thinking of all the times in my life.
There’s early.
There’s on time.
Then, there’s the wife.
Happy wife,
Happy life.
So, I guess my life is “bitchy.”
Topics can be hard to find,
So, every day, I abuse my mind.
Some days are better than others.
Plus, I’m not at sea this year,
With all those topics I hold dear,
So I have to look around my office.
Sigh.
What rhymes with “clutter”?
There is so much clutter,
I heard her mutter.
Her words went through me,
Like a knife through butter.
Sigh.
Maybe I can find a topic on Groupon.
Lift me up,
From my pain and sorrow.
Lift me up
Towards the sky.
Lift me up
To my Lord and Savior.
Lift me up
On the day I die.
I’m surfing down the River Pee.
There’s darkness in my hall, you see.
Dogs should only pee in the yard.
But going out sometimes is hard.
So, as I slide along the floor,
I wonder which among our four,
Has left this river in the hall,
That’s now a lake after my fall.
I am an accidental engineer.
A dam’s design was never clear.
Yet, I dammed the mighty River Pee.
I dammed it when I fell, you see.
It was not the only dam discussed.
I do admit, I may have cussed.
My wife is laughing really hard.
Why won’t her dogs pee in the yard?
I love Tex-Mex food.
I would eat it every day.
Rice, beans and nachos,
What else is there to say?
It’s just sometimes,
There is a dramatic effect.
Like a volcano erupting somewhere,
Or a pilot forced to eject.
Today, my wife dragged me shopping.
She bribed me with Tex-Mex first.
We got to the store and I felt rumblings.
It’s not like something was about to burst.
I thought.
So, my colon blew out in WalMart,
I was stranded in the stall.
The guard came to check for theft,
But I hadn’t taken anything at all.
(Well, I took a dump. But, really, I left it. Thank you, George Carlin.)
Thirty days hath September,
April, June and November.
Thirty days hath NaPoWriMo.
Thirty poems is a lot.
Thirty good poems may be a bit much to ask.
I may have to go edit a few,
To make them more coherent.
Some, to make them coherent at all.
Thirty has one more meaning.
For the press (old school),
You will see -30- in articles.
It means “The End.”
-30-
(see you next year, or when the fever strikes.)
There once was a woman named Flo,
At sea, she was willing to go.
While back on dry land,
She charged half a grand,
And the sailors all called her Land Ho.
I will write a poem every day.
Unless I have nothing to say.
Then, I have to write free verse.
Or haiku, sonnets or even worse.
So, I have to have a decent thought.
Or all this scribbling is for naught.
My thoughts of past were very bold.
They’re all gone now. I’m very old.