Conflict of Interest

Editor’s Note: This is from a non-scientific study, but results are interesting.

Dogs sleep 19 hours a day (or so.)
They’re really not very active at all.
They will show up for all mealtimes,
Or sometimes, just to catch a ball.

So, eighty percent per day asleep,
A vast amount of total time spent,
Yet, when I take a one-hour nap,
That hour will be in the twenty percent.

Cruise Trip Blues 

to the tune of Frer Jaques

Norovirus,
Norovirus,
Not the flu,
Not the flu.

I am on the poop deck,
Looking for the puke deck.
Feeling blue,
Feeling blue.

Norovirus,
Norovirus,
Not the flu,
Not the flu.

Forgot to washy-washy,
Now my tummy’s sloshy.
Feel like poo,
Feel like poo.

Norovirus,
Norovirus,
Not the flu,
Not the flu.

Medical is crowded,
I ate what the crowd did.
Cordon bleu,
Cordon bleu.

Norovirus,
Norovirus,
Not the flu,
Not the flu.

All of us are leaving,
Hope that this is fleeting.
No more spew.
No more spew.

Time Passing

I have a seven am meeting.
I have a meeting at nine.
I have another at ten,
At least that one is mine.

I have a meeting at one.
I have a meeting at two.
Last one at nine in the evening.
I wish it weren’t true.

Web conferences bring us closer,
Of this I make no bones,
It’s just they don’t solve the issue
Of our pesky time zones.

Goals

I want to be a travel agent.
Move my bosses to and fro.
I would schedule all their trips.
I could tell them where to go.

I want to be a pharmacist.
Filling bottles gives me thrills.
I would refill all your prescriptions,
And bring my wife some happy pills.

I want to be a pirate.
Sail across the seven seas.
With a Chihuahua for a parrot.
He’s balanced on my knees.

I want to be a lumberjack.
Wait, that one’s been done.

Thirty

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.)

Every Day

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.

Drought

I got nothin’.
Day 3 and blank.
A new low.

I would write about money,
But that’s just depressing.

I could talk about work,
But that’s just stressing.

I could remember growing up,
But I’m still repressing.

I could talk about God,
And ask His blessing.

(I could talk about the Ranch,
But that’s just dressing.)

Maybe blank wasn’t so bad.