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.
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.