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.
What rhymes with “clutter”?
There is so much clutter,
I heard her mutter.
Her words went through me,
Like a knife through butter.
Maybe I can find a topic on Groupon.
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.”
(see you next year, or when the fever strikes.)
Waiting for words
To fall onto my paper.
Maybe I need wider paper.
I could just close all my accounts.
Drop all my online presences.
Remove all aspects of me.
There’s a better way.
Here’s how to find your real friends.
They’re connected online, but
They’re connected offline, as well.
Let’s find the people that actually know you.
The ones that know you don’t fit a mold.
Not all your beliefs align with theirs,
But that’s OK with them.
You have a lot of Facebook friends.
They make a lot of noise.
Who needs that much volume?
Week One of the cleanse.
Change your Facebook photo to
Ted Cruz for President!
See if your friends list diminishes.
Week Two of the cleanse.
New Facebook photo is now
Hillary in 2016!
Other friends will drop away.
Two weeks into the process,
You’re losing friends left and right.
(See what I did there?)
Week Three of the cleanse.
Facebook photo becomes
Gay Rights For Everyone!
That will make people wonder.
Week Four of the cleanse.
Facebook photo is Jesus.
Jesus for President 2016!
(Actually, He’s ineligible to run,
Unless He can find a Hawaiian birth certificate.)
Now, see how many “friends”
You have left online.
Maybe you didn’t need that
Many friends after all.
Now, ask your real friends
What they thought about the month.
Some will find it hilarious.
Others will just say you’re insane.
Your real friends are any of them
That didn’t even notice.
My brain is off.
I can’t restart it.
Maybe after a nap.
And so begins another year,
Although my muse is not too clear.
Thirty poems are lots of fun,
And now I’ve managed thirty-one.
Guest post from @PsychoPupRocky
Racing around on Mom’s new floors.
It’s faster since there are no doors.
The dining room was out of bounds,
But now it’s part of our rounds.
I’m trying to hit a new max speed,
Since Katie’s always in the lead.
After days just sitting in my crate,
Freedom really does feel great.
Katie chasing Murphy and me,
Just be careful not to step in pee.
Thousands of raw acres
of prime South Texas land.
Mesquite, minimal water,
Fossils, fences and sand.
It’s a place to raise cattle,
With horsepower and sweat.
You can become wealthy,
It’s just not how to bet.
From the thousands of acres
Generations sliced off their share.
One ranch became ranches,
But nobody seemed to care.
The pastures were a man’s world,
There were no girls allowed.
There were many disappointments,
Some best not said out loud.
When I first visited the ranch,
It stretched as far as I could see.
Someone said, “That’s nothin’, son”.
“This used to reach to Uvalde.”
One by one, they moved to town,
It’s where they all belonged.
This could have been the King Ranch,
If they could have got along.
I met a distressed strawberry
Outside my local MegaMart.
He asked if I had some spare change,
While I returned my shopping cart.
He said he was from out of town.
He was lugging an empty gas can.
He was trying to get his family home.
They were really in a jam.
The cautious cynic deep inside me
Thought this was just another scam.
But he looked at me so desperately,
Then, he said his name was Sam.
I drove Sam to the closest filling station,
Where I quietly paid to fill up his can.
Then, we drove out to meet his family,
Who were truly in a jam.
I spread them on a baguette.
They were delicious.
What if my dog were a poet?
That would explain the rhythmic barks.
The ones that last all day,
The ones that last throughout the dark.
I think he may be a singer,
And he’s in a protest mood.
“Let me out of my crate!”
“Bring me more food!”
Bark, Bark, Bark, Bark.
Woof, Woof, Woof, Woof.
Woof. Woof. Woof. Woof.
Not much rhymes with “woof.”
If my dog were a singer,
I could be very rich.
I just have to translate to English,
And remember he can say “bitch”.