National Poetry Writing Month (April)
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.
I had a topic for today.
It was really interesting.
Everyone would have shared it.
I would be famous.
Damn.
Her Majesty sits upon her throne.
We cannot let her sit alone.
With all the gurgling I hear,
I’m pretty sure she sits in fear.
Anyone could break in now,
I have to stop them all somehow.
She’s been in here for quite some time.
I will sit here until at least bedtime.
You cannot enter – “No!”, I say.
Everyone must stay away.
I will always remain in place.
To leave her unguarded – a disgrace.
I will stay here through the night and day.
I will never, ever go away.
I will be here at the closing bell.
I just worry about that awful smell.
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 am an Irish Pirate.
I drink Guinness every night.
I don’t have a pirate schooner,
So I never have to fight.
It’s hard to be a pirate,
When you can’t go off to sea.
So, I’m stuck here in the pub,
With just a pint or three.
I guess to be a pirate,
I need a large tattoo.
It’s just I don’t like needles,
So I never joined the crew.
I’m going to be a pirate.
I’m going to sail to sea.
I’m going to do it someday.
Just you wait and see.
In the meantime,
Another pint, please.
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.)
Atlantic Crossing.
Last day sailing all alone.
The Med tomorrow.
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.