National Poetry Writing Month (April)
I am not a Princess.
I am a Queen, Dammit.
Hear me roar.
Where is my food?
Where are my subjects?
Where are my snacks?
I am waiting.
Do you not hear me?
I can be louder.
This is my castle.
Quake before me.
But first, snacks.
RIP Kaitlin Renee (2006-2022)
It’s almost my birthday.
Happy Birthday to me.
Well, at my advancing age,
it’s more bah humbug.
Sixty-two is a blah event.
It’s not like I’m sixty.
It’s not like I’m sixty-five.
I’m rich!
I’m wealthy!
I’m socially secure!
I’m old enough to get the joke.
(Thank you, Daffy.)
Dying smoke detectors will beep beep beep.
This of course while I was trying to sleep.
I heard it dying, yet beeping away.
Saying, “Your wife should have fixed this yesterday.”
Simple fix – she took the battery out.
But then the alarm began to pout.
Pouting is a long anguished scream.
It is worse than a battery out of steam.
No more napping time will it allow
It wants a battery and it wants it now.
We had an extra one on hand.
Or it would be buried in the sand.
Everyone else went back to bed.
I will go to work sleepy instead.
The smoke alarm doesn’t make a peep.
Which is certainly better than beep beep beep.
I write a new poem every day.
I write them each and every way.
Some are bad,
Some are good.
Some are plastic,
Some are wood.
This one is a wee bit late.
But it still is on the date.
Good night.
Bird seed is tasty.
Mom yelled at me about it.
It is still tasty.
Awaken to my alarms’s dull roar.
Hear my spouse’s gentle snore.
Sense my dog heading for the door.
Leap from bed before she pees the floor.
It’s not the weekend any more.
Two glorious days.
All work is just forgotten.
Needs many more days.
I am watching my son.
He is on YouTube.
He is not playing sports.
He is not at band camp.
In these modern times,
Many parents watch their sons
On YouTube or TikTok.
Most are appalled.
I am rather proud.
It is an older video.
It is from last year.
He is preaching.
He is a professor,
Not a preacher,
But professors
Just lecture.
So, he is lecturing.
However, it is in Chapel.
That is pretty much
Preaching.
My son is at his job,
Talking about Jesus.
I mention Jesus at work,
But in a different context.
How did a lowly sinner
Such as I
Produced a preacher?
(Even part-time.)
I’m sure his Mom
Takes all the credit.
That’s how it works.
Athletes say, “Hi Mom!”
Preachers talk about
The Father and the Son.
I guess I got half-credit
In the divorce.
Go away.
Time to go to work.
Time for some coffee.
Time for lunch.
Is it the weekend?
Is it five o’clock?
Almost?
I’m drawing blanks.
It’s pretty early in NaPoWriMo.
Something has to come to me.
My brain is very slow.