#0127 - Birds and Bottles

J’ai observé une mode:

Écrivains ont les titres françaises
mais écrire ses poèmes en anglais.
C'est comme sa poésie
et rimes sont affichés.

Je présent mon contraste.

Maintenant: un poème
écrant en français
(mais le titre? anglais)
concernant ces sujets:
les oiseaux et bouteilles.

Le oiseau:
liberté.
Il est la insigne
de sa facilité.
Un grand chiffre de personnes
—leur regard vers le ciel—
souhaitent pour les ailes...

Parfois,
les bouteilles
peuvent lever.

Mais beaucoup des personnes
sont noyé en ses bouteilles;
ils sont seuls,
sans les ailes.
Ses breuvages, dur comme la pierre,
les confiner sur la terre.

#0126 - Suppertime Evasions

Meat and grains and vegetables:
Grandpa's cooking on the table.
From the lawn, the kids arrive
and, seated, scheme and duly try
to eat as little as they can.
They try to reach the frying pan
to get their food back off their plate—
return it to its rightful place;
they wait for Pa to leave the space—
to Grandma they will plead their case!
Success! Success! They quickly leave,
for they have fin'lly found their peace.
     They come back to their sleeping racks,
     where they have hidden candied snacks.

#0100 - Haiku XI

{NaPoWriMo 2017 ~ Day 19}

The poet's tired;
He writes a brief haiku in-
-stead of a sonnet.

#0091 - ode to your beauty

{NaPoWriMo 2017 ~ Day 10}
{Prompt: "Bad Poetry," from THATRANDOMPROMPT on Tumblr}

O, how beautiful your beauty is;
O, how wonderful your wonder is;
O, how amazing your amazement is;
O, how pulchritudinous your pulchritude is...

To attempt to describe your beauty—
whether your face or hair or booty—
Would be nothing but a sin.
but, I can try; and in
My attempt to commit this sin
I relate you to a metal trash bin:

Like the polished metal of the waste-holding can,
You reflect the gleam of stars and plan-
-ets, and the tar-colored irises of your eyes
are as black as the bin's residual grimes.

To truly find words that
can describe your beauty would take so much thought that


























I need to pause
before I can describe your jaws
or describe your hair,
Which flows like air,
Or describe your legs
which are as long as pegs
that are long.

And don't think that I jest!
you are more beautiful than anyone could have guessed,
So that I feel like I'm under a hex
Such that I only think about se-
-lling my heart and soul to you
so that you won't be blue—

You being blue I never want to see
Because, although your eyes are blue like the sea,
I never want you to be
the bad kind of blue, if you know what I mean

(If you don't, then what I mean is that I don't want to see you
     sad; I relate sad with the color blue—
Now see, do you?)

So, I again raise my glass to your beauty
And hope that you can stay with me
As we stand on the snowy ridge of an overlooking
     mountain range buffeted by a windy breeze
and see.

#0077 - On Undue Extravagance

I feel as if it isn't hard to write
A poem that can tempt the genius mind.
Weave stories of a turtle with a kite,
And soon in such a mind you'll likely find:
The turtle is a slovenly reject
And, as such, lumbers like an ugly slug
Presenting sloth as something to reject
Else one's life passes like that of a bug.
The kite is brilliant opportunity
Forsaken by a lazy, useless beast
That though we easily can view and see
Flies off into the vastly empty east.
     Though, truthfully, I only wanted to
     Write something for a child in preschool.

#0027 - "Mine pen hath fell from hand to wooden floor"

Mine pen hath fell from hand to wooden floor;
A cacophonous noise: calamity.
Its piercing clattering turns mine ears sore;
A failure vast of mine dexterity.
A wetness in mine eyes I feel hath stirr'd -
'Tis quickly seen that I am thus contrite,
For saltine tears have been with speed incurr'd;
They redden eyes and blur mine once-keen sight.
They make my failure to the world be known -
'Tis thus to others quickly realiz'd.
My failure resonates through flesh and bone:
A wronging worse than could have been surmis'd.
     A mourning time, but I myself console:
     A fallen pen should not my life control.

#0022 - Thought 5

I wrote a poem.
This is not the poem that I wrote, but rather
an announcement that I wrote a poem.