day 21

I'm a little behind today,
Words have all gone astray,
Inspiration won't come
I'm sitting here feeling dumb
A poem a day is far too much
I promise soon, to be in touch.

16.Lies

I’m happy with my body.

I hate  pizza pie.

I drive a red Camaro.

Can’t wait until I die.

 

I don’t like birds and sunshine.

I really hate good books.

I don’t crave morning coffee.

Can’t complain about my looks.

 

Dew worms make me queasy.

This poem was very easy,

day 15

It is eleven thirty-seven,

Twenty-three minutes left to go
The day is almost over,
And I have no poetry to show.

14.To Charlie

my lame attempt at a sonnet -

Charlie you should be sleeping at this hour

Not barking like a fool at nothing much
While sitting beside the blue rabbit hutch
With too much stubborn canine will power.
The spray bottle aimed for your nightly shower
You howl, a lovely added noisy touch
Until your throat we really want to clutch
We yell at you and you growl and cower.
Please come inside you silly little fool
Have a drink and also tasty kibble
Take a treat, you like the crunchy nibble
I kiss your nose and scratch your velvet ear
And I rub your naked tum, I shant be cruel
Care for you,  loving friend, my pal, my dear.

day 12

Intoxication

Like sand tossed across glass

wind drives rain against the windshield.
Constable Sullivan needs a drink
sucks in, breath interrupts silence,
downs a beer, one gulp, half gone.
Tastes like more, much more.

Afternoon shift ends,

a shoelace breaks,
Life’s meaning lost for now.
Blood pulses, temples throb
He flicks on favourite country music station
Base pounds in time with heartbeat
Fills his head too full
Of nothing permanent.

Night fixes everything.

Reason saves his sanity
Or maybe robs him of it.
Tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow
Remain unchanged
Unless tonight becomes the night
Everything changes.
Another beer beckons from the box.

Barney Fife from Mayberry

Didn’t drink beer alone at night
In his car,
Wouldn’t contemplate the obscene act
Big Jack considers now.
“Barney did you ever feel so low?
What would Andy say if he could see you now?
And you were him?”

day 10

Feeling very tired today ----

There once was a woman retired.

Who found herself in projects mired.
She couldn’t say no.
Her life filled with woe,
Until one day she sadly expired.

Day 9.From a playlist

NaPoWriMo suggestion - take any random song play list (from your iPod, CO player, favorite radio station, Pandora or Spotify , etc.) and use the next five song titles on that randomized list in a poem.

Well, not exactly, but here goes...

Taken from playlist on Apr.2/14 Definitely Not the Opera (CBC Radio) – Where did your ‘crash’ take you?

 

When She Rides,
     The Destination

          Is to Escape.

Listens to White Noise

     On the Drive
          Shares Afternoons and Coffee Spoons
               My Silver Lining. 

Day 8

Politics is messy,

Complicated and rich.

Proud of you, mes amis -

You’ve unseated the witch.

Day 7 poetry challenge

I am floundering - finding this project difficult. I missed yesterday, sorry. I would not be able to do this at all if I had to follow the prompts so I will just submit when I can, whatever comes to mind and Passes Through. My offering for today is based on the colour orange.

Contemplating Orange

 

Driving in darkness, past Balzac gas flare

Along highway where earlier, convicts in orange coveralls
Picked orange peels, orange crush cans, broken plastic pylons
Put debris in orange utility garbage bags,
And drank Gatorade.
 

Eerie orange halo glows above distant city.

Soon long rows of streetlights – who called this shade of orange “amber”?
Reflect orange on dark wet streets
As 1974 orange Volkswagon Wesfalia hippy van
Speeds through orange light,
Hits Florida orange truck,
Valencia, Mandarin, Sunkist, Tangerine, Kumquat
Roll aimlessly into gutter filled with orange autumn leaves.

Young man with orange hair – is that on purpose or dye job gone wrong?

From nearby market behind orange brick wall runs to gather spills,
To sell with peppers, carrots, peaches, papaya, lobsters
As orange flashing tow truck lights approach
On the scene, police officers
Put on orange safety vests and direct traffic,
Orange tip on flashlights making zig-zag lines of orange in the darkness.
 

Beside the market, near the smashed Westfalia

Rows of terra cotta pots, overflow with nasturtiums,
Marigolds, poppies, tiger lilies and crates of pumpkins,
Waiting to become pumpkin pie or Jack-o-lanterns
Eerily glowing from orange candle flame inside.
To be set on porch railings against a harvest moon

This is wrong.

Oranges should not litter streets
But should be mixed with cinnamon, cloves, nutmeg
To make Christmas pomanders, flavour orange tea,
And mix with cranberries in favourite muffins for dessert
After winter meals of tomato soup and grilled cheese sandwiches,
Or toast with apricot preserves.
Before the cozy fire in the hearth
No orange sherbet, coconut shrimp or mimosa this time of year.

 On my way once more I ponder orange

An orange tabby cat called Marmalade
Three hundred pound pumpkin its owner nicknamed Shrek
Sunrise, sunset, orange canaries singing happy orange notes
And why are goldfish not called orange fish?
Bright orange frogs are highly poisonous.
Did you know that eating only carrots turns your skin orange?
Or that ladies of a certain age mustn’t wear orange tinted lipstick
Because it makes their teeth look dull?
 

Knock knock

Who’s there?
Orange.
Orange who?
Orange you glad I wrote this poem.
How can that be
Nothing in the English language rhymes with orange.
Throw me a life-jacket please.

Perfect Green Tee Shirt

You know, when you go to a store
And everything is on sale (almost)
You find a perfect green tee shirt
That matches your eyes
And fits like a dream
But it’s not on sale, so you leave it
Because it’s expensive for a tee shirt
And you don’t really need it
But when you get to the door, you go back
And buy it, because it’s the perfect green tee shirt.

You wear it and love it

And when you wash it, it doesn’t shrink
Or stretch, or fade, or do other weird things with its shape
You wear it so much that people refer to you
As that woman, you know the one,
The one in the green tee shirt.

Then, one day you see a picture of yourself

In your green tee shirt
And it doesn’t look so good.
It’s gotten old and worn, baggy and faded
But you still love it and wear it around the house
Until there’s a hole, or a seam comes apart.
You sigh and add it to the dog’s bed
Hoping that because it smells like you
The dog will love the green tee shirt too

Then you go to a store

Where everything is on sale (almost)
With a picture of a perfect green tee shirt
In your mind.

small boy

Small boy, aged four, and Mr. Potato Head
Share quality time together in cyberspace.
How is it that a boy so small
Knows about download, click and play
As though some alien collective consciousness
Bestowed computer literacy in the womb?

 

Quick bright eyes glued to the screen,

Tip of tiny tongue protrudes between baby teeth
He manoeuvres his game
Paints Tater Head different colours
Breaks him into virtual pieces,
Virtually puts him together again.

agh, no time.

There was a young lady named Daisy

Who liked all her underwear lacy
Her bras and her panties
Nighties and scanties
Were flimsy, erotic and racy.

already a day late!

 I Know Nothing

I know nothing

About quantum physics
Hieroglyphics
Bolsheviks
Iambic pentameter.

 

I know nothing

About binary theories
Political queries
Lobotomies
Dreary couplets.

 

I know nothing

About sawing planks
Army tanks
Sheepshanks
Blank verse.

 

I know nothing

About Kung Fu fighting
Medieval knighting
UFO sighting
Writing poetry.

April 1/14

Snow blankets garden
Crocus, tulips, tender shoots
Buried, waiting. Soon.