Tag Archives: poem

Poem 46: I think I left my wallet

(The poetic form selected for this week is the French triolet).

I think I left my wallet underneath a bed.
I wish I could remember whose bed belongs to who.
Was it Cynthia’s or Brenda’s? Jill’s or even Fred’s?
I think I left my wallet underneath a bed.
Meg’s perhaps or Elsie’s? Jane’s or Winifred’s?
I really hope it’s Moira’s; I liked the kitschy-coo.
I think I left my wallet underneath a bed.
I wish I could remember whose bed belongs to who.

Poem 45: Sea waves

(The form selected for this week is an adaptation of the Vietnamese Luc bat. It is an adaptation of the poetic form because Vietnamese is a tonal language and it cannot be imitated in English. The syllable count and the rhyming pattern have been adhered to!)

Sea waves! Kinaesthetic
masterpiece! The earth’s trick to shine
hefty stones into fine
marble and, over time, transform
dull rock. Beauty is born
not in fierce forceful storms but slow,
quiet, gentle to and fro,
wave on wave, stop and go, hard grit.

Children ever question,
perpetual in their din and quest
to know. They prod and pest.
Their parents never rest at all;
but as the breakers fall
on stony shores to maul and grind,
Mum turns into diamond,
and Dad, wave-worn, refined forged iron.

Poem 44: Clean gene pool

(Usually I select a poetic form to explore throughout the month. This month however I’m going to use various forms each week. The poetic form selected for this week is the French Lai).

Jill was in favour
Of euthanasia
But heck!
It nearly killed her
To put down Hilda
And Becks –
Friends whose behaviour
Showed faults of Nature.
Jill’s next!

Oh like hell you will
I’m not sick, said Jill
Enough!
I’ll swallow no pill
Against my own will –
Hand-cuffed,
Prepared for the kill,
When I am not ill.
Get stuffed!

But no! they all cried
It’s we who decide
What’s cool.
The mole on your side
Acts much as a guide.
No bull!
We say it with pride
There’ll be no cockeyed
Gene pool.

Poem 43: Golden Wedding toast

(The poetic form selected for this month is the English or Shakespearean Sonnet. This is the last Sonnet for this month.)

At minus two degrees it’s just like summer,
At least that summer fifty years gone by.
Let’s face it folks, that summer was a bummer;
It made the global warming stuff a lie.

Fifty years ago my girl was ice;
She told me straight, go jump into the lake.
Some other things she said weren’t quite as nice.
I took the plunge and stayed, for goodness sake!

Well, next she entered riding on a high horse
Just as autumn leaves were shedding gold;
She sneered and said go take a hike, of course.
So once again I stepped out in the cold.

A toast to icy days when we were young;
Yet winter’s snug because she’s summer’s sun!

Poem 42: That empty chair

(The poetic form selected for this month is the English or Shakespearean Sonnet).

That empty chair I see across the table
Reminds me; I must phone my headstone mate
And ask him if in any way I’m able
To cut on costs without been thought a cheapskate.

Quite frankly, funeral costs went through the roof.
The walnut chest you wanted I ignored.
Instead I thought of something on the hoof
And nailed a box up out of some old boards.

I didn’t think too many would attend
A funeral service in a pricey hall;
The obit. read: No flowers, we don’t intend
To celebrate her life and death at all.

At least the whole affair has one bright spot:
I’ll sell your chair and hope I get a lot.

Poem 41: I wish I were a clown

(The poetic form selected for this month is the English or Shakespearean Sonnet).

I wish I were a clown and worked with youngsters.
I’d wear a funny hat and great big shoes.
I’d wield a water-pistol like those gangsters
In the movies, and play at peek-a-boo.

Instead, I am a joke, they laugh at me
And shout offensive names that get me down.
Hey Scrooge McDuck! Hey Greedy-Guts! You see
They think I am the fool who’s not a clown.

It’s true I’ve lots of money that I’ve saved.
I live alone. My wife died years ago.
The kids around here aren’t that well behaved,
But then again, there’s no space here to grow.

I guess I’ll bite the dust one day, but hey!
This clown shall leave a park where kids can play.

Poem 40: Dare I compare you to a hippopotamus?

(The poetic form selected for this month is the English or Shakespearean Sonnet).

Dare I compare you to a hippopotamus?
You know you’re overweight and find it difficult
To wear nice clothes that fit and aren’t preposterous.
It’s really not your fault; it’s how you’re built.

You call me your giraffe because I’m thin.
I try to eat a lot but nothing works.
I walk on legs that look like skinny pins.
You laugh at me, and yes! your laughter irks.

But what a pair we are! The butt of jokes!
The fatty and the skinny grocery shopping!
One short, one tall, a pair, a gal and bloke,
The hippo and giraffe, one lean, one whopping.

And yet you are my love, my day, my night,
My sun, my moon, my stars, my world, my light.