Here I sit, pen in hand
Writing poetry on demand
Some is good, some is bad
Depending on what drink I’ve had
Root beer, tea, or ginger ale,
Each of these makes it fizzy
Others make it sound so stale
Weaving words makes me dizzy
Rhyming is a lot of work
Lists of words in your head
Worth it though for a smirk
When the poem at last is read.
April is National Poetry Month. If you’d like to read poems by other budding poets, honor the folks at NaPoWriMo.net with a visit, and peruse their participants’ sites.
Secrets big and secrets small
Can you keep them secrets all
Cats in bags can get loose
To speed around on go-go-juice
Once they’re out you will find
Your honor has been much maligned
Beans that have spilled on the floor
Can find their own way out the door
To try to bring them back again
Is a fight you’ll never win
Loose lips that let secrets slip
Have been known to sink tight ships
The souls that go to Davy Jones
Will tell of woes that you have sown
Gossip leads to a big fall
So keep your word and stand tall
Hot and spicy, a fire in your mouth
Watch the red rise on your face
The tears form in your eyes
Hot and spicy, some people really like it
Not me, not me
Hot and spicy, your head’s going to explode
The burning might never end
This feeling might finish me
Hot and spicy, on inferno in my mind
What to do, what to do
Hot and spicy, quick get me some water
Oh no, it’s getting hotter
And this is only three of ten
Hot and spicy, I’m such a spice wimp
Yes it’s true, yes it’s true
Just a short poem today.
The deed has been done, no one has won
Mistakes were made, memories will fade
Let the memories go, forgive your foe
Holding a grudge is like walking through sludge
You hurt no one else more than yourself
And if you cannot forget, at least try to forgive
And while you’re at it, forgive yourself
Writing in response to the prompt from napowrimo.net to write a poem about a picture. I have deviated from my normal style of poetry and am writing in free form poetry. I am using a photo from Flickr.com of fog and fields around a town. It can be viewed at https://www.flickr.com/photos/ritman/8945663517/
The fields are full of life.
The land is in strife.
The fog is invading.
It covers the low areas first, then crawls up the hills, slowly creeping, silently sneaking, making its way into the village.
The land is resisting. It rises sharply into the air as though to cut off the invader.
But the fog will not be stopped. It breaks over the crest and into the fields. It will have its way.
The town is cut off from the fields by a wall of white now.
The fog is closing in.
It will invade the town, noiselessly covering the streets, obscuring the sky, muting all sounds.
Then it will leave, as quietly as it came.
Nothing will seem amiss; it will leave nary a trace.
Only those who saw it will know it was there at all.
The town will return to its normal existence.
The fields will go on living in peace until the next time the fog is on the prowl.