Tag Archives: National Poetry Month

A Hot April Sunday

Sitting in church on a hot April Sunday
Wishing you’d sat in a shadier spot
And wore something brighter and a little less tighter
Forgetting to plan more often than not.
But forget the plans because they serve nothing more
Than to stifle your whimsy and nail your feet to the floor.
And if it’s in church that you feel you must be
Sit near the back where you’re freer to flee
To watch the wind chase the clouds to the sides of the sky
As you bask in the warm breeze of April’s sweet sigh.
If you’re Heaven bound, there’s no need to die
Because Heaven’s right here—just step outside!

Photo Credit: “Deconstructed Church” (www.lovethispic.com, Image #24536)

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The Status is Never Quo For Long

Oh, no, don’t tell me I’ve lost my lease
Because somebody else is claiming this piece
Of Heaven I’ve rented for such a long time
That I started thinking was actually mine.
I cleaned and upgraded and kept my shop nice
And my presence here lends sweetness and spice.
I’m right where I’ve always wanted to be
I love my community and they love me.
But because I held the lease forever,
My rent stayed low which helped my endeavor
And allowed me to pay a near-living wage
And if my uniqueness is any gauge
You know no one can compete with me
Except for online shopping which we increasingly see
Where you can get things fast and almost free
Order it instantly right from your phone
With same day delivery shipped free by drone.
Because bricks and mortar are going the way
Of high button shoes from back in the day
Which we don’t sell but if you look on EBay
They cost ten bucks new, all the way from Indonesia
Which is why I’m now gulping Milk of Magnesia
Which I buy in bulk from a big box store
Cause I’ll go broke if I buy it from the store next door.
To see our steady flow of friends, you’d think we were thriving
They’re cool and hip and give us props, but we’re barely just surviving.
Between a rock and a hard place I feel like I’m glued
Where five dollar lattes and cheap fast food
Are changing the landscape of my sweet home town
Where the charm of yesteryear is getting torn down
To make way for high rises with a parking garage
And upscale dining to attract the incoming barrage
Of well-heeled people who hear that this town
Is on its way up from having been down.
This is called progress, which I’ll have to accept
But when we are happy it feels good to expect
That the status quo will stay the same
But it never does because we can’t stake a claim
On the outcome of what tomorrow might bring.
That’s just as true for the Joker as it is for the King.

Photo Credit: http://www.inhabitat.com (Story about Edith Macefield, the 84-year old who refused a million dollars and forced a shopping mall to build around her house)

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The Good Neighbor Award

My neighbors’ dog continued to bark
Until I thought that I’d go stark
Raving mad,
Which if you know me,
You’d certainly know
That I certainly don’t have too far to go
Stark raving mad.

Arf-arf, arf-arf, arf-arf
Arf-arf, arf-arf, arf-arf

Their place looked empty and no one was home
And I’m sitting here trying to write this poem
And nothing rhymes or makes any sense
And if you know me
You’d know that the sense I might actually make
Might actually be an actual mistake,
But the only rhyme I can possible make is:

Arf-arf, arf-arf, arf-arf
Arf-arf, arf-arf, arf-arf

My normally normal blood pressure, I think
Was starting to rise and although I don’t drink,
I found myself quickly
Approaching the brink
Of considering an option
Like a high-octane concoction,
Since the barking has changed the equation
This is officially a special occasion.
But if you know me
You’d certainly think
That certainly I
Must certainly drink
A lot.
But I don’t.

Arf-arf, arf-arf, arf-arf
Arf-arf, arf-arf, arf-arf

But maybe…

Arf-arf, arf-arf, arf-arf
Arf-arf, arf-arf, arf-arf

This might be a good day to start!

And then
Is when
I wrote
The note:

Your dog’s barking like crazy
And it’s driving me nuts
And now I’m worried that you
Might think I’m a putz.

But I’m sure you’ll forgive me
This point I’ll not belabor
And mention instead that it must be said
That you are the very best neighbor.

Finally I pushed the send button
And she responded immediately
Gracious and kind and very concerned
Just as sweet as I know her to be.

The barking did cease.
No palms were greased.
No one called the police.
And my talent increased
(OK—that was stretch,
So nobody kvetch!)
But if you know me
You know I’m so happy to be
Right here at home
Writing this poem
In such heavenly
Heavenly peace.

Illustration Credit: http://www.quickmeme.com, “Driving Dog: Let Me Put it in Bark”

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Le Pain Quotidien: Getting a Rise out of a Crummy Poem

 

Give us this day our daily bread
And let’s hope that it’s really quotidian.
Just in case you should happen to fall on your head
And you happen to cross the meridian
That separates carbs from things that are not,
Then I’d suggest something Euclidian.

But what’s geometry to do with bread?
Only to take measure of all that is said
And to find the angle that’s least obtuse
Just to find any facts that could be of use.

Bread doesn’t smell bad
Nor bleed nor cry
And it won’t make you fat
If you don’t eat it fried.

Cold or hot,
Toasted or stale,
It’s the solid form
Of beer and ale.

So I don’t understand
Why bread you’ll eschew,
And curse those poor carbs
While swilling a brew.

But everything is relative
Or at least that’s my perspective
And as you can tell, I’m a zealot of
Making twaddle more connective.

But at the end of the day,
It’s safe to say
That a day without bread
Is a day that I dread.

Photo Credit: smileyland.com

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The God of the Wind

The God of the Wind has spent a sleepless, storm-tossed night,
Hard at work, sinking a ship or two, here and there.
Today he is as busy as a one-legged man in an ass-kicking contest.
Not knowing where to unleash his unfocused rage,
He writhes and thrashes in spastic gyrations,
Grabbing at frantic starlings that pepper the steel-grey sky.
A tormented soul, he rattles our windows,
And shakes our walls to their very foundations.
He makes airborne those things not meant to fly.
A spoiled, angry child, hell-bent on a binge of destruction,
He rakes his giant fingers through the tree tops,
Delighting in every limb he snaps
And every tree he rips out by the roots.
He must have coughed up a lung or two
Knocking down every garbage can in town.
He blows up shirts,
Exposing hairy belly buttons and poochy love handles.
He blows up skirts,
Revealing things we’d rather keep under wraps.
He blows hats off heads,
And grit and sand into babies’ eyes.
He plasters big sheets of newspaper against chain link fences and
He snags plastic bags on trees.
All of out spite, you know?
Even the nagging crows get their comeuppance
As he dives between their little strutting black birdy legs
And puffs up their feathers in precisely the wrong way
Just to wound their false bully pride.
“There, take that,” he blusters.
A frenetic peripatetic
Bringing brass knuckles to a slugfest.
Everyone’s invited.

Illustration Credit: terraoko.com, “Stribog, God of the Wind”

 

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The Cruelest Month is Surely Not April

 

The cruelest month is surely not April
Because thinking so would prove me unstable
For insisting that sunny skies should hide from our view
The brewing of storms with the grayest of blue,
Lightning bolts piercing a dark burgeoning sky,
And a miraculous clearing caused by the eye
Of a treacherous storm as it hustles by.

If storms don’t delight but rather befuddle
Then we must never had found a most suitable puddle
Before which we’ll peel off our shoes and our socks
With wild abandon we’ll run along old wooden docks
From which we’ll jump screaming into a lake
Whose dusty thirst has been slaked by a downpour of late.
We’ll shake ourselves off like dogs from a bath
Squishing mud through our toes up a slippery path
Where we’ll fall and laugh and ruin our clothes
And withstand icy cold blasts from a garden hose.
As we’re wrapped in towels, we’ll shiver with coldness
And the Dry Ones will marvel at our stupid boldness.

Surely April seems cruel to those who hide
And peek through the blinds to glimpse outside.
But I still take issue with that ridiculous claim—
April isn’t cruel—it’s simply not tame.

Photo Credit: pinterest.com

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Filed under Children's Poems, National Poetry Month, Poems