Poets like potatoes,
and potatoes like poets;
what is more,
a poet can be found in potatoes,
but not in a potato;
a potato, it should be said,
cannot be found in a poet.
It’s all just letters and words,
don’t you think?
It’s hard, sometimes,
to craft the rhymes,
that make the words sing;
and, often, if I do write,
what I write is poor,
and lame, and not the same,
as what I write when I’m in the zone.
But, still, I will put my words together,
untether the process of creation,
and, perhaps, by writing,
I might start inviting inspiration.
Or, I can always wait,
for the seminal state
to return.
I may earn nothing
from what I do,
but worth is in the eye
of the beholder:
that is something you learn,
as you grow older.
There is always worth in words.
The word ‘Poetry’
has three syllables;
the word ‘Syllables’
also, has three syllables.
What any of that means
is open to debate;
but, not here, not now,
as I am the one syllable,
‘late’.
When, is the word
with which I started this poem;
there are many others that I use
in its construction,
some short, some considerably longer,
but, the word that I have chosen
to end this poem
is unknown.
Tuesday is here,
until it’s gone
(see Lynyrd Skynyrd’s ‘Tuesday’s Gone’ for more on that last part),
and it followed closely on the heels of Monday
(see Shakespeare’s ‘Hamlet’ for more on that),
precursoring Wednesday
(precursoring is a made-up word)
and claiming to be ‘Hump Day’
(see a camel for details about ‘humps’).
So, should we worry about what the day is called,
or where it lays in the ‘seven’?
(or ‘eight’ – see The Beatles about ‘eight’).
Well, I may have a lot of questions;
but, answers?
What do you think?
Posted in Poetry
Tagged #Humpday, #Monday, #poetry. #poem, #silly, #Tuesday, #Wednesday, @Days, words
I cannot ‘vestify’,
and what is a ‘qoph’;
but, if were to testify
in my vest…?
If I saw a qopher
digging up my garden,
would it beg my pardon?
Word games…
… they can really make your head spin.
How can I rejoice,
when I have never even joiced?
Did I have a choice
that I missed
and never made?
Did I fail
to make the grade?
And, if not mine,
at whose door can the fault be laid?
How can I rejoice,
when I’ve never even joiced?
I crow a saw
sky across the fly
it me confused so
it words my muddled,
Crow I saw a
across fly the sky
confused so it me,
why don’t know I
Out of Context
I left old Context town behind me; I was happy to be out of a place where I just didn’t fit in.
I tear this paper,
and eat my words,
choking upon the unfathomable metaphor
that is life.
