Writing Time?

Sad Day, Good Tea

All day long
I think about my writing
Planning my scenes
hearing the back and forth of dialogue
so sharp
you could put it in a salad dressing
dreaming up plot twists
so twisty
you could put them in a series of cocktails
then sell them to college students
for way too much

As I’m driving,
I barely see the road,
I barely hear the drone of my audiobook
which is about mindfulness
and the irony
almost escapes me
because I’m weaving words like cloth,
spinning tales like straw
into the good quality string cheese
mixing metaphors like pasta
being mixed
with other stuff

While I’m working, taking calls,
I speak to the customers with my voice
and my mind steps away
into to realms with black sunsets,
where knights, armored in stars,
fight quasars, with tortured pasts
and something to prove
to their sisters
or something

Then it’s time to write,
and I think
you know what, this might not be the time for this,
I’ve got other things to do,
like maybe I should just play cup and ball instead
that’s so meaningful, so fun, how could I resist
and I know
I don’t have a ball
no big deal
I’ll just hold this empty cup
for a while

Limericks, Malebogia Style

Sock Zombie Puppet

Another 37, Day 12

I seem to be in a horror mood again. Which is kind of a shame, since the serial novel I plan to slowly write over the next year or so isn’t horror. Oh well. These phases never last. Anyway, I’m always in the mood for limericks! And by always, I mean never. But ever since that passage in the second Harry Potter book spoke of a book that made anyone who read it speak in limericks for the rest of their life, I’ve been practicing. Just in case. So here are a few that I come up with while dwelling inside…whatever pit of midnight-black and clown-car yellow you need to splash around in to make horror limericks seem like a good idea.

 

Limericks, Malebogia Style

I can’t get enough of your blood
it flows from the hole like a flood
just one little nick
with this nice sharpened stick
and you fall to the ground with a thud.

We found an old book in the attic
inscribed on the skin of a haddock
we tried a spell
and it worked pretty well
except now my own brother’s a paddock.

I heard a strange sound in the night
it was dark so it gave me a fright
then came in a thing
made of darkness and wing
and began to devour the light.

There once was a man name of Sutton,
he finished the last of his mutton,
then he looked at the town
and said “screw it I’m down”
before pressing the very last button.

Lacey looked down at her grave
quite depressed that she couldn’t be saved
but there’s always a lining
hell, her future was shining
time to go out and be more depraved.

The blood on the knife, how it shined
and there’s no way those ropes will unbind
time to go watch some Grover
the day’s almost over
and there’s more than one way to unwind.

Jessica seemed ordinary
so no one knew she was a fairy
at night she stole kids
parents blamed it on SIDS
and never did think to be wary.

Rhyme Lights, An Argument (in verse)

Name That Shakespeare Play!

Why is my brain producing so much poetry? It’s not deliberate, I promise!

 

 

Rhyme Lights, An Argument

It doesn’t take a whole lot of time
for the mind to produce a simple rhyme
The ones we’ve heard so often before
don’t really seem to require much more
brain power than something like petting a cat
or eating an orange, and I suspect that
is why simple rhymes don’t get that much credit
or take too much time to compose, or to edit.

And yet verse of compatible simplicity
is often accused of duplicity
or of feigning a true authenticity
if the syllables bear multiplicity
and hiding behind eccentricity
will not cease taunts of lyrical toxicity

Yet, if asked, I admit I suspect
that the rhymes themselves are not truly to blame
after all, Shakespeare’s verse is so often bedecked
with rhymes, yet the bloke is respected the same
and if you look closer I think you’ll detect
that doggerel tends to incite and inflame
because lack of images is its defect
verse laced with abstractions is tepid and tame
leaving rhyme’s reputation all tattered and wrecked
which I, for one, think is really a shame

Because verse that’s fermented, and aged like a spirit
can be sweet on the tongue to those with the taste
while those weaned on prose-milk will never go near it
as it must be sipped, and not gulped down in haste
and the careful addition of the nectar of rhyme
can honey the edges in the brew of pure verse
and awaken the palate, through tasting and time
of those who would otherwise never transverse
the barrier that separates poetry lovers
who drink in verse till they’re filled to the ears
from those who are scared and hide under their covers
whenever a sonnet or limerick nears

Images spin threads of verse into cloth
but there’s nothing like rhyme to turn words into song
they’re a beacon to emotion, like light to a moth
but folks still won’t read them if it all gets too long

Considered Optimism

Flowers in Boots

Swarms of uncaring, unknowable life-forms
squidge through you at every moment
over your eyeballs, and across your tongue
as it tastes that strawberry
that teems with their brethren.
And some day, they will chew up your corpse
and ferment the sugar into blood
into alcohol, that the screaming, grieving friends
you leave behind, won’t even get to drink.

On the other hand, boots exist
and if you wear them
when you stomp through the mud
to pick blackberries from your garden
after a rainstorm,
your feet stay dry.

So you’ve got that going for you.