Weeks and Weeks


Weeks and weeks,

How long since my last post?

Declining attention.


My View of Butterflies Changes.


I bought and lost a book some years ago,
Full of tiny poetry,
The title may have been just “Chiyo-Ni”
Faulty goes my memory,

The only one that stays with me is this,
haiku with its imagery,
But now I see it different than it was,
Beauty grabs the realty:

That path the woman walks along in peace,
Owned by none but womanly,
Remembrance pulling girl to matron fast,
Pushed along unwillingly,

A butterfly performs a gender role,
Clearly femininity,
Japan’s not solo pushing such a thing,
Our feelings forming socially,

I love that poem through and through and through,
These words aren’t meant irreverently,
And please don’t think that what I say is true,
It’s just it’s nagging thoroughly,

Mr. Hebdo Gave me a Wedgie.


Mr. Hebdo sat on my head and wouldn’t stop pulling my beard,
How could I hold to my lovely distraction when dealing with something so weird?
Mr. Hebdo laughs like an imp who spills all the drinks on the floor,
Ruining carpets and taking a toll on my sanity just like a bore.

Mr. Hebdo, why do you make my life such such a notable pain?
How can you live with yourself when it’s all you can do just to drive me insane?
Mr. Hebdo patted my back and brought me back down to the Earth,
Bade me to look out the window to see all the neighbors inflated with worth,

Mr. Hebdo gave me a wedgie only to help me to see,
How that we need to be brought down a peg, and he whispered “Je suis Charlie.”

An Other Poetic Form


I read up on the sonnet yesterday,
Because, I wanted something new to write,
Because, I wanted something new to say,
Because, I didn’t want to be so trite,

I thought it was too difficult to write,
A poem shaped to make it too obscure,
And, then I got too tempted not to bite,
So, writing this began to feel unsure,

At last, the form begins to feel more pure,
The keyboard clacks with regulated feel,
I’m pounding out the stanzas quick and sure,
Impending words are ever ever real,

Oh my, I think that its conclusion’s starting,
The thing is done; my brain’s not worth a farthing.

Writing About ADD


I don’t know what to write,
Isn’t that the point of this?
Going on exposing this?
A scatter brained disease.

I come upon a word,
That makes me turn around a bit,
Before I can get back to sit,
The perfect word, “dis-ease.”

(And then I see the first line above:
Does the emphasis come on “don’t”?
Does the emphasis come on “know”?
And then I heave me a hefty sigh.

Heave Ho!)