Apogee, Perigee, and an Apology
it is not going to be Easter
either the rock is too large or
we’re not ready to roll
as we can barely now stroll-
having dawdled through
late winter as that blood
shut-eye to the lunar New
Year and that satellite of fear
that was just about
to orbit us.
Spring Training For NaPoWriMo April 2020.
The First Line Is A Lie.
First. No new verse, to out on the net.
Why should the Web dine free? My poem is me.
And as pretentious as that reads, the bit and
byte has an appetite for the flavors of identity.
The condiments of personality, the table scraps of
flaws, fears, and the fanciful commodified for a fee.
And we, as Bill of Fare, pretending to be unaware
are served as supper sans prayer at our free community.
Done day seven of NaPoWriMo 2018
Poetry By Women
The Cubs were on the radio, game tied in the fifth. Shiloh lay in late afternoon shade, steadily working a bone. There was a lake breeze, cool and constant. Maybe that’s what excited a squadron of butterflies to strafe me as I sat reading.
Then again, I believe the gods of Old Spice, straight whiskey, and short skirts were so displeased, as to conspire and jointly order those lepidopteron sorties, for I was reading poetry, and, shame of shames, poetry by women.
A simple beat that got far too complicated. Part lo-fi part wish I had balanced this mix. Mixed today.
Below is a young lady, who, unlike me, knows what the hell she’s doing.