It is once again National Poetry Month, and I would be remiss if I didn't post at least something vaguely poetry related. Works is still digesting my soul at the moment, but I have managed to jot down a few short poems over the past few months.
Sherlock:
a name we know
because of who told us.
What would he be without his dear
Watson?
There once was a fashionable sealWho wore shades of aqua & teal."But I'll never wear red,"The pinniped said."On my skin tone, it's just not ideal."
Agatha Christiewrote plots that were twisty.She was a genuine writing savantwhen it came to constructing a denouement.
Do I love the forestbecause it reminds me of you,or do I love youbecause you remind me of the forest?
Clunck and clatter gothe many bamboo wind chimes.How they remind meof my hometown where the windblows familiar on my skin.
Feels like I’ve been screaminginto the void,
hoping that soon
it will scream back into me
In the dessertI saw a cookie, bak-ed, bestial,Who, squatting upon the pan,Held his lard in his hands,And ate of it.I said, “Is it good, friend?”“It is butter—butter,” he answered;“But I like it“Because it is butter,“And because it is my lard.”