Sometimes I like to be a little silly with poetry. I often jot down verses that tickle my funny bone. Here is one of them . . .
Food for Thought
I like to bake fine apple pies.
“They taste go good,” my husband sighs,
but I can see him roll his eyes
when apple pies go on my thighs.
Yes, I know. It will never sell. Neither will this one:
The beds are made, the sink is clean, the house is looking neat;
I put the coffee on to perk and then put up my feet.
This quiet house that’s kicking back is chaos, as a rule,
but this is Monday morning, and the kids are back in school.
As this is a writing blog, I really should say a few words about writing, so here goes . . .
I sharpen pencils, dust off books,
and give my desk some dirty looks.
I clean the house, then take a walk,
for I have got a writing block.
“I’ll give it up,” I tell myself.
“I’ll put my writing on the shelf.”
I fret a while, I bake a cake;
I hum a tune for my own sake.
And then I venture to the room
where I must surely meet my doom.
I take a pencil in my hand,
for this is where I make my stand.
I write one word and then one more;
I write until my hand is sore.
The words come fast, the words come free,
I can’t believe they come from me.
The moral of this story is:
I do not have to be a whiz.
In my hat I have no rabbit,
But I have a writing habit.
In closing, I want to challenge you to finish the following poem. Make it as long or short as you like. I use this exercise in my class on memoir writing, and it gets surprising results. Here we go . . .
There was no sky today,
just a gray umbrella
with the sun
I imagine I am near . . . (What place are you near? What do you see and hear in this place? How does it make you feel?)
Submitted by Marilyn Donahue