Having Fun with Poetry

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

somewhere beyond.


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?)

Good luck!

Submitted by Marilyn  Donahue 




One response to “Having Fun with Poetry

  1. You always have such good ideas for us to try, Marilyn. The teacher in you won’t be hidden.

    Pies to thighs–sighs.

    Love, Shirley

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