Tag Archives: rhymed poetry

The Retirement

The Retirement

His retirement oration
was a clear manifestation
of his need for a vacation.
It had been long in its gestation—
a long-awaited incubation. 
Now, it was an education
to witness his mad excitation
over his final termination.
On view, his heart’s wild palpitation
celebrating the cessation
of the daily tedious ration
dished out at his working station.
Let it be an education
that one’s final maturation
need not be a castigation,
but is instead a satiation—
a sort of workplace masturbation
ending in this apt quotation,
“Even an end can bring elation!”


The Word of the Day today is manifestation.

Unruly Punctuation

I missed out on the date to publish this for the dVerse topic of punctuation, so here it is, tardy as usual!

(for this poem to work, you have to pronounce the name of each punctuation mark that is talked about as a punctuation mark and not merely in use functionally.)

Unruly Punctuation

When a guy driving a GMC
swoops into line in front of me
and takes the place I meant to park,
I use an !

While the ,’s made for multi-tasking,
in a sentence meant for asking,
there has to be a ?
lest readers be left in the dark.

An ! is fine
when simply put at end-of-line,
but, too many (quite a fault of mine)
bring out the punctuation narcs
to ban those !!!!!!!!!!

Those abounding in . . .
are labeled punctuation gypsies
because they don’t know when to stop.
So please call in a grammar cop.

I must admit that I am rash
and tend to overuse the .
What’s more, my editor goes crazy
when I forget or just get lazy.
His eyes bug out, his face goes red
when I make use of – instead.

The . is the simplest mark.
At sentence end it’s meant to park.
It’s always put where it is best
to let the sentence come to rest,
and no one puts it elsewhere lest
the reader is put to the test
to search from clause to clause to clause
to figure out where he can pause.

When I think of rhymes for ,
only strange words like pajama
are what come to mind—or llama—
or words not to the point, like “mama;”
so I’ll just say the Oxford ,
is like the Tea Party to Obama.
If his (and my) advice is heeded,
it will be clear that they’re not needed!!!

The purpose of the 
is as clear as it can be:
Judy’s car or Judy’s house,
Judy’s dog or Judy’s spouse.
Yet, when the pronoun enters in,
it is the biggest grammar sin
to use apostrophes for possession
(although I’ll make this hard confession
that often I, unthinkingly,
will write it’s where it never fits.)
It’s in possession should be its!)
“It’s” only used as a contraction.
(It’s a faction, but not it’s faction.)

I think I may conduct a poll on
: versus ;
Which one separates two clauses,
signaling those longer pauses;
and which one signifies a list?
I’m sure that you have got the gist
of which is which—where each should go
to end this punctuation woe.

( ) mark an aside, much as amight do,
Like “ ”, they’re paired. You always must use two.
Which brings us to the  that joins a compound word.
You never put a space in. To do so is absurd.
You should not use it as a dash with spaces on each side.
That is an antique usage that I simply can’t abide.

Yet if you choose to Google some of the rules here,
there will be discrepancies from site to site, I fear.
What I say they’ll question. They’ll support what I must pan.
So I can only say that I’ve accomplished what I can.
In spite of all my studying, despite my dedication—
I find that few agree on rules applied to punctuation!!!!


The Tin Man Talks to His Creator

The Tin Man Talks to His Creator

I’m just a “thing” made out of metal,
stovepipe legs, my head a kettle.
When it rains, I rust apart
and so expose my lack of heart.
It is no mystery, no riddle
that I’m empty in the middle.
Some say a heart is of no use.
It is a trap. It is a noose.
It is an organ of abuse,
at best of times, merely a truce
in the battle of the sexes
between them and all their exes.
They say, “When born without a heart,
there’s nothing there to tear apart!”

Yet still I feel that all that pain
would not, could not, be in vain.
I’d bear the sadness for the start
of love that I’d feel with a heart.
And so, I pine and wish and stew
that I might be born anew
with a beating corazon
so I’d not feel so alone,
and though I would be made of tin,
that living heart that pulsed within
would let me feel at last what they
take for granted every day.
What care I that I fall to dust
if I could love before I rust?

Once more, I pray to my creator,
to that great procrastinator.
I ask again to have a heart—
what I’ve asked for from the start.
I say, “The pain, without a doubt,
can’t be worse than going without.”
Then that Great Tinsmith in the sky
looks me firmly in the eye
so the truth I cannot miss
as he gently tells me this: 
“A heart’s not something I can bestow.
It is a thing you have to grow.”

Forgottenman says I should tell you what I told him about this poem.  I actually wrote it after midnight while sitting outside in what might loosely be called my hot tub. Since the night was quite cold and the water had been sitting for two days, it was something less than hot, even less than lukewarm. I was writing on lined paper using a flashlight with a magnetic bottom that stuck to the metal bench beside the tub. (I sent Forgottenman photos of my crumpled, water-dotted original manuscript and he insisted I post it on my blog.  If you are curious, see it HERE.) Once started, I didn’t want to stop so tonight I really did suffer for my art!  I believe I finally couldn’t take it anymore and the last few lines were written inside. I was driven by the fact that the last two pieces I’ve written for dVerse were not accepted because although I started them before the deadline, by the time they were finished, the Mr. Linky would not accept them as the deadline had just closed. So this time, I was superstitious and wanted to get finished in time.  Luckily, this time it worked. One day I need to figure out just how long the submission period is. I am terrible about such things.

Public Domain Illustration. The prompt was to write a poem about one of Dorothy’s three traveling companions  from The Wizard of Oz. For dVerse Poets. 

Living in Sin




Living in Sin

Marriage is “legal tender,” a permit to fuse—
a government license for a couple to amuse.
Some cohabit without it, in a sort of ruse
which causes all the neighbors to gossip and accuse.
If they were more nondescript, perhaps they could just use
masks or garments to disguise, to obscure and confuse
their detractors, but alas, there’s no means they can use.
At six foot six, identities aren’t possible to lose.

I think my cousin’s sons might be taller than six foot six, actually. Next to my sister Patti, they seem to tower. Their photos are used for illustration purposes only.  Neither to my knowledge has committed any action to make the neighbors gossip.

The words of the day are tender, neighbor, nondescript and fuse.
And the links, in case you want to play along, are below:







His classmates found him bookish and his siblings found him odd.
There were no other similar peas within his pod.
Nobody understood him—not his parents, not his teacher.
He found no ally in his doctor nor his preacher.
Oftentimes the acts for which they should have been astonished
were the ones for which he had only been admonished.
They flunked him out of chemistry for blowing up the table
by concocting an explosive that was something less than stable.
They called him just a “ne’er do well.” It seemed he wasn’t able
to do what other kids could do and so he earned the label
of klutz and geek and doofus. He could do nothing right.
He couldn’t chug a beer down. He couldn’t win a fight.
He never ever dressed right. He was fond of oddball hats.

Other people shunned him. His best friends were his cats.
Even as an adult, bad luck didn’t abate.
He remained a pariah. He couldn’t get a date.
He failed at conversation and he was a lousy dancer.
His single social skill was that he found a cure for cancer!

The WordPress prompt today was astonish.

Five Finger Exercise

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Five Finger Exercise

One finger isn’t typing, though I know that’s what it’s for.
It’s just that I can’t use it since I slammed it in the door.
It sliced it very neatly , not quite down to the bone,
The bleeding was profuse. I called my neighbor on the phone.
He drove me to the clinic where they stitched my finger closed.
Yes, needles in your finger hurt as much as you’ve supposed.
So now I type one-handed with my left hand in the air,
for it was the doctor who said to hold it there,
one finger pointing up as though calling for a cab,
That’s why I won’t be using it to poke or type or dab!

If any friends had come into my house while I was gone, they would have thought I’d been murdered or at the least stabbed and abducted, as there was a trail of blood from the sharp metal door to the kitchen. Very obvious against the off-white tile. I’ll spare you the photos.





All types of loving have their seasons
wherein we love for different reasons.
When we are young lads and misses,
loving mainly starts with kisses,
whereas loyalty and pleasure
later count in equal measure.
But as we age, love changes, too,
as some things get harder to do.
And as our brains grow more ecliptic,
screens get smaller, apps more cryptic.

So simple tasks–perhaps to clone
old data to a new iPhone
become more difficult to do
until in time you have no clue
and thus it is you call a tech
to get your puzzlement in check
and in an hour or two he solves
your problems and your fears absolves.
You thumb your phone to make a call
and find it’s not so hard at all.

You have your contacts here with you.
Your photos, and your camera, too.
Calendar, iTunes and maps––
all the necessary apps.
Appreciation starts to grow
for that young techie who helped you so––
a type of loving, in its fashion,
not so much a thing of passion
as a Luddite’s fond affection
for a techie’s apt detection
of that complicated mess
that I fear I must confess
I never would have solved alone.
You won my heart, Chad, via phone!!!

This young Apple Tech worked with me for an hour and a half, then, when I had to leave for an appointment,  called me back a few hours later and worked for another half hour to wrestle two computers, an old nearly dead iPhone and a “new” used iPhone into sync.  I promised in appreciation that I’d write him a poem, so Chad, I hope you see this.  If you do, leave a comment.  Apple techies rock!!