A few weeks ago, I finished up writing the thirty poems I had planned to write in November. As usual when otherwise out of ideas, I resorted to rhyme.
Not Calm, but a Clamor
Conductor lifts his baton
as the speakers squeak on
and the trumpets ring out,
with a scream and a shout
Next, woodwinds take turn
as agitated notes churn
in a flutter from the flute
sounding more like a hoot
Scratchy sounds from the strings,
basses, violin pings,
all together blast out,
whirl and clatter about
agitated notes bellow
from the bass and the cello
Big drums boom, blare, and thunder
makes the audience wonder
If there was some kind of error.
They cower, in terror.
With hands over their ears
all erupt in loud jeers
And here’s another:
An Open Letter
An open letter on the table,
left for any who are able
to make out the scrawled out scribble,
words that appear to dribble
down the torn and tattered paper
so they almost seem to caper
to the bottom of the page
Read the words. You see the writer
was most surely in a rage
But although you squint and wiggle
your reading glasses, and you jiggle
the torn paper, you’re not able
to make out the clever fable
scribbled down by clever writer,
so you curse the blank-blank blighter
and go off to try and find him,
track him down and try to bind him
long enough to tell his tale
to you. Alas, you fail.
He grabs the piece of paper,
while you gape, enraged, and caper
round and round, it’s torn asunder
You are doomed, forever wonder
what the stupid blighter wrote
on the three times cursed note
annewestlund
feywriter
lin52
Margaret Fieland
Margaret
Michele
Comments on: "A Few Poems from November" (1)
As always, you have a wonderful way with “wryhming” words — and polka-dots on Blue Letter Days.
Michele