Reflections on an Image #2

“Toking With Friends on a Balmy Evening”

This chair, to rest on,

Where fountain bubbles,

Provides a place

To soothe our troubles. 

We are weary.

The day was long.

Let’s shed our shoes;

Pull out the bong. 

Harvest buds

From yonder bush.

Though home grown,

It’s bubba kush! 

Friends will join us.

Around we’ll sit,

Circled up, 

While we get lit.

We’ll wile this evening away,

But tomorrow is another day,

But tomorrow is another day.

#NaPoWriMo Challenge

“Syd7t5” posted a #napowrimo challenge to take a line from someone else’s poem and take it in a whole new direction.  Here is my contribution to the literary universe…

“Stopped by Police on a Summer Evening”

But I have promises to keep,

And miles to go before I sleep,

And all this struggle to stay awake 

Is quite enough to make me weep.

How much coffee will it take 

To give this drowsiness a shake.

Why’d I have to have that beer!

I just can’t give myself a break.

I’ve been driving for a year!

Why’s there not a bathroom near!

Damn! I really have to go.

But now I’ve something else to fear.

Whose lights those are I think I know,

God, I wonder what I’ll blow,

God, I wonder what I’ll blow.

Perhaps Christmas in Mordor?

Perhaps it just has been

A long, exhausting day

But as I lay in bed

Preparing for my slumber

A random thought intrudes

Upon my tired mind,

“Is it deeper meaning,

Or purely circumstance,

That the Nazgul number

Just so coincides 

With the number of

Flying reindeer hides?”

And I ask myself 

As I drift in wonder,

“Now that seems an odd thought

For a fleeting, late night ponder.”

And if that thought continues,

It only stands to reason

That Santa Claus IS Sauron

In Mordor’s twisted Christmas Season.

A Poet’s Lament

After running in place

for what seems like an age,

can’t I just lessen the pace

and scribble a word on this page?

Why must there always be work,

some urgently pressing demand,

a duty too vital to shirk

requiring my guiding hand?

Surely I will find some way

to invite my pen out to play

even if ending the day

I struggle for something to say!

In fact, it seems I’ve found time

to doodle this trivial rhyme.

A Matins Lament

After, raging, rude alarms

Drag me up from comfort’s pit,

Heated water pounding down 

Upon my weary upturned face

Just may be the perfect hit;

This dreary morning’s saving grace.

I wonder what would be the harm,

I know I dare not sit,

Of slipping back to that warm embrace

But now I’m up with things to do,

Rats to race-

Where’s my other shoe?

Thus another day’s begun.

Please, dear God, make it fun.

Playing With Power Tools

There are some tools

good poets use

when crafting verses

for the ages.

Rhythm and Rhyme

help keep the time

and also help keep 

them remembered.

Metaphors and similes

are often seen in homilies.

And Synecdoche

may be off key

yet still may be

the symphony.


alone allows

ample alliteration.


conveniently conveys 

constant clatter.

Meter, Meter!

Sure can’t beat her

when you want

a great repeater!

I’m sure there’s more 

that you can add;

if you do

I won’t be sad!