For those not keeping score (do I blame you for not?...No.) I'm participating in a poem a day composition challenge (for no prize other than the experience) in celebration of National Poetry Month.
It's cool, and forced, and fun, and I'm jazzing on the vibe of just playing with words. Which is the art of verse and prose.
So tonight's challenge was to write a poem about a routine. I name dropped the Beatle's Doctor Roberts and spun up a lyrical night of work.
DOC ROBERTS FRIDAY NIGHT SHIFT
With the moony latch unlocked
the handle of my bags find my softened sick hand.
Oh the medicine, the pills, the pie,
the bandages that must be wrapped,
dressed and perfumed;
to fix the broken bones, the shattered vessels
of the heart.
One must always wrap tight and true
and nightly cover wounds,
which in some cases
is whole body and brain
and like a mummy the patients wander
back and forth to the bathroom, to the fridge,
in various states of dress.
And under the clock I must rush
and going to and fro,
to cot, bed and bench,
for the broken-hearted must be tended.
It's cool, and forced, and fun, and I'm jazzing on the vibe of just playing with words. Which is the art of verse and prose.
So tonight's challenge was to write a poem about a routine. I name dropped the Beatle's Doctor Roberts and spun up a lyrical night of work.
DOC ROBERTS FRIDAY NIGHT SHIFT
With the moony latch unlocked
the handle of my bags find my softened sick hand.
Oh the medicine, the pills, the pie,
the bandages that must be wrapped,
dressed and perfumed;
to fix the broken bones, the shattered vessels
of the heart.
One must always wrap tight and true
and nightly cover wounds,
which in some cases
is whole body and brain
and like a mummy the patients wander
back and forth to the bathroom, to the fridge,
in various states of dress.
And under the clock I must rush
and going to and fro,
to cot, bed and bench,
for the broken-hearted must be tended.
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