One For Each Dalmatian

Most of what I write I’ve done
A hundred times. Here’s one-oh-one.



That grinding, scraping sound you hear
Is coming from my inner ear.
Whenever I hear that alarm
It means my inspiration farm
Is in extremis, and the drought
Of clever things to write about
Has found a long term place to live.
I much prefer my brain a sieve
‘Cause then, at least, ideas flow!
In dry times, though, no poems grow.

Fourteen Horizontal Stripes

This is not a sonnet. I can tell.
A sonnet’s fourteen lines, and not just two.
Or even three, like this. It’s just as well.
Eleven more would be too hard to do.
I might make it to five, but never six.
Imagine what a nightmare that would be:
Stranded near the halfway point, a fix
I’d not inflict on my worst enemy!
By line nine you’ve invested so much time
It’s hopeless to pretend it’s accidental.
Stripes and whiteface? Face it, you’re a mime.
Stay in the box. The winds out here aren’t gentle.
I couldn’t write a sonnet. Wouldn’t try.
I’m simply not a sonnet-writing guy.

The Inspiration Bug

I’m pantsless so the Inspiration Bug can bite me on leg.
This evening’s topic hasn’t R.S.V.P.’d. Though I hate to beg,
This train of thought is moving: I’m composing, but I don’t know what
The melody will sound like. Come on, I-Bug, bite me! Taste my butt!
It’s chilly in October and my legs are pimpled like a goose’s.
Maybe I should put my hospitality to better uses?
Fine. I’ll wave the hanky. I surrender. Pass my sweatpants, please?
I’m cold and out of options, plus there’s chicken skin on both my knees.
The Inspiration Bug is never coming. I accept that now.
I’m beaten. No more I-Bug. Have you met my friend, Creative Cow?