Salamanders eat their kin
That’s why they can’t go home again
If Thomas Wolfe were slick with slime
And not yet dead, he’d write this rhyme
Shakespeare had his molting geese
And Gutenberg his lumps of lead;
I have my laptop. When they cease
To function, words inside my head
Collide cacophonously. Peace
Will not return until they’re read
Though first they must be written. Fleece
Won’t warm you till the sheep’s been shed
Of wool; linguistic expertise
Won’t help if your computer’s dead.
My laptop’s acting up this weekend
Memory’s begun to leak and
Sudden stops are all too frequent
If considered verse you seek and
Hope to find some fresh and piquant
Musings here don’t hold your breath
I’m two keystrokes away from dea
I’ve written and discarded three
Less worthy verses just tonight
But this one feels like it to me.
(Apologies if I’m not right.)
The longer I wonder what I’m going to write,
The later the hour, the shorter the night,
The greater the pressure to simply break down
And hawk up a haiku. C’mon, make me laugh, clown!
And that’s what I’ve done: I apologize for
Declaring a stalemate (but stand by for more).
My mother lives across the sea.
She greets the day ahead of me
And sees it set before me, too.
In fact, there’s nothing I can do
My mother hasn’t pioneered;
No path I tread she hasn’t cleared;
No thoughts I think, no words I speak
Or write, through which she doesn’t leak,
Including these, which is to say
(In her voice): Happy Mother’s Day!
Most of what I write I’ve done
A hundred times. Here’s one-oh-one.