Preaching to the Mirror, Perhaps?

Posted for a variety of prompts:

Easy Street Prompts (“and then …”

Meme Express (“peculiar people”)

Simply Snickers (“sleep,” “sorry” and “sweet”)

Sunday Scribblings (“organic”)

That’s My Answer (“I Don’t Really Think I Can Manage . . . Today”)

Weekend Wordsmith (“pens”)

Word-Filled Wednesday (“rest”)

Writer’s Island (“Just Around the Corner”)

Preaching to the Mirror, Perhaps?

Inklings –

A Limericked Tear on a Poetry Rare

Mere ink on a page does not poetry make,

Though often we offer the self-same mistake.

In free verse or rhyme,

Our two cents will chime,

Unless we more effort and energy take.

 

So sorry indeed are the jottings so cheap,

Organic, but trite, scrawled while drifting to sleep –

Sweet longings confessed

But still not expressed,

Peculiar people and pens reaching deep.

 

We claim, “I can’t manage the verse. It’s too hard.”

But just ‘round the corner, a muse stands on guard.

The poet, distraught,

Then catches true thought,

While some of us settle to mimic the Bard.

 

We pray inspiration may blind us with light,

That inklings may overflow to our delight.

Poetic to wax,

We dare not relax,

But rewrite and edit with all of our might.

 

Fine wordsmithing builds in the depths of the heart,

As words coalesce into musical art.

With rhythm and poise,

So much more than noise,

A true poet beauty may ever impart.

 

Please take no offense by these barbs, if you will;

We preach to the mirror with homily shrill.

The longing of lore,

Creative rapport

Does drive us to dare require more of the quill.

 c2009 by Linda Ann Nickerson

Spam-Jam Flimflam

My most faithful pen-pal by far,

This paperwork pirate bizarre

Does fill up my box

With unwelcome shocks,

If I leave my spam-guard ajar.

 

My gateway is framed  and secure,

And still I will hear from this boor –

With offers of prize

To lure, tantalize,

This cyberspace spam saboteur.

 

I’m putting a ban on his bulk,

The letters from this ogre hulk.

He won’t sign his name,

So I’m taking aim,

Reporting him, so he can sulk.

 

Henceforth, I’m committed to shred

His plentiful missives unread.

Won’t open a note

Or card to promote

Whatever else from this bonehead.

c2008 by Linda Ann Nickerson

This post responds to the following prompts: Easy Street (“post-modern piracy - #170”), Mad Kane (“email” and “spam”), Weekend Wordsmith (“framed”) and Writer’s Island (“faithful”).

Sporty at Forty (Coming of Age with Limericks)

Sporty at Forty
(Coming of Age with Limericks)

I so adore my best friend Marge.
Whose big four-oh was looming large.
She called our gang,
And with a bang,
She met the day by taking charge.

My friend runs circles round her peers;
Her forty annums bring her cheers.
At bar and grill,
She’s carded still
For aging slower than her years.

To face the years courageously,
Perhaps a bit outrageously,
With forty winks
And great hi-jinks,
She’s aged most advantageously.

c2008 by Linda Ann Nickerson 

(Written upon request of Writer’s Island’s “Outrageous” prompt.)

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A Familiar Way – A Rhyme Opaque on Memory’s Wake

(Written upon request of Writer’s Island’s “Deja Vu” prompt.)

A Familiar Way –
A Rhyme Opaque on Memory's Wake

“Memory believes
Before knowing remembers.”

William Faulkner
(1897 – 1962)


There’s something strange behind that door;
I think I’ve passed through here before.
If memory serves, ‘twas long ago,
When time elapsed not fast, but slow.

The handle looks familiar here,
And I recall the atmosphere.
Does danger lurk behind this wall,
When I shall enter from the hall?

Will others welcome me within,
When I shall recollect again?
I cannot tell from here, so far,
But wait, the door is now ajar!

The threshold beckons, “Step inside!”
My curiosity is tried.
And so, with déjà vu, I see,
That I’ve been sleepwalking, home free.


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