Cups of tea increase our pleasure.
Moments that we cannot measure
Suddenly turn dark as coffee—
Are we craving English toffee?
Down we go, the house is shaking!
Moved by snow, there’s no mistaking
That an avalanche is sliding
Into places we’d be hiding
Were they splashed with gin or rum.
Aloud we pray: “Let no harm come!”
DISCLAIMER: This ditty is strictly the product of my overactive imagination.
More The Whirligig #249
More Writers’ Pantry #3 at Poets and Storytellers United
What rhymes with blue erasers? Nothing that I know.
Ask the thirty thirsty pencils that live down below.
Perhaps the smallest pencil is longer than you think,
And knows the word you’re looking for, written in red ink.
I believe that snips and scraps, at least not more than three,
Can be used to slit your throat, or make poetry.
I know my tale has ended in a dark and somber way,
But I am a darksome poet, so what more can I say?
Poem © 2019 by Magical Mystical Teacher
More Sunday’s Whirligig #215
More Poetry Pantry #481 at Poets United
La Virgen de Guadalupe at a wayside shrine, Ajo, Arizona
Sometimes I think I can teach forever.
Sometimes the dark circles under my eyes
tell me that it’s foolish to try to teach one more hour.
Last night the angels of sleep
interrupted my erotic dream,
laughed at me in my distress!
Now it’s five o’clock Monday morning
and I’m propping up my head with one hand
while writing this lament with the other.
I’d like to forget my lesson plans
and start reading a good book
until I fall asleep again,
waking up around noon
to write fragments of poetry
or a letter to a friend.
Instead, I have to eat breakfast, shower
and change into something suitable for work.
Then I have to drag my weary body
into my classroom where sixteen sullen students
with learning disabilities
will watch me impassively as I try to teach them
about figurative language:
Simi—what? Meta—who? Personifi—why?
We don’t care.
Is their theft of my time worth it,
their theft that leaves me wasted?
Today, probably not.
But tomorrow or the day after
something might change.
And that is the hope that keeps me going,
the grace that spurs me on,
even when all the light is gone
and all I want to do
is crawl back under the covers.
fawn on the mountain—
hunter hidden in the dark
raises his rifle
~~ ~~ ~~
lonely little fawn
trying to nurse its mother
after the kill shot
~~ ~~ ~~
no boring ending
to the story of the fawn—
a day of vengeance
© 2015 by Magical Mystical Teacher
More Carpe Diem: “Fawn”
More Three Word Wednesday: “Boring, Dark, Lonely”