The first is from a prompt of "Imagine the world if you hadn't existed". The next two are my attempts at septolets, a form found on a new poetic friend's blog. The last is a narrative poem.
Something of a life
Extract the snowstorm from the equation
and the entire conception would be
null and void.
Or switch the chromosomes and then
I would have been Laura Jean,
most likely not living in South Jersey,
and quite possibly not a poet.
Or maybe I would have ended up like
my sister Melanie:
a life not carried to term.
Instead, I stare at the pieces of my parents.
The red hair, edged with white.
The softly paling blue eyes.
The freckles that consume my shoulders.
Lie in darkness with eyes closed
and wonder what it is that has
kept you here.
in his mouth
A open letter to Rebecca Black
When you wake up tomorrow morning,
I sincerely doubt you'll be eating
cereal in some specific bowl that
you just have to have every single
day, and anyone who's mom can shell
out $4,000 for a song and a video
probably has omelets and toast that
is probably some kind of whole grain.
But you'll undoubtedly have the last
laugh when every single one of us
that have mocked your robotic delivery
have fallen prey to your ridiculously
catchy chorus, repeating in our heads,
not just on Friday, but every single
fucking day of the week until our
heads explode, and your song has been
added to that special list of songs
that idiotic radio programmers use
every single Friday, 52 weeks a year,
where they play Working For The Weekend,
Bang The Drum All Day and Shout, and
I hated them for making me not want
to listen to Todd Rundgren for a while.
Still, your fifteen minutes could run
a little longer. You're only thirteen
and you could easily extend your shelf
life to three to five years by finding
the right writers. Just remember to
enjoy this, because there might be a
lot of Fridays in a year, but you're
only as good as your last hit in this
What have you done for me lately? world.
PS- We NOT so excited. I'm fucking tired.