Poet Shmoet

I am not a poet, but I love to play with language. Here are two poems I wrote a few years ago. These poems appeal to those who have a burning desire to poke fun of poetry, but until now, weren’t sure how to go about it.

Poet, Shmoet

Nonsense spoken here,

sayeth the sign upon the door.

Tis the pretense to make sense

in all of this that I abhor.

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Poet, shmoet, wrotit, stowit,

lest the critics wrench the meaning,

from each and every stanza

with their search for double meaning.

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Words, shmerds, purrs, slurs.

The poisoned pens belabor,

and scratch along the wild white space

where ink becomes a saber.

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I leave you now with just one thought,

while wading thru Macbeth,

have I flown on poet’s wings

or have I merely babbeleth?


The Muse and the Cat

close up photo of a cat s paw
Photo by Francesco Ungaro on Pexels.com

The muse and the cat snoozed,

while I chewed my pen

and clawed at my scalp.

White space,

threatened

chasms of white.

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But the cat awoke and stretched

and he licked his lips

and planted circular paws on white space-

animated

conquered white.