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
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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