Freebie Friday: The Moon Was Full and Pink

The moon was full and pink

She’d had too much to drink

They say the moon ’tis made of cheese

Listen close: it’s made of these:

Promises you’ll never keep

Scars that run too long, too deep

The witch’s laugh, her sprightly cackle

A roving spade, a wormy apple

The rotting stench of rancid pears

Think I’m done? I’m almost there!

The moon is round, the moon is full

Think too hard, you’re back in school

The moon was full, the moon was red

The stars above? Long since…dead

I wish I might, I wish I may

Always have the final say

But pinkish moons that’re full are silly

Don’t believe me? Ask my cousin Billy

And now you may have come to think:

‘Twas Beth alone who had the drink.

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Throwback Thursday: Poetry’s Darkness and Light

The weird truth about me that may or may not be genetic: I cannot hear meter. I cannot hear stressed syllables. Neither can my dad. Inherited? I don’t know, but I do know that all I can write is blank verse (or is it free verse? I’m forever confusing the two.)

Here’s a stab I took at poetry in my late teens or early twenties:

Torn and weathered
Through the desert storms
’Til he was as rough and scaled
Like a carpenter’s hand.
But he was not as tough outside
As he was deep within.

‘Twas a moonless Friday,
A dull and dreary Friday,
When he buried her
In a deep, deep grave
And it was as dull without
As it was within.

Dust raked the desert,
Biting into his weary eyes;
The wolves howled
And the mountains cried.
But he was unmoved,
For he killed her on Friday

Somethin’ about money,
A baby, a house–
Too much to take as he
Loaded his Luger . . .
Too much without,
Not enough within.

Nice and cozy, no? …Not. That was a darker time for me, and my writing sure reflected that. But I wouldn’t want to send you off with dark feelings, so here’s a fun, fluffy limerick for the road:

Frickety, nickety pickle
Bread for just two nickels
It’s dry and sweet,
A tasty treat,
But going down it tickles!