Jingle Writer

I want to be a jingle writer, write jingles every day.

I want to be a jingle writer, jingles all the way.

I want to be a jingle writer ‘cos there’s bills to pay.

I want to be a jingle writer, not much more too say.

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I want to be a jingle writer and work from my backyard.

I want to be a jingle writer, poets work too hard.

I want to be a jingle writer, don’t understand avant-garde.

I want to be a jingle writer, no need to be a bard.

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I want to be a jingle writer and put my tools to use.

I want to be a jingle writer, write short and loose.

I want to be a jingle writer; I’ll be no Dr. Seuss.

I want to be a jingle writer until I’m cut from the noose.

*

The End

None Today

There’ll be no daily sonnet today.

Thought has wandered and gone astray.

Nimble quill won’t dance on parchment bare,

seducing lonely on table near.

 

The well is dry from which I must drink.

Chair is empty were journeys to think.

No inky tears shed, blotted or smeared.

No blackened hands bloodied and feared.

 

Letters scrambled all over my mind.

Their chosen order I cannot find.

Brittle wax puddle proves candles death.

The darkness swallows my daylights breath.

 

Blindness shackles a masked and heavy head.

I shrink into my unwanted bed.

Heart and soul content for tomorrow.

When ink, I hope, once more will flow

 

The End                           

 

Sck082614

Hamper

It’s not just a bin for dirty clothes.

It’s a great place to hide where no one goes.

My favorite place for hide and seek.

No one ever dares to take a peak.

 

I could stay in there for a week,

But that’s too long not to speak.

And if I never change my clothes,

My hamper never fills, the pile never grows.

 

My hamper can be a chest for treasure.

With extra socks just for good measure.

Hampers are never quite big enough.

Always too small for all of your stuff.

 

The bigger the hamper the less room they take.

Fill it right up and room you’ll make.

Some hampers are big, some are small.

Some are just piles, some not there at all.

 

Some might have handles, liners or lids.

Some come with gadgets to keep out kids.

Hampers never hamper or get in the way.

They’re used for something each and every day.

 

Mostly an eyesore, mostly unseen.

Hidden in bedrooms, bathrooms or in-between.

They can be baskets or made of wood.

Plastic or metal but a bag’s just as good.

 

Hampers are magic – things disappear.

Then surprise, something old will be there.

A best friend to have on clean-up day.

They help to decide what can and can’t stay.

 

They can be luggage when away from home.

The smaller they get the further you roam.

Sometime my hamper is what I long to see,

A familiar moonlit shadow that keeps me company.

 

My hamper can be a rocket ship,

There’s always space for a lengthy trip.

Or submarine to explore the sea,

It can be anything; it’s up to me.

 

Some hampers have wheels for delicate dears.

Though not much help on dark cellar stairs.

They can be a target or a catcher’s mitt.

Or a moldy archive for clothes that don’t fit.

 

Sometime it sits lonely, quiet as a mouse.

Sometime screaming loudly – stinking up the house.

My companion always since I was very small.

The stories it could tell, we really had a ball.

 

If you’re sad or a little mad, I’ll share a secret trick.

Visit your trusty hamper and give it a little kick.

My hamper and I put on shows; I hope you all will come.

I sing and dance; make up tunes, my hamper is the drum.

 

Sometimes hampers break, a leaning twisted thing,

Thrown away with no regard to all the joy they bring.

Replaced by a new one with very lofty goals.

Someday we might be friends when it gets some holes.

 

Whether sparse or cramped you need not have a fear,

The voids will always fill when imaginations there.

Oh – I could wax poetically until the end of time.

But hampers full, its laundry day, time to end this rhyme.

 

sck081914dft

My Pencil

My pencil in hand – mind set free
Erasing the chains binding me
Safe in my world of poetry
A better friend there cannot be

No rhyme or reason there’s to flee
No shackles of society
No meter of conformity
No question of sincerity

No judge, jury or guilty plea
No door can stop my slender key
I’ll wander through infinity
Another side of life’s journey

Draw lines that know no boundary
Return with words for all to see
Arrange them well – create beauty
Then thank my little piece of tree

The End       sck081514