Obstinately Uncooperative

I like the word recalcitrant
I’d use it more but find I can’t
Just force it into casual chat
I wish there was a word for that

Half Write

When I think I’m right, I’m right,
And when I know I’m right, I’m wrong.
Not everything is black and white.
That’s why True/False tests take so long.
(Plus also games of Name That Song.)
Half the time I’m wrong, it’s night,
And half the day is partly bright
Compared to me, so don’t let’s fight.
I think I’m wrong. (Which means I’m right.)

Your Wagon Could Do With Some Primer

Don’t talk to the trees
As you’re passing through, please.
They’re nasty and crude
Unforgivably rude
And yet somehow attractive to bees.
(I’ve been stung from my shins to my knees
And offended.)
Don’t talk to the trees.

Iambs To The Slaughter

It’s been a while since I’ve tried a sonnet;
Covid locked me down with just haiku.
The structure’s not a problem, but doggone it,
I worry that I might not make it through
One hundred forty pentametric iambs–
Fourteen lines, each rhymed as per the scheme–
Without some falling flat like sons of Priam’s
Slain by Greeks in some Aeneid meme,
Or at the very least without resorting
To such tortured similes as that
Until you only read ’cause there’s a sporting
Chance I’ll pull another from my hat
(Or darker orifice that I won’t name).
Iambs to the slaughter. Such a shame.

Flesh Failures Forever

You’d think that we could all agree
That peace and love and harmony
Are universally acclaimed
But you’d be wrong
And you’d be blamed

Matintative Agenda

Making morning plans is fun!

I’ll get up early
Swim or
Run
Make coffee
Do the dishes
Then
Get dressed and
Be the first one in!
Impress the bosses
Earn their praise
Accept the
Big promotion
Raise and
Parking spot
With
Grace and
Charm!

Or…
Not.

I blame the snooze alarm.

So Far

It’s been a decent week so far,
More rueful grin than har-de-har.
The neighbor’s pipes leaked on our car;
The weather’s been a bit sub-par–
Not hot enough to melt the tar,
Just clearish days for haze to mar
With smoke from homes reduced to char;
And seeing how conditions are
Not here, that’s where we’ve set the bar:
It’s been a decent week so far.

Purrasite

I don’t have a cat, but then
Who does? I mean, remember when
Your cat retrieved your missing shoe
Or frightened off that thief for you?
Of course you don’t. That wouldn’t happen.
You’re the one whose flat they crap in
And the sap who slops the trough.
When you’re no further use, they’re off.
Deny it all you like, it’s true:
It’s not your cat; the cat has you.
(Now feed ’em, then go sift their poo.)

Not Exactly A Deterrent

Pirates rarely scrawled
At the edges of a map
Here there be Puppies!

A Little Moderation

Sunshine’s nice upon one’s head
But too much turns you red, then dead.
Rain feels pleasant coming down
But too much wet at once, you’ll drown.
Endless food is fine at first
Until, like Creosote*, you burst.
Moderation’s best, they say,
So long as it’s not every day!
It doesn’t pay to over-do.

*That’s Mister Creosote to you!