Oh, heaven in my bed
I lay me down when enough is said.
It has been a tiring day:
with bills and chores and problems that stay.
Now I lay me down to sleep
I pray my slumber be not too steep.
For if I die before I wake
there will be hell to pay, make no mistake!
[Okay, so it’s not a writing tip. Been a busy day, including an unexpected bill for $600. And now I’m in the middle of baking a Valentine’s cake for my daughter’s class tomorrow. –Poem and commentary by David E. Booker]
Filed under poetry by author
The sun runs away. /
Ice reflects the orbless sky. /
Stars wander alone.
Filed under Haiku to You Thursday, poetry by author
Apple on a fence.
I don’t know, but maybe I ought not
to have shoved this apple onto this spot.
For here it will remain
with no one to explain
as it shrivels away and begins to rot.
Poor little apple in my lunch
I spiked you away just on a hunch
that that brown spot
looked like food rot
and not something I’d want to munch.
Children are starving in places like China
or just down the street from a nearby diner.
Yet food by the bunches
goes uneaten after brunches
from fast-food shops and places much finer.
Bugs may come and have a heyday,
picking at the remains of the apple’s decay.
Eating away this fine shiner,
once bright as a light to a miner,
it’s soon dull and brown and shapeless as clay.
Good or evil? Oh, what have I done?
I’ve not fed the apple to anyone.
No nutrition for play.
Oh, how I’ve gone astray:
I should had eaten it or given it to someone.
I don’t know, but maybe I ought not
to have shoved this apple onto this spot.
For here it will remain
with no one to explain,
and even a homeless man will leave it to rot.
–by David E. Booker
Wearing paper pants /
waiting for Doctor Godot /
Kafka is my nurse.
Filed under Haiku to You Thursday, poetry by author
Wind whispers your name /
syllables ring with the chimes /
sweet, melodic hope.
Filed under Haiku to You Thursday, poetry by author
Light flows from windows. /
Early riser greets no one; /
Sun is late – again.
Filed under Haiku to You Thursday, poetry by author
There once was a writer from Minsk /
who wrote once, but couldn’t write since /
Writers block, he would say, /
chipped his confidence away /
or so that was his pretense.
Filed under Monday morning writing joke, poetry by author
A new year beckons /
Our chance to begin again /
wearing our old scars.
Filed under Haiku to You Thursday, poetry by author
[Editor’s note: we interrupt the regularly scheduled Haiku to you to present this bit of rhyming poetry for the new year.]
by David E. Booker
New Year’s Eve and me
Aggrieved I must be
Because you won’t hear my plea
And let me be free.
Be free on this last day
This last day I must here stay
Trying to “make hay”
While others are out to play
Out to play and party
I must be here and be not tardy
I must work and be not lardy.
O’ why am I so dumb and not a smarty?
Not a smarty and be not free
Not free and here I must be
Must be here, being me,
Being me, being me, o’ woe is me
The not-so-life of the not-free party.
Filed under poetry by author
by David E. Booker
I throw up for no good reason:
any time and any season.
A piece of lint is in the air.
It floated up from my underwear.
It is there now; it frightened me.
I’ll either throw up or go pee pee.
I can see now my sensitive ways
cause my parents problems many days.
When we travel for hours in a car
they have wonder just how far
we can go before I begin
to say, “I’m sensitive to throwing up again.”
I take a deep breath and feel the bile.
Has it only been a little while?
My older brother sits next to me.
He hopes I’ll hurl on my DVD.
We still have many miles to go
but I don’t have that much self-control.
A bug goes SPLAT against the window.
I can feel my tummy start to billow.
That bug’s guts are the color
of what I’ll throw up from my supper.
I throw up for no good reason:
any time and any season.
Even when I feel I’m okay,
my stomach throws up just like I say.
Filed under poetry by author
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