He’s sixteen and very proud He knows just what he wants to do. And he’ll tell you what he thinks In a voice that’s clear and loud. If you have a problem with his crew He’ll stare you down, he won’t blink. If you knew him you would find This only happens in his mind.   A short poem as a combined response to the daily prompt to talk about a sixteen year old, as well as the napowrimo.net challenge to write a tall-tale.

She picked out shoes to match her blouse. He chose a tie to say I win She knows she will rock the house He wore a suit made by an Italian She selected a belt of red leather He wanted to feel like the kingpin She felt like she could break any tether He believed he could rule the world She strode out into the weather He watched as his options unfurled She considered the best path to keep to His riches soon would be lured She chose wisely which stone to leap to He had no fear he’d be poor She would have much to reap too They’ll do it tomorrow once more   Written in response to the daily prompt and a challenge on napowrimo.net.

I asked for a bunch of flowers I ended up with dandelions So much for April showers They always leave me sighin’ I asked for a pretty necklace I got one made of candy At least it went with my dress But at the beach it got sandy I asked for a fancy bracelet He gave me one made of plastic This gift could get wet But I’m allergic to the elastic I asked for a brand new outfit He got one at a thrift shop It was a lacy little knit It had a big hole in the top I asked for a diamond ring He won one from a gumball machine It looks amazingly eye-catching I really like how it gleams This is how our romance went No matter how rich you are It isn’t how much money’s spent It’s the fun you have near and far

There is a guy who is obsessed With all the things he does possess It takes a year or two for him To get it through his system He’ll go out-of-town to find a stone Or have one sent from over seas One friend sends a dinosaur bone Another sends amber coated bees He looks around his shop at tools Some of which he’ll never use His collection is mighty fine He sometimes will opine His poor wife endures the mess And never tries to straighten To her friends she does confess The position that her mates in   In response to the daily prompt “can’t get it out of my head“

I’ve been following napowrimo.net for challenges to my writing ability.  Saturdays challenge was to take a solid object, look it up on Wikipedia or some other dictionary/encyclopedia and replace the name of that object with an intangible idea. For my poem I clicked the random article button till I found a common noun and then again till I found a common idea.  In this case music replaces croissant. Music is a buttery flaky pastry known for its crescent shape. Music has been made since the middle ages and possibly since antiquity. Music can be made with nuts or other fillings. Music can have jam filling This led me to a rough draft of: Music can butter up the jaded lover It can cover up a flaky personality Commonly played under a crescent moon Some music dates back to middle ages And some all the way to antiquity It’s made with nuts and for the fillies Many musicians like to jam And the “final” product looks like: Music butters up the jaded lover Even for one who behaves flaky Frequently played under a crescent moon It stirs the spirit like no other And tells the heart wakey-wakey It helps your sweetheart…

Fame is such a fleeting thing It relies on others fancy. In the distance you hear it call, Down the street around the corner You think you have it but it takes wing You give chase till you can see It really wasn’t fame at all And you keep on forlorn sojourner You finally find what you sought The adoration of the masses No time alone for you anymore, The p’razzi haunts your every step. You seek some quiet, but then you’re caught By all your admiring lads and lasses. You’ve forgotten what you stood for You make mistakes, you gain a rep. It takes a while for you to decide This life is not the one you want. You think of friends you left behind There’re none like them when you’re on top You’re not sure you like this ride You don’t like being what p’razzi hunt You look around to learn if you can find A way to make this all stop!

A poem about relaxing written in Anacreontics meter. It’s a calming thing I need now For a rough and tumble work day A relaxing kind of past time To prevent my mind from meltin’ down In my head, isles cool and peaceful Sittin’ round the bar at some bay Sit a spell and drink some white wine Quiet times of games and hushed tunes Is all good for life and for soul So I sleep beneath tonight’s moon

Sitting in a comfy chair A slight breeze blows in the air Reading an engaging book A bird flies by, I take a look Listen to the chippies sing Won’t worry ‘bout a single thing Work is done it’s time to unwind Fresh air, good book work best I find Sunset comes and fades the light moon comes out so big and bright The book is done the air is clear In my yard there’s naught to fear Big brown dog is by my side My soul to him I can confide All of this improves my mood Much more than does comfort food   Have you ever been mellow?   I have.