perennial

Move in and live with me, said he.
My parents won’t agree, said she,
they will say it’s not for me
and I would rather marry.

But we might wed and not agree,
that could lead to divorce, said he,
and this way you will easy see
I’m not Tom, Dick or Harry.

Look, said she, quite honestly
though you’re a special man to me,
it’s something that can never be
unless your name I carry.

You’re something of a pest, said he,
I know what works the best for me.
So if it’s marriage and monogamy
then I’ll no longer tarry!

lost for words

why did she choose Calliope
as her artistic muse
brain damage not the kindest friend
when finding words to choose

the swirling vortex of her mind
keeps battling every day
to communicate with other folk
but words just slide away

it is the same with poetry
as she jumps into the breach
she sees them glinting in the dark
somehow just out of reach

she can wait for several hours
ever hopeful that she’ll tease
from those tangled skeins of thought
that very word to please

vocabulary was once her thing
but with sadness now she’ll find
that eloquence she used to have
has faded from her mind

So her poetry is simple
and she envies those whose rhyme
embraces all that artistry
now so difficult to find