Why I Must Write

Blue in the back yard

Why I Must Write

Life is simply poetry,

And I must write it down.

Without the rhyme and beat of words,

I am a hopeless clown.

But if I can but set the theme,

And manipulate the sound,

The music of the world is mine,

And Meaning is unbound.

Here is a simple truth about why I write.  I believe I have the power to define myself, a power that not even God can take away.  I hope to leave words and stories and poems and drawings behind to speak to others, especially my children, after I am dead and gone.  That is a writer’s immortality.  And you should probably know that as a retired school teacher, I have over 2,500 children.  But even if none of them ever reads a word of it, or looks at one of my Paffooney pictures, I will have made poetry enough to be me.  And that is really all a writer does.

Here are a couple of poems of mine;

sunnyface

Broken People Parts (a goofy poem from messed-up Mike)

Sometimes people break,

And then, they fall apart,

And it takes a jigsaw master,

To Puzzle back their heart.

And if a foot falls off,

Quite busted on Monday’s hump

They may be legless, headless, limp

And lying in a lump.

But no face is ever busted

sunnyface2

To a point of no repair,

And lips are pasted back in place

With a smile that wasn’t there.

20150105_071346

When Comes the Dawn?

We never seem to see it coming,

When the dark times are here,

Depression, black… is out of whack,

And everything looks drear…

And then a glimmer… maybe hope?

When will the sun appear?

But gray men in their dread gray suits,

Make the paperwork loom near…

And we must fill out in triplicate,

The forms you sign right here.

This dawn you want is pink and blue?

The proper form, my dear…

Sign it, scribe it, write in ink,

And make no mistake appear

And then you write and write and write…

To make the dawn shine clear.

20141209_065531

Fog in the City (A Melancholy Poem)

It doesn’t come in on cat feet.

That’s probably Chicago you’re thinking of.

It comes in on the sound of screeching tires…

and ambulance sirens…

because of all the idiot drivers…

in their silver-gray WASP rockets…

that don’t know how to slow down…

or turn on their low beams…

for safety in the big, cold city of Dallas…

where the air is yellow…

except in the fog…

and rush, rush, rush…

business never waits…

for a foggy day.

DSCN5213

Toy Tyger (a silly nod to William Blake)

Tyger!  Tyger! Burning bright!

I see thee holy in the night,

This for that, and that for this,

Shoot the gun,

And never miss!

A sillier poem there will never be,

And Tyger!  Tyger!  this poem’s for thee.

So, ultimately, here is my full understanding of poetry;  Poems are made by fools like (Joyce Kilmer), but only God (with help from Mickey) can make a ME!

4 Comments

Filed under humor, Paffooney, poetry

4 responses to “Why I Must Write

  1. Keep writing for your sake and ours. I write to type words of truth in a world where truth is devalued. Otherwise, I might blow a gasket. Easy example – Donald Trump says global warming is a hoax invented by the Chinese to steal our jobs. Some people believe this BS. I gotta write, too.

    • Try some doggerel poetry sometime. It makes the pressure on the gaskets less, and you can chuckle at your own inept poetitude at the same time… well, maybe you are a better poet than I, but it is still a gas to see the rhymes and the dimes fall into the same basket together.

  2. Thank you for being you. For writing. And being silly, and messed up, and whatever else you are, whenever else you are…thank you for being you.

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