Endless Race

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Running on this daily treadmill, filling life’s gloomy story

Falling behind in life’s endless race, without much glory

 

Working Nine to Five, five long days each week

Stumbling through every month, looking bleak

 

Forgetting when life last paused for any vacation

Punching in, punching out . . . time clock fixation

 

Heating up life’s pressure cooker, deadlines loom ahead

Hoping the lid doesn’t blow off, propelled into tiny shreds

 

Watching everyone trying to row in the same boat

Rowing in separate directions, now barely afloat

 

Refueling the tank, this coffee break no longer helps

Scurrying on empty, might just as well holler a yelp

 

Taking the elevator to another miserable meeting

Ending up on the wrong floor, no warm greeting

 

Driving home each night, worn down to a blown-out frazzle

Stopping at the same red traffic light, it no longer dazzles

 

Racing every day, life delivers another coup de grace

Looking left, then right . . . who’s winning this rat race?

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Writing a Classic

Pardon a bit of sarcasm and humor in this poem.  Sometimes, the early morning air produces something to laugh at and have fun with.  In all seriousness, I enjoy writing very much, and I appreciate you for stopping in.  And remember, it is okay to smile and laugh as you read this poem.

black vintage typewriter

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Sitting at my writing desk this morn

Feeling quiet peace, verses reborn

 

Actually sitting in the kitchen

Its table welcomes a mind, come in

 

At least the coffee is always close

Never allowing a mind to doze

 

Sometimes, words flow as a writer crafts

Other times, words can’t even complete a draft

 

Robert Frost’s classics, all awaken

Images of “A Road Never Taken”

 

Wondering now, what words will gather

Searching for a poem, words come faster

 

Hemingway understates how he writes

“There is nothing to writing” . . . just write

 

Just writing . . . crafting thoughts into words

Words gather now, like wild zebra herds

 

These best efforts resemble “pig slop”

Destined for the pig sty, one more flop

 

Sarcasm aside, writing with pride

Readers, appreciating the ride

 

Few writers ever craft a classic

As for me, never changing tactics

 

Well, tomorrow will bring much better

Fortunes change, wearing lucky sweaters

low light photography of books

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Enough Is Enough

white and orange pumpkins on table

Photo by Anna Tukhfatullina Food 

Harvest and Halloween, over and done

Autumn trying to hang on for some fun

 

November arrives, but what you say?

Christmas music begins to fill the day

 

Black Friday “Preview Sale” beckons us

To be shopping, without all of this fuss

 

Right on schedule, Thanksgiving arrives

Eating far, far too much, we’ll all survive

 

But wait . . . Pre-Black Friday calls

Following our feast, off to the mall

 

What’s absolutely annoying with this scene?

Leaving family to shop, a dreadful scheme

 

Oh!  My frosty enthusiasm, definitely not humming

This longer shopping season; totally mind-numbing

shopping business money pay

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Hold on to your horses!  There’s more to come

Political campaigns rolling, like a beating drum

 

Elections are months and months away

Too many candidates, with little to say

 

The rhetoric ramps up, the speeches too long

Hoping laryngitis will quell voices, with a gong

person dropping paper on box

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Buried with mindless literature in the daily mail

Sales flyers and candidates’ bios, tip the scale

 

At least, there is one good thing with this mess

Plenty of excessive paper to start a fire, no less

 

While warming myself and trying now to relax

Please accept my apologies for all of this flak

 

Enough is enough, these changes are too extreme

Wishing now for more simple times, I shall dream

fire wood firewood fireplace

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A Writer’s Draft

This poem is inspired by the quotes featured in Suzette’s post at Suzette B’s Blog.  Her awesome post features wisdom and humor relating to writers.  Visit her site when you have a chance.

focus photo of yellow paper near trash can

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Changing careers, a couple of years ago

Leaving the classroom, becoming a writer

Let’s just say, a writer’s living ain’t too full

 

Dreaming of my name on a bright marquee

Writing alongside . . . Twain and Hemingway

Let’s hope a dim light, stays positive for me

 

Piling up on my desk, many a “cold” draft

Feeling more like a frosty, Arctic breeze

Who ever said my writing is truly a craft?

scenic view of dramatic sky during winter

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Expecting a bonus for my previous posts

Waiting, but no mail, call, or text as of yet

Most of my prose seems read by a ghost

 

Heading outside to start up the trusty car

Hearing only silence, the battery’s dead

Now must hitch a ride, if it’s not too far

 

Standing along the road, for hours on end

Being ignored has become a part of my life

A writer now a beggar, all alone in the wind

boy facing right side of the road

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Returning to my writing, it’s awfully bad

Writing a few minutes, my pen goes dry

A good thing, my mind’s empty and glad

 

Thinking of returning to my former classroom

Wishing my words would spark a young mind

Then Rebel says, “You came back too soon”

 

Looking at drafts, growing taller on my desk

Realizing now, editing isn’t really my game

Phantom words wait with patience and rest

 

Watching outside, realizing I’m truly blessed

Appreciating you, the reader, for stopping by

Just maybe, my writings meet the final test

adult blur business close up

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Sometimes, a crafty writer changes his tune

Words filled with sarcasm, fun to work with

Looking to see you another time, real soon