(This is a poem I wrote for my 6 year old daughter.  She was chosen as the “Star Student” this week and my assignment, as Dad, is to write something about her and then the teacher of the 2nd grade class will read it in front of the class.)

 

 

“Once upon a time there was a Zoie.”

 

Zoie was a charming little girl,

with dark-brown hair that didn’t curl.

She had the cutest giggle and smiled so dandy. 

Her eyes looked like chocolate M&M’s candy. 

 

She loved to dance, sing, and tell jokes to people who don’t know ‘em.

and, most importantly, she loved to write poems.

 

However, this was a sad time for the Zoie,

locked away in the castle tower, her eyes so teary.

They sparkled in the moonlight as she sat by the windowsill,

while looking down on the kingdom of Slappyville. 

 

She sniffed a few sniffs, and sighed a deep sigh. 

She wasn’t sure what to do, so all she could do was cry.

 

The mean-faced, “King of Slappyville”, locked her inside

the dark tower for many days and nights.

He wanted her to write a poem just for his Kingdom.

But all she could think of was, “This King sure is dumb.”

 

Zoie had been thinking, and thinking, and thinking some more.

She thought and thought until her thinker was sore.

If she didn’t write a poem, then he’d keep her locked.

Zoie sighed again and stared at the clock.

 

If, though, the poem was super,

the king said he’d flatten his hat and eat it for supper!

 

“HA!  That’ll be the day!” the King laughed. 

No one was there to hear him laugh; well, except for his cat. 

He always laughed to himself like that.

No one would make him flatten his hat… not even his cat!

 

Then, Zoie wiped her M&M eyes dry. 

“Who does that mean King think he is to make me cry?!

Well, I’m done crying.  Yup, that is THAT!

I’m going to write a poem to make him flatten his hat AND his cat!”

 

Zoie grabbed some paper, a purple crayon, and began to write…

She wrote away, into the night.

She wrote the poem you read just now.

She’s free! (And the king’s hat is flat and the cat can’t meow!)

 

 

THE END!

Come Again?

Posted: July 28, 2010 in Come Again?

     “Oh what a joy it is to write on the pits of despair, the stale scent in the air, and your delectable underwear.”  he coyly smirked, non-plussed by the lack of motivation to make use of the past hour staring at these miserable keys.
    “There, there… peek through the window and stare.  Stare as I remove those underwear and throw them on this chair.”  He winked then brushed aside her smutty hair after she guilelessly strolled into his smoke-filled lair.
    “You’ll be my inspiration, for I have not a one.” he said afterwards.  “You came in the garage at just the right time… come to think of it, I came at the right time too.  Irony.  It’s amusing to think that this moment will now be considered my muse.  Hopefully your tummy didn’t bruise on the workshop bench that holds my tools.”  The miserable anticipation to punch at keys drifted away at that climactic sixtieth second.  Drifted under somewhere.  Under where?  He didn’t care.  As long as it was no longer there.  I just made you say underwear.
    “Tomorrow I’ll officially begin my recovery.”  He winced as she closed the door to his heart, strutting back inside to retire for the night.  “You’ll see the changes ensue and take shape.  I’ll meet up with that quack therapist in the afternoon, scheduled at four, as promised before, in hopes to correct what’s broken furthermore.”  but she was already inside for the night and didn’t hear a word he just spoke under those twitchy fluorescent garage lights.  So, he continued to write.  He wrote an entire new line; freshly inspired.  He wrote about windows and chairs and peeking through like a voyeur to stare.  He was even prepared to dig deeper to write on that missing thing he profusely seeks.  But then that garage door opened again with a seducing creak.  It was her, coyly smirking at his sudden boost of motivation to punch at those keys.  Inspiration was like warm pancake syrup coating his brain with sweet ambrosial saccharine.  But it was too late.  Her gaze was imperturbable.
    “Come now, please”.  she said with a slight lean to her head.  The door jam held her upright.
    “Come again?  I don’t think I have anything left.” he sighed mockingly.  The mock was returned in a similar fashion.
        So in the end he did bid those miserable keys adieu, closing the lid to the electronic box and the door to the evening dew… until the following morning when his yearning to type was rejuvenated anew.
    And here he sits.
   
   

    And suddenly his phone spits out a text message: “I’m convinced that I have an alien life form using me as a host.  Stealing my nutrients and giving me spastic bowel syndrome.”
    It all makes sense now.  It all makes sense.
    BRB…