What an awful week it's been. What an awful year it's been. I have been posting a lot, here and on social media, about the generalized badness. And today for Poetry Friday, I just have to do something different. Go read my other posts if you want to know that I do, I really do, take everything that's going on seriously. So seriously that I can hardly bear it.
A friend evacuated to the US and left me some stuff, and included in that stuff was a magnetic poetry set. My son and I have been enjoying it very much. Again, we know about real haiku. And we take it seriously. Don't get mad at us for writing nonsense.
And at the end, I'll post a love poem for my husband, which will be marginally more serious.
You might try guessing which ones are mine and which ones are by my 17-year-old? And I'm betting you'll be wrong a lot of the time.
Here's my love poem for my husband. Or his for me? Can't tell sometimes.
My husband tells me that he had a dream about me.
We were sitting on opposite sides of the living room
and he was writing a poem.
But when he started to share it with me,
It was gone.
He woke up.
“It was kind of a nightmare,” he says.
The poem was about how wonderful I am;
that, he remembers.
A few hours later he says,
“It had that day in it,
the day we were watching ‘Daisy Miller’
and I noticed your hip
and I thought I wanted to marry you.”
No matter how much he tries to regain it,
that poem is gone,
just like that afternoon in 1987.
But the hip,
that’s still there.
At least for now.
Ruth, from thereisnosuchthingasagodforsakentown.blogspot.com
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