There was a demand, so heres a Birthday Poem--my birthday poem--for my special day! 36 Im a tercet short of a sestina, which is a joke most folks wont even get, yet there are a few, perhaps a dozen, who will softly chuckle and say, thats lame, and maybe it is--okay, it is--but heck, its my birthday, and Ill be lame if I want to, lame if I want to, lame if, well, I can still blame--if this sestina fails--my parents, right? Of course, Im right, but I wont sleep any better at night. Get real. Get gone. Get lost in flickering flames, the same flame that will fry up a dozen eggs. Good gosh! Did I do that with dozen? I mean, isnt that the argument: that if you have end words, its hard to write non-lame poems? Cest impossible! Sestinas are tricky, sure, but the allure to get it right brings me back again as the butt of poetic jokes people would make, but nobody reads poetry, right? Do Zen Buddhist monks care if complete strangers get what theyre doing? Then, why should I care if I happen to pen piss poor sestinas? Perchance, its because this sestinas--lame as it sounds--a metaphor for my lame birthday. It had so much potential, but I wasted the day writing sestinas-- failed sestinas! I blame the word dozen! I cant wait for the candles, the cake. If I make a wish, it will be to forget that sestinas exist, so I can get back to life without ado or acclaim-- my body a little more aged and stiff-- prepared to fly under the radar, but one final fail at three times a dozen: Im a tercet short of a sestina.
Posted on: Fri, 18 Jul 2014 18:40:50 +0000
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