I am again emerging from the Inkpot sabbatical. Since this place has been so quiet I can only assume that everyone must be busy relaxing or putting together furniture. I’ve been busy writing, playing (laughably) with poetry and other forms that are foreign to me. No YA in other words. Since I’ve received crap about not sharing previous efforts, I thought I would today–and that should put a stop to the requests. (Warning: Spoiler alert if you haven’t watched this past week’s Project Runway.)
Limp turquoise palm fronds,
bleak island of gray plastic…
Sad to see you go.
There once was a writer named Qualey
Who wrote in new poem forms almost daily.
She penned a haiku; said, “Yes, that’ll do.”
That scroobious poem writer named Qualey.
Hooray, my crap-giving has finally flushed you into the light!
I share your eloquently conveyed sadness, but, for me…
Here's the real question:
is Gretchen a b#$%h or just
edited that way?
What do writing and
Brussels sprouts have in common?
Elizabeth: I'm flattered to be called "scroobious." And wouldn't that word make a wonderful one-word epitaph for a tombstone? Wouldn't you love to encounter it while cemetery-strolling?
Other one-word epitaphs, writers?
Chris: Yes, you flushed me out, you harsh crap-dealer. As for your poem's question…since I believe structure is all-important, I'll wager the b#$%h is being carefully edited.
Peter: Who's procrastinating? Not moi. Not a lot, at any rate. Not a whole lot. Not anymore.
One word epitaph: denouement
Runway is the best for those of us that spent a great portion of their lives chasing around the world for the latest design genius.