O, Gentle Readers. I can hear those snickers several states away. I can only imagine the "Wha...?" sounds from far far away, or just across town, or even, maybe on the lower level of my own home.
Still. This is what happens to me during Poetry Month when I try to write a poem a day. Thanks to Kathleen for lovely prompts and to Kathleen and The Player for reading my crazy drafts and saying things like "Tension is Good" and "I like your inner weirdo-ness" or "Mmmm...?"
And thank you for not saying things like "You really are weird, aren't you?" or "Why do all your poems have dog poop in them?"
Actually only one of my poems had dog poop, but another one had pee in it. Lots of pee. Poetic pee, though, trust me.
About Me
- Kim
- United States
- Getting older is not for sissies. I'm not a sissy, thank goodness. I'm a physical therapist, mom, daughter, sister, friend, and I am looking forward to "what's next?"
4 comments:
And this is what poets are up against all the time.
The knowledge that
1) people will think we are weirdos
2) we might get peed on
This is how I feel every time I go into a bank. Have had to do that a lot lately, and banks are not very comfortable with inner weirdos. I hope to soon return to the drive-through. Good luck with your poems. Barfing next?
POETIC PEE?
I didn't read any of your poems, but you need to get rid of the aspargus patch and pee, and put in a rubarb patch and bake.
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