I wish I understood poetry. Sadly, the meaning of most soars right over my wee head. So, I write poetry because at least I can understand my own. Let’s see if you can.
My Gig
My hide is pink; I know I stink.
I am a pig, and that’s my gig.
Or how about this one?
The Lowly Slug
It rained at dawning hour, upon my summer flowers.
Kissing marigolds; a temperate sunrise shower.
But what there?
Upon emerging buds?
A slug!
A box of salt in one hand, a glove upon the other,
All mercy for the flower, the pest will not recover.
You may ask what’s fair, concerning bugs,
Especially a slug.
I acquiesce in memory, with respect; for dignity.
If I must, a eulogy…
For the lowly slug.
Ugh!
And here’s my final attempt:
Two Bees
A humble, bumble, tumbled down
A saucy, mossy slope.
Followed by another bee
Intent upon elope.
A wing, a sting, a tousled thing,
A soggy, boggy landing.
Now comes along the other one,
Upon his knee, is standing.
A ring in hand, his gestures grand,
Entreating, oh so sweetly.
Her slightest nod, there on the sod,
He kisses her completely.
Two fuzzy, wuzzy, buzzy, bees,
Fly high a’honeymooning.
What do I see, atop the tree?
Two chick-a-dees a’swooning.
