Everything I did was for the party
The dying plants in the front yard
Are dying due to the plastic spike
I pushed down on with a solid hand
Right past the softer pipe plastic
Passing from one side to the other
Dirt to rock to pipe then back out
The spike that held the solar lamp
One lamp among ten to show the way
One lamp busted before it was dark
The victim of a thrusting car door
But the broken pipe required water
And the water emerged come morning
We shut it down the system and now
I haven’t any tape or pipe or skill
The days pass as the plants whither
I think that it may be time to move

I want to come home now she begs.
I am very tired and I can’t find work.
It’s too hard being grown on my own.
I give up– I don’t want to be an adult.

Baby, girl,” I tell her, “Hush it’s okay.
Better days are just round the bend.
Growing up is supposed to be hard.
You’re not alone. I am here for you.

I cannot sleep and I can’t even eat.
I need to pay the rent and buy food.
Thought I had it together, but I don’t.
I am just your little girl, Sonja Grace.

You will always be my baby, child.
But, face it, today you are an adult.
You have embraced this great risk
To have an amazing, rich life later.

Can I drive over to see you soon?
I have some laundry for you to do.
And we can go out to a restaurant.
Just the two of us again like we do.

You can surely come home then.
We can have anything you crave.
We can stay up really late talking,
And drink Diet Cokes and smoke.

Momma, I love you so very much!
Honey sweetie I love you always.

Maryellen Gradys last blog post..WRITER’S BLOCK SUCKS

Convincement is a rondelay
Has manifold interactivity
Anticipatorily, convincees
Seek rich incentivizations
Enfolding neverregretments

Lopsided the backforth and
Elephantroom ignorance may
Have begun, nevertheless a
Minor adjustment or twelve
Acts to unleaven playfield
Now maybe we can getterdun

There are certainly poems that really only work on the page, but I lean towards poetry that can be listened to. I generally prefer to hear poetry than to read it.

My Clique

This so exclusive clique of mine
Comprising such unique oddities
Is quite a mixed bunch to gather
Frequently eccentric workaholics
Thankfully no diehard alcoholics
Or such conscientious drunkards
You will likely never again meet

I’ve always found editing poetry to be quite difficult, and these tips make it seem easier to approach. One question: do you think all poetry should sound good aloud? Can some poetry be written purely for the page?