There may be a story behind this poem to my daughter.
Princess
To my Sweet Princess,
Years ago you asked me to call you Princess.
Because you are my princess, I did, and still do.
I smile when I hear you sing along to music in the car.
Your voice is becoming beautiful.
You make me proud, when I take you to important events;
Weddings, Bat Mitzvas, school events.
You can be taken “out in public.”
Everyone comments on the elegant lady you are.
Your beautiful caring spirit shows through
Everyone comments on the beautiful woman you are becoming.
I see your strength
your empathy
your loyalty.
You are a true friend, and those around you are blessed
Blessed to boast that you are their friend.
You see the hurt your friends feel
And help them mend, help them smile again.
When I’m feeling hurt
I picture your face,
Remember the music of your laughter, and
I smile again.
My life is more fulfilling
because you are in it.
Years ago you asked me to call you Princess.
Because you are my princess, I did, and still do.
Dad
Showing posts with label poem-per-day. Show all posts
Showing posts with label poem-per-day. Show all posts
Wednesday, January 5, 2011
Monday, January 3, 2011
My experiences that gave rise to "Goose Food"
The poem Goose Food is grounded in my memories of time spent in Eastern
Washington in the late fall and through the winter. The air is dry
and cold, and the bare surface of the highway is the only thing not blanketed in a hard white crust that will linger until spring. The harsh Kittitas Valley wind whips snow in a whirling, twisting dance, like ghost snakes writhing over the aged and worn grey surface of the pavement.
“V” after “V” of Geese in formation drop into fields until there are thousands gathered together. A few stand guard as the flock talk, quarrel and grumble among themselves, while working to wrest sustenance from the frozen soil.
Washington in the late fall and through the winter. The air is dry
and cold, and the bare surface of the highway is the only thing not blanketed in a hard white crust that will linger until spring. The harsh Kittitas Valley wind whips snow in a whirling, twisting dance, like ghost snakes writhing over the aged and worn grey surface of the pavement.
“V” after “V” of Geese in formation drop into fields until there are thousands gathered together. A few stand guard as the flock talk, quarrel and grumble among themselves, while working to wrest sustenance from the frozen soil.
The Third
Goose Food
While driving through the country
I passed a snowy field
What was in the summer bountiful
Has given up its yield.
A thousand black shapes on there
I see them from a far
Grow in size, grey, black and white
As I approach them in my car.
They prod and poke with long neck and beak
For what is left behind
For the farmer, feeding geese in winter
Was not on his mind.
A seed or two they pull from earth
Some juicy bugs there, too
The frozen earth so hard gives up
A worm they'd not eschew.
I sip from my warm coffee cup
And those geese I watch
I aim my brand new camera
And freeze them with one shot.
I appreciate their beauty
As they seek out frozen stem
Their courageous struggle awes me
But I wouldn't want to be them.
K.G.
Brandon Myuse
While driving through the country
I passed a snowy field
What was in the summer bountiful
Has given up its yield.
A thousand black shapes on there
I see them from a far
Grow in size, grey, black and white
As I approach them in my car.
They prod and poke with long neck and beak
For what is left behind
For the farmer, feeding geese in winter
Was not on his mind.
A seed or two they pull from earth
Some juicy bugs there, too
The frozen earth so hard gives up
A worm they'd not eschew.
I sip from my warm coffee cup
And those geese I watch
I aim my brand new camera
And freeze them with one shot.
I appreciate their beauty
As they seek out frozen stem
Their courageous struggle awes me
But I wouldn't want to be them.
K.G.
Brandon Myuse
Sunday, January 2, 2011
The Second
Wow, now this is like time travel. I came from the end of this blog, back to the beginning to make an observation. Observation: The beauty of being in control of this blog is, when I write something really embarrassing I can go bcak and edit it out later. Okay, now back to where I started.
I think before you read this next poem, you should reflect on the fact that I teach elementary school. Now this one (poem) contains references to partying, alcohol, and deception. Though it appears to be written at the maturity level of a third grader, the content isn't appropriate to that age. Luckily, men, me being one of the aforementioned, stay at that maturity level for roughly ... hmmmm, add that to that, subtract one, multiply by three ... for life. If you care to read more of this ridiculous commentary, I will likely continue after the poem.
Where Do the Ducks Go
Where do the ducks go
When my pond freezes over?
Clear, or covered with snow
I need my closure.
They can’t have gone South
as it’s too far away.
I know they’ll be back
In one of two day.
I’d ask my friend Kim
She’s the sciencey kind
But I really don’t want that,
I’ve something stranger in mind.
I think that just maybe
They’d steal a big car
A stretched limo with heat
And a well stocked bar.
They’d drive into town
Maybe take in a show
Then they hit the best dance club
They could, you never know.
I do know one thing
Oh yes, let me tell ya
They better watch what they drink
and avoid the tequila.
I never have seen them
Cut loose on the stuff
But my grandma once told me
A tale of a bluff
Her dad an inn owner
had needed some “pil-ahs”
He had all the cloth
But none of the “fil-ahs.”
Then in came some ducks
avoiding the cold
Some of them youngsters
Some of them old.
Great granddad, he thought
And came up with a bluff
He’d drink those ducks under
and collect all their fluff.
The duck now they steer
of alcohol clear
They count all their drinks
no matter how cold the year.
But that still leaves me wondering
about the ducks from my pond
Maybe I should ask Kim
“Where have they gone?”
K.G.
Brandon Myuse
So, I don't really have anything else to say. However, if you would like to hear more on my theories of male maturity (remember, I'm an expert, as I "are" one), you can see my posts in my other blog K.G.'s Really Insightful Theories on the Maturity Process of Men (It's kind of oxymoronic). I've written the theories, but haven't created the blog yet. Never fear, though. I am studying quantum mechanics, and intend to make the blog prior to now, after I have finished my studies and have all the time travel "bugs" taken care of. Don't worry, you won't feel a thing as I "whoosh" past you to before now and create that blog before you read this. It will be painless ... I think ...?
I think before you read this next poem, you should reflect on the fact that I teach elementary school. Now this one (poem) contains references to partying, alcohol, and deception. Though it appears to be written at the maturity level of a third grader, the content isn't appropriate to that age. Luckily, men, me being one of the aforementioned, stay at that maturity level for roughly ... hmmmm, add that to that, subtract one, multiply by three ... for life. If you care to read more of this ridiculous commentary, I will likely continue after the poem.
Where Do the Ducks Go
Where do the ducks go
When my pond freezes over?
Clear, or covered with snow
I need my closure.
They can’t have gone South
as it’s too far away.
I know they’ll be back
In one of two day.
I’d ask my friend Kim
She’s the sciencey kind
But I really don’t want that,
I’ve something stranger in mind.
I think that just maybe
They’d steal a big car
A stretched limo with heat
And a well stocked bar.
They’d drive into town
Maybe take in a show
Then they hit the best dance club
They could, you never know.
I do know one thing
Oh yes, let me tell ya
They better watch what they drink
and avoid the tequila.
I never have seen them
Cut loose on the stuff
But my grandma once told me
A tale of a bluff
Her dad an inn owner
had needed some “pil-ahs”
He had all the cloth
But none of the “fil-ahs.”
Then in came some ducks
avoiding the cold
Some of them youngsters
Some of them old.
Great granddad, he thought
And came up with a bluff
He’d drink those ducks under
and collect all their fluff.
The duck now they steer
of alcohol clear
They count all their drinks
no matter how cold the year.
But that still leaves me wondering
about the ducks from my pond
Maybe I should ask Kim
“Where have they gone?”
K.G.
Brandon Myuse
So, I don't really have anything else to say. However, if you would like to hear more on my theories of male maturity (remember, I'm an expert, as I "are" one), you can see my posts in my other blog K.G.'s Really Insightful Theories on the Maturity Process of Men (It's kind of oxymoronic). I've written the theories, but haven't created the blog yet. Never fear, though. I am studying quantum mechanics, and intend to make the blog prior to now, after I have finished my studies and have all the time travel "bugs" taken care of. Don't worry, you won't feel a thing as I "whoosh" past you to before now and create that blog before you read this. It will be painless ... I think ...?
Saturday, January 1, 2011
The First
New Year
Of last year I have no complaint
Many paths I chose.
Problems were, but did not taint
Each sun still rose.
K.G.
Brandon Myuse
Don't worry, they won't all be one stanza long. Though I do like Haiku and Limericks, so there likely will be a few.
My name is Ken Goree. I just thought I would like to start with a pseudonym. I'll stick with "Brandon" for a while, but I think I might tire of him eventually.
I already feel like he's plagiarizing my work. A bit like a co-worker who turns in your report to the boss, as his own work. Or the funnier version, like one of my students erasing someone else's name from that other person's homework and turning it in as his own. I love it when this happens, because the kids that do this typically have horrid handwriting, and since they want to get a good grade for their stolen work they usually pick one of the most successful students. If you didn't know those students are usually girls with beautiful flowing script who dot their "I"s with little hearts or smiley faces. It makes my detective work pretty easy. Oh, and they rarely do a good job completely erasing the name.
If Brandon really starts to get on my nerves I can simply, quickly and neatly dispatch him. No one would need to know. Someone might say, "Hey, what happened to that guy Brandon, the one that kept writing poems every day?" No one will answer though, because that someone will sitting alone at her/his computer looking at a blog called "Poem-a-Day Place," which has started to be maintained by a guy named Ken. No one would have to know that I "did away with" Brandon ... no mess, no fuss, no muss.
Enjoy the new year. I hope you enjoy my posts as well, and return often. If in anyway I make you laugh, or occasionally help the sun shine on your heart and soul, I will feel well rewarded for my effort.
Notes of encouragement are very appreciated, as are politely worded critiques. I can use all the help I can get.
Be well, in this new year.
Of last year I have no complaint
Many paths I chose.
Problems were, but did not taint
Each sun still rose.
K.G.
Brandon Myuse
Don't worry, they won't all be one stanza long. Though I do like Haiku and Limericks, so there likely will be a few.
My name is Ken Goree. I just thought I would like to start with a pseudonym. I'll stick with "Brandon" for a while, but I think I might tire of him eventually.
I already feel like he's plagiarizing my work. A bit like a co-worker who turns in your report to the boss, as his own work. Or the funnier version, like one of my students erasing someone else's name from that other person's homework and turning it in as his own. I love it when this happens, because the kids that do this typically have horrid handwriting, and since they want to get a good grade for their stolen work they usually pick one of the most successful students. If you didn't know those students are usually girls with beautiful flowing script who dot their "I"s with little hearts or smiley faces. It makes my detective work pretty easy. Oh, and they rarely do a good job completely erasing the name.
If Brandon really starts to get on my nerves I can simply, quickly and neatly dispatch him. No one would need to know. Someone might say, "Hey, what happened to that guy Brandon, the one that kept writing poems every day?" No one will answer though, because that someone will sitting alone at her/his computer looking at a blog called "Poem-a-Day Place," which has started to be maintained by a guy named Ken. No one would have to know that I "did away with" Brandon ... no mess, no fuss, no muss.
Enjoy the new year. I hope you enjoy my posts as well, and return often. If in anyway I make you laugh, or occasionally help the sun shine on your heart and soul, I will feel well rewarded for my effort.
Notes of encouragement are very appreciated, as are politely worded critiques. I can use all the help I can get.
Be well, in this new year.
Friday, December 31, 2010
Tomorrow, it all begins
Okay, tomorrow I start with the poems. Oh God, what if I get writer's block. I don't want to use my sick days already. What should I start with first? Ducks on my pond? A grumpy teenage girl? A "legally adult" son? Flowers? No, none out and growing for inspiration, yet.
If I go with the grumpy teen daughter for my inspiration, I think a limerick would be the way to go. When I'm feeling more compassionate about the whole "emotional, hormonal teen thing" I'll use a form that is lends itself more to an understanding mood.
If I go with the grumpy teen daughter for my inspiration, I think a limerick would be the way to go. When I'm feeling more compassionate about the whole "emotional, hormonal teen thing" I'll use a form that is lends itself more to an understanding mood.
Thursday, December 30, 2010
Two
Last night, I watched a movie that my daughter suggested, Across the Universe. I enjoyed it very much. During the movie I realized that many musicals are like reading poetry (aside from many songs being poetic in nature). In a musical like this, as someone is singing their part, life around them goes on unchanged. All the other actors go on with their business in the usual way, but the real action is the singer, that is where the action is, where life take on grand purpose, if only for a moment.
It is like that with poetry. The poet, or the reader who has really connected with the piece, is temporarily experiencing life and the world in a grander way. The curve of a leaf, or the snowflake throwing itself down thousands of feet takes on meaning and beauty. Life often misses these opportunities to recognize beauty, or pain, sadness, exaltation ...
Bravo, to the creative human beings who to the works of some other creative human beings (The Beattles) and spun a beautiful story that is more than day-to-day life.
It is like that with poetry. The poet, or the reader who has really connected with the piece, is temporarily experiencing life and the world in a grander way. The curve of a leaf, or the snowflake throwing itself down thousands of feet takes on meaning and beauty. Life often misses these opportunities to recognize beauty, or pain, sadness, exaltation ...
Bravo, to the creative human beings who to the works of some other creative human beings (The Beattles) and spun a beautiful story that is more than day-to-day life.
Wednesday, December 29, 2010
Three, and counting ... again!
This morning, I was accused of being poetic in a Facebook status update. In spirit, I guess I was, but that doesn’t count as starting early, does it?
My post went like this:
“As I sit here, coffee in hand, snowflakes muffle the sounds of the world.
I take a sip, then inhale the cold breeze through the open window. The
ducks on the pond sit, with heads tucked under wings, on half submerged
logs. The snow gently deepens on their backs. Should I invite them in?”
A few friends felt the mood I was in:
V – “Yes, do it!”
JB- “I vote YES!”
This one earned a kiss:
JW- “You're such a writer!!! Love it!”
This one, accusing me of being poetic would have earned a kiss, but she is married.
Extra points for the challenge, though:
KJ- “So poetic...now write about how it turned to rain, and now to sunshine.
I wanted the snowflakes to stay!”
My response:
Me- “Today's weather is like our children. It started with it us saying, "Oh,
how beautiful and wonderful in every way. I wish it could stay this way
forever." Then soon we were saying, "Oh God, you can't be serious, you did
not just do that. Stop it, it, stop it, aarrrgghh, stop it!" (weather and
children make us sound so mature and intelligent). And now we are saying,
"Oh my, look how beautiful you become. Aahhh."
“Oh, and I did invite the ducks in. They looked at me as though I was crazy,
as did the neighbors.”
I love my friends :-)
PS - I tried to do some formatting, indenting the original post and comments, but it didn't work out. I don't know why. If anyone wants to tutor me through formatting, I'd be thrilled and thankful.
My post went like this:
“As I sit here, coffee in hand, snowflakes muffle the sounds of the world.
I take a sip, then inhale the cold breeze through the open window. The
ducks on the pond sit, with heads tucked under wings, on half submerged
logs. The snow gently deepens on their backs. Should I invite them in?”
A few friends felt the mood I was in:
V – “Yes, do it!”
JB- “I vote YES!”
This one earned a kiss:
JW- “You're such a writer!!! Love it!”
This one, accusing me of being poetic would have earned a kiss, but she is married.
Extra points for the challenge, though:
KJ- “So poetic...now write about how it turned to rain, and now to sunshine.
I wanted the snowflakes to stay!”
My response:
Me- “Today's weather is like our children. It started with it us saying, "Oh,
how beautiful and wonderful in every way. I wish it could stay this way
forever." Then soon we were saying, "Oh God, you can't be serious, you did
not just do that. Stop it, it, stop it, aarrrgghh, stop it!" (weather and
children make us sound so mature and intelligent). And now we are saying,
"Oh my, look how beautiful you become. Aahhh."
“Oh, and I did invite the ducks in. They looked at me as though I was crazy,
as did the neighbors.”
I love my friends :-)
PS - I tried to do some formatting, indenting the original post and comments, but it didn't work out. I don't know why. If anyone wants to tutor me through formatting, I'd be thrilled and thankful.
Three, and counting
I have to say, I do love to wake up to snow. I'm quite confident that people on the East Coast are not saying the same thing this morning. I'm sorry for them, but those of us here in the Pacific Northwest are enjoying them. Here, snowflakes are few and far between, and they are very often wet, soggy and oh so temporary. One of the little joys that goes along with this is, it seems like I have a new car. The color changes, and it gets clean. Sadly, it has only looked clean once since last winter's snow.
I don't have to go outside to tell that it is a wet snow, though. I can hear the slushy wetness rushing out ahead of rolling tires, as the cars pass by. It lacks the crisp crunchy screech of styrofoam bits being rubbed together.
For now, I'll sit back and sip my coffee by the fire, and be awed and comfortable as the flakes continue to fall.
I don't have to go outside to tell that it is a wet snow, though. I can hear the slushy wetness rushing out ahead of rolling tires, as the cars pass by. It lacks the crisp crunchy screech of styrofoam bits being rubbed together.
For now, I'll sit back and sip my coffee by the fire, and be awed and comfortable as the flakes continue to fall.
Tuesday, December 28, 2010
Can it be, four days?
Four days to go. This isn't as bad as it seemed when I had ten days to go. I think I can do it. Though I'm worried that all this waiting may be causing some poetic constipation.
To occupy myself during this wait, I have been cooking and exercising. I've been looking to find some other great poetry blogs to read, and get inspire me. I guess I just don't have good blog searching skills, because I have stumbled onto very few poetry blogs. If anyone has some great blogs to share, I'd love to hear about them.
I can feel the chill in the air. I think today's exercising will be indoors.
To occupy myself during this wait, I have been cooking and exercising. I've been looking to find some other great poetry blogs to read, and get inspire me. I guess I just don't have good blog searching skills, because I have stumbled onto very few poetry blogs. If anyone has some great blogs to share, I'd love to hear about them.
I can feel the chill in the air. I think today's exercising will be indoors.
Monday, December 27, 2010
Five days to go
I guess this "poetry" blog is getting to be my personal observations blog. I'm guessing that even after the poems start, on the first, you'll still get a bit of this.
For instance, I was looking at the Christmas stockings hanging from the mantle, sure there was a spark of sentiment that I could glean from them that might provoke a poetic mood. There was but the next moment I found myself wondering, 'I wonder how many stockings catch fire each year?," and "Stocking are made out of synthetic fur - what did they used to use? I think polar bear fur would just be too wiry for that cute white band at the top. And the red? What animal has that beautiful red fur for the main body of the stocking. Maybe they went extinct due to the pressure and over harvesting of the Christmas stocking industry. Too bad they didn't come up with synthetic fur sooner. I would have loved to see that beautiful animal with the bright red fur. I wonder what other species they were related too?
I had a thought about car accidents, rain and I.Q.s earlier today, also. I'd put that down here also, but the number of swear words it would take to recreate the mood would fry my hard drive. Expect a poem about that one of these days as well. I'll just allude to the swearing part.
I intend to keep this site kid-safe, though there may be some innuendo along the way, kind of like a good old Looney Tunes cartoon.
For instance, I was looking at the Christmas stockings hanging from the mantle, sure there was a spark of sentiment that I could glean from them that might provoke a poetic mood. There was but the next moment I found myself wondering, 'I wonder how many stockings catch fire each year?," and "Stocking are made out of synthetic fur - what did they used to use? I think polar bear fur would just be too wiry for that cute white band at the top. And the red? What animal has that beautiful red fur for the main body of the stocking. Maybe they went extinct due to the pressure and over harvesting of the Christmas stocking industry. Too bad they didn't come up with synthetic fur sooner. I would have loved to see that beautiful animal with the bright red fur. I wonder what other species they were related too?
I had a thought about car accidents, rain and I.Q.s earlier today, also. I'd put that down here also, but the number of swear words it would take to recreate the mood would fry my hard drive. Expect a poem about that one of these days as well. I'll just allude to the swearing part.
I intend to keep this site kid-safe, though there may be some innuendo along the way, kind of like a good old Looney Tunes cartoon.
Sunday, December 26, 2010
Six
It would be such a wonderful day to begin posting poems. Inside it is warm and silent. The heater is off, the dishwasher has finished its sudsy babbling, even the fire seems to feel the need to be part of the silence. I'm sure it won't last more than a magical moment. Soon, a pocket of pitch in the cedar log will pop in the fireplace, the dogs will raise their questioning heads and one will stretch, then let out a loud yawn followed by the other dog's noisy yawn, followed by one of my own.
Outside, the motion of noise has begun. A cold, wet wind shakes droplets from the blackberry leaves, then rattles the vent over the stove. Now, comes the expected pop from the fire. A loud, "ouch" from me as I jump and strike my knee on the desk. The dogs don't wake though, they are deep. But soon, one will start chasing a rabbit through its dreams. Weak barks will follow, and paws will bat awkwardly at the air of my living room, as they lope gracefully through the grasses of another world. Perhaps it's springtime there?
Outside, the motion of noise has begun. A cold, wet wind shakes droplets from the blackberry leaves, then rattles the vent over the stove. Now, comes the expected pop from the fire. A loud, "ouch" from me as I jump and strike my knee on the desk. The dogs don't wake though, they are deep. But soon, one will start chasing a rabbit through its dreams. Weak barks will follow, and paws will bat awkwardly at the air of my living room, as they lope gracefully through the grasses of another world. Perhaps it's springtime there?
Saturday, December 25, 2010
Seven
Ahh, what a wonderful Christmas Day. I'm sure I'll never match the holidays my mom created for me, but I tried a little this morning. We started the "opening" around nine, and then I fixed my kids a waffle and bacon breakfast. I tried to make biscuits, but for the tenth time, I failed. My friends often call me a gourmet cook, but baking is a bit of a mystery to me. My mom makes biscuits that are fabulous, flakey and oh-so-fine. At Thanksgiving time, she was supposed to teach me how to make them, but when I asked her what I needed to have on hand for it, she left buttermilk off the list so I didn't get my biscuit lesson. Do you think she did that on purpose? Today's biscuits were edible, but not enjoyable. I'm sure she is sitting back enjoying that warm 80 degree Yuma weather, laughing, knowing that I have failed once again with biscuits ... I feel so impotent.
While making breakfast the kids and I watched Inception. It is quite a mind-bender of a sci-fi movie. Now that everything else is finished up, my daughter is playing her new video game (a shared gift, with her brother), Call of Duty: Black Ops, and my son is asleep in the recliner. It has a slightly different feel than the Christmases of my youth.
Maybe I'll sneak in a little Christmas music later.
Wishes of peace and joy to you all, Merry Christmas.
While making breakfast the kids and I watched Inception. It is quite a mind-bender of a sci-fi movie. Now that everything else is finished up, my daughter is playing her new video game (a shared gift, with her brother), Call of Duty: Black Ops, and my son is asleep in the recliner. It has a slightly different feel than the Christmases of my youth.
Maybe I'll sneak in a little Christmas music later.
Wishes of peace and joy to you all, Merry Christmas.
Friday, December 24, 2010
Eight
It is a shame I had decided to wait until January 1st to begin my year of poetry. This season of celebration, lights and family is so filled with emotion, I would have ample fodder for my poetic endeavor. Hopefully, next week I will remember enough to craft with. Here's wishing you a joyous Christmas Eve, if you celebrate it. If you do not, I still wish you a joyous day.
Thursday, December 23, 2010
Nine days to go !!!
12-23-2010
You know what I just realized? No, you probably don't. Well, I just realized that "My Year of Living Poetry" will be a fascinating record of my moods through 2011. How cool would it be if I had always done this? I could look for patterns in my data. Janet would be so excited (Math Geek!). Though she has been scarred before, by the graphing of faked data (Oh Matt, how could you?). I'll have to ask her what the best way the deal with the six "sick" days would be.
I'll show you all the graph at the end :-)
You know what I just realized? No, you probably don't. Well, I just realized that "My Year of Living Poetry" will be a fascinating record of my moods through 2011. How cool would it be if I had always done this? I could look for patterns in my data. Janet would be so excited (Math Geek!). Though she has been scarred before, by the graphing of faked data (Oh Matt, how could you?). I'll have to ask her what the best way the deal with the six "sick" days would be.
I'll show you all the graph at the end :-)
Wednesday, December 22, 2010
Now it is ten ...
12-22-2010
Now, it is ten days to go. I'll be very up front about something. I have a few poems (six) done in advance, as back ups. I will try to deliver one new poem every day. However, so that I don't end up missing any days, I have these ready. Let's call them my sick days. As a teacher, I get 12 sick days. As a Pseudo-employee of myself, during this "year of poetry," I feel a little ripped off.
"Hey, only six sick days? If there were more of me, I/we would go on strike."
As a pseudo-employer of myself, I have to say, "Suck it up you whiner. You are probably going to work about 15 minutes a day on this, and you're bitching?"
"All right, I'll stop worrying about it. I guess I can deal with six days." Yikes, I didn't even think about that. I hope he (I) doesn't (don't) think any more about this or he (I) might pull those six days. Shhhhhh!
Now, it is ten days to go. I'll be very up front about something. I have a few poems (six) done in advance, as back ups. I will try to deliver one new poem every day. However, so that I don't end up missing any days, I have these ready. Let's call them my sick days. As a teacher, I get 12 sick days. As a Pseudo-employee of myself, during this "year of poetry," I feel a little ripped off.
"Hey, only six sick days? If there were more of me, I/we would go on strike."
As a pseudo-employer of myself, I have to say, "Suck it up you whiner. You are probably going to work about 15 minutes a day on this, and you're bitching?"
"All right, I'll stop worrying about it. I guess I can deal with six days." Yikes, I didn't even think about that. I hope he (I) doesn't (don't) think any more about this or he (I) might pull those six days. Shhhhhh!
Tuesday, December 21, 2010
Ten days to go ... or is it?
12-21-2010
Wait, is it ten days? Today is the 21st, hmmm ... 21 + 10 = 31. December has 31 days, doesn't it? Dang that means today is 11 days to go, and yesterday was 12. Don't tell anyone, but I have an accounting degree, shhh!
Wait, is it ten days? Today is the 21st, hmmm ... 21 + 10 = 31. December has 31 days, doesn't it? Dang that means today is 11 days to go, and yesterday was 12. Don't tell anyone, but I have an accounting degree, shhh!
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