Here it is: The final day.
The year that was will fade away.
With this poem I complete my goal
To write a poem a day, each somewhat droll.
And so completed, I look ahead
From the unfair comfort of my bed.
I feel happy and somewhat zen,
And I think I’ll do it all again!
If “penultimate” means second to last,
And Pennsylvania is not as cool
As Transylvania of the past,
We have confirmed a rule:
“Pen,” the prefix, implies lesser status.
Now I, being a man with taste
Have used the pencils advertised at us
Even though that’s apparently a waste.
I think public education
Could improve the endowment of skill
If we reduced frustration
And gave our kids a cil.
Let’s make our schools the very best:
Use a #1 cil on standardized tests!
Pretty much everything
Goes well most of the time,
But every now and then
One can’t think of a rhyme.
I’d written the first couplet,
But not the one that followed it.
‘Twas on the tip of my tongue,
But, alas, I think I swallowed it.
A man with an ax
Can hurt one without,
And we know how a man
With a gun can turn out,
But the most dangerous weapon
A madman may use
Is to gather up quotes
And selectively choose
The ones that deliver
Whatever he’s thinkin’.
“This poet’s correct.”
Is smarter than me.
Would bring me bliss.
For Sarah Connor
I’d be a goner.
I always swoon
For Sailor Moon.
The Vampire Slaya,
Buttercup, Blossom, and Belle.
Pretty swell, huh?
They’d all suit me so well.
I stare at my breakfast,
The eggs and the bacon,
And ask why all the good girls
Are fictional or taken.
‘Twas a short and hectic year
That crawled by a month at a time.
I ended most days with sleep
And started all with a rhyme.
I was unemployed for a while
But somehow I survived
And avoid flagellation.
I discovered the forbidden joys
Of anime and manga,
Continued doing improv,
And never lined a conga.
Now I work with Aflac,
With my days spent on the road,
But when I go to sleep at night
My shoulders lose a load
Because when I pull the covers
Over my weary head
I’m an undercover agent
Whom no government wants dead.
‘Twas a five-and-a-half stanza year.
Thanks for laughing with me here.
I raised my chimney nine inches
When I remodeled my home.
It makes the opening hard to reach
For a reindeer, elf, or gnome,
So I installed a dumbwaiter
To help the givers out.
It makes it hard to build a fire,
But I feel like it gives me clout.
Three wisemen sat on a log,
In contemplation of a bog.
The first wiseman said “if you will,
“Take a look at the rise of the hill.
“See its gentle, curving side
“Not so unlike my long-lost bride.”
The second wiseman inclined his head
To graying waters, and he said
“Think about this water, rife
“With pestilence, and yet with life.”
The third wiseman felt all alone
As he sat staring at his phone.
He wanted Christmas poetry,
Yet found the Daily Travesty.
The first wiseman, nostalgia found.
The second wiseman almost drowned.
The third wiseman followed the blog
As he sat with the others on a log.
The bog itself was still, unchanged.
This poem, however, is deranged.
Follow your star
Wherever it leads.
Reap the fruits of desire
With your dreams as the seeds.
Follow your star
To your destiny’s stage.
Embrace life’s uniqueness,
Follow your star
Into infinite space.
I just hope that it leads you
Far away from my face.
I always thought I was the type of pig
Who built his house of bricks,
But on my online dating profile
I referred to women as “chicks.”
I don’t know how I’ll find true love,
After dropping such a bomb.
I guess the fire that burned my bridge
Started with a match.com