When it comes to grocery shopping, I’m a bona fied full-cart girl.
Poetically, not so much: give me 12 items or less, some space, please.
Wordy drawn-out sentences present me in southern drawl, chaos crawl.
Whitman had his leaves, of grass, of nature’s beauty, of himself, of time.
Me, I do not want to purr in thankfulness or vast benevolence.
I want short sips of gratitude, long gulps of ardent skysong sigh-lence.
If I have already confused you, you might as well stop reading now.
It’s not gonna get any better as we trip along these l o n g lines.
They’ve got all the time in the sky to spill, but I wouldn’t hold my breath.
Each one is a wee slow death, and I long to breathe, and leave myself be.
Hindsight might be 20/20, but we’ve got plenty of eyes to see.
Seize the day they say and carpe diem to you, too, true blue – blue moon.
I swoon over spaces, places to pillow my phrase, whimsy my way.
Play is pithy; pity we don’t do it more, score ourselves some rare smiles.
Some poets have miles and miles and miles to go, but I’m a soul sprinter.
Splinter a phrase, fracture all fragments for days, skip the iambic, quick.
Long lines are peanut butter on the roof of my mouth, laid on too thick.
Written for NaPoWriMo, day 27.