(another poem gone rogue)
It’s not my fault,
really.
This poem has chosen
her own name.
Also her own war
-drobe, which somewhat explains
the periwinkle pointed hat
and purple pumps with
stripey socks
(what is she, a witch?)
Hey, at least it’s not her birthday
suit,
like last time.
Duly donned and smartly rhymed,
she has informed me she
would be quite content
to meet you in her tree
-house. I cannot recommend
this, as she is fond
of playing double
-Dutch
among the leafy fronds.
She’s borrowed a dozen
hyphens from her sister,
Fiberloo. She’s full of spun
sugar and sparkle-glue
and she’s wielding finger
-paints with glee.
Oh, lort. Now there’s a
wayward lemur involved.
And a smallish dragon
who has just accidentally
burned his own tongue.
Anybody got a spare back
-space key?
I need more coffee. I need a nap.
I need to slap this poem
on the knee and send her to bed.
But
instead,
I think I shall see if my plum
tutu is clean and lean
into all this silly
-ness. Perhaps we shall sip
pink peppermint tea, and play
a game or two of giggle-guide
and seek.
Annnnnd now she’s made a big
unmetered moon
-pie mess.
Oh, bless.
::
In April, we poem.
See also:
Whimsygizmo's Blog 
That title, sheesh!
This is the very best possible thing you can do with “war.” So very redeeming to suffix it with “drobe.”
Periwinkle and purple are perfect personality matches.
That whole bit about the treehouse was so much fun.
Love love love:
“She’s borrowed a dozen
hyphens from her sister,
Fiberloo. She’s full of spun
sugar and sparkle-glue”
“Oh, lort” made me snort!
Nuts (no bolts) over the last full stanza.
“moon pie mess”—giggles
How are you still writing this well after the 20th of April??? You are seriously blowing my mind.
I think this is your best collection yet. Well done, love.