I missed “Poem in your pocket day”

Dagnabit. It was on April 14th.

I found out about this
through Digital Cuttlefish,
but is it now too late
to properly participate?

Alas, there is a lack
of calendars to track
this type of information.

Oh, what am I
to do to try
to make up for this abomination?

I guess I have to write it now
and hope you all forgive me.
What’s the best way to remember? How?
I’ll forget again next year, just wait, you’ll see.

Then again, it isn’t like
a day to write needs saying
Any minute, any hour
can be a time for playing.

All it takes is time,
a little drive, ambition.
It doesn’t even have to rhyme
I just tend to make that happen naturally. It’s a gift, what can I say?

So there is it, the poem from me,
this year’s late addition
to what really, seriously, ought to be
a lifelong, loved, tradition.

Anyway, the point of the day is to actually share favourite poems, not write your own necessarily.

So, now I’ll share mine. It’s hardly insightful or anything but a favourite it is and has been for 20 years or so. It’s called “Haunted” and not even Google could help me find an author for it. I’d copied it into a poetry journal I made in school. Fortunately I kept that. I never could have quoted it verbatim otherwise.

One summer day down by the lake
I threw a stone at a little snake.
I only meant to scare him some
And to relieve the tedium.
It didn’t just scare him. It killed him dead
Now his thin little ghost comes each night to my bed.

He comes every night and gives me no rest,
He curls on my pillow, he lies on my chest.
He wails in his little snake voice, so pathetic
His little snake sobbings so soft and poetic.

“Oh why did you kill me, you nasty big brute
When I was so little, and helpless, and cute?
Now I’ll never feel sun and I’ll never eat fruit
Or talk to a newt but you don’t give a hoot.
With that horrid big rock you just put me away
Now I’ll haunt you and haunt you until you are grey.”

He doesn’t pay heed to my pitiful cries.
He just lies there and stares with his little snake eyes.
His tiny snake body full of sorrow and spite.
His little snake body so see-through and white.

I can’t tell my mother. I can’t tell my dad.
For I know I’ve been wicked, I know I’ve been bad.
With this weird little ghost, I know I’ll be cursed
Till I’m old or I’m dead, whichever comes first.

About 1minionsopinion

Canadian Atheist Basically ordinary Library employee Avid book lover Ditto for movies Wanna-be writer Procrastinator
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