A frog who could dance up a jig
Went to Nashville to make it big
She set out for the disco
Ended up in some Crisco
Seems it wasn’t that type of gig
So often when I write a poem
And wait for a critique,
My husband, who’s my audience,
Believes it needs a tweak.
That last verse isn’t needed –
It’s a summary, you know.
Of course I do, but that way
It’s tied up, complete with bow.
I read the piece again, his way,
And often, he’s correct.
A shorter version would provide
The ending you’d expect.
But there are times I disagree
And keep the extra verse,
Which I think makes it better
(Though my husband thinks it’s worse).
Tonight we change the clocks, which means
Tomorrow when I wake,
The world will look transparent
And will not appear opaque.
It’s nice to have some morning light
But not worth what we lose
And darkness in the afternoon
Is not what I would choose.
For shorter days just make me
Want to hurry up inside,
Cocooning in the coziness
That lamps and lights provide.
But that’s a paltry substitute
For sunshine and fresh air
And when the daylight lingers late
Indoors just can’t compare.
We can’t fight City Hall, they say,
So I’ll reset the time
But I can still complain and oh,
I love to kvetch in rhyme!
This dreadful and unpleasant thought
to reach the end of every road...
never occurred as I carried my load;
wasn't happiness what I sought?
As a very young man with contagious smiles,
I only saw fun days and romantic nights,
assuming they always brought joy, never strife...
but how close was I getting to the other life?
They warned me to be as cautious as a lizard,
to walk slowly and steadily look forward;
their words I didn't heed; even mother with her sixth sense
noticed I was going too fast, thus shortening the distance.
Birth is the beginning of a quest
which is unseen to human eyes,
sadly ending on our unpredictable death,
but not living another day shortens that distance.
Who decides our fate in ways so drastic,
unfolding events happy or tragic?
Who diverges the course of our days,
when hopelessness grips our desperate souls?
If dreams are built to become exinct,
to suddenly turn into detritus and dust...
devastating us enough to dessicate the expanse
of hope, why is joy lacking the feeling of genuiness?
Despair is utterly exgeneous,
exploding when thoughts become tense,
expanding as wild fire to burn everything
in its destructive path...leaving only embers behind.
Some choose to end life,
not valuing its sacredness and purpose;
shouldn't we be thrilled to exist as David was
and be immensely grateful, or defiantly denounce our belief?
Gracefully age as Moses did,
never thinking of shortening the distance;
gain more wisdom as you live...
to discern what's beyond madness to reduce incidence.
Looking for the formal definition, structure, and history of this poetry form? Visit the Poetry Dictionary entry below. Then return to explore how PoetrySoup members bring the form to life through their own poems.