Today, I’m still on thinking sports and plan to send this one out into left field. It’s the bottom of the fifth and I need a home run. But I may just strike out. You be the umpire. (Or maybe you may think that I’m way out of left field which means odd or strange.)
This poem doesn’t have a sports theme, but it may be a bit odd. Please enjoy.
Writing poetry gives me a high, And I'll explain the reason why; Finding words that tell how I feel And making them rhyme gives me a thrill. It's not without its problems though; Sometimes the phrases just won't flow. oft-times when images come to mind, The precise words are hard to find. Even trying to write this verse Can't even rhyme verse-what could be worse? And I find it awfully hard to compose With my thoughts withering away like last years dried rose. Sometimes thoughts come to me in dreams But the idea on waking is not what it seems. It's funny how thoughts can pass And elusively stay beyond one's grasp. Now the word I cannot find And as a result I'm now resigned To try and use another word But a rhyme for it I've never heard. But whoa! I remember my rhyme for verse-- I've remembered by word, a word that is terse. Now hoping the thoughts completing this rhyme Will not escape my pen this time. "A rose is a rose," the old saying goes That was originally written as prose. Saying "a word is a word," will not make it belong Ands that's the reason my poem's grown long.