I thought I’d write fifty-five sonnets
And a novel as well, while I’m here
But the writers’ block fell on me
Fellow poets yelled at me
All I could make was a tear.
Will villanelles be better subjects
If all I want is quantity?
I never knew what they were,
The very name seemed bizarre.
How hard is my job going to be?
Well, maybe the triolet being shorter
Will give me a kick in the pants
My husband is watching me
His ashes rise from the TV
He said ,why can’t you get a big grant
I used to write free verse when starting
As I never thought I’d go on
But the demon-possessed me
It gets very pesky
And Jesus b’aint here, eeh by gum!
I wrote on some paper at dinner
For my husband had got very slow
I wrote two good sonnets
I am very honest.
I didn’t ken that was death’s door
He said, why don’t you talk to me, Mary
Instead of misusing that pen.
But he knew nothing of logic
Which I felt was quite tragic
So I put him to bed with a hen.
I see the hens as a blessing
Instead of a duvet of down.
They may lay an egg in bed
But as Jesus , no doubt, once said
The cock will crow thrice for a noun
How my heart sings 