Sibling Limericks

Four kids, we were much like a flock of sheep

A fractious bunch, even with Bo Peep 

Our mother watched over this frisky lot

Like ewes in the pasture, ready to trot

Sweet memories when I’m going to sleep 

  

Steven is like a New Year’s Eve blast

A rowdy youth, his chums called him fast 

He imbibed a strong drink

Gave the girls a wink 

And never lamented his past  

Peter is like a museum of art

A passion for beauty runs through his heart 

A photo artiste

Paint and brush, he’s a beast 

A Renaissance man from the start 

Vicki, our sis, like a jazz quartet 

Soulful music though sometimes she’ll fret 

A minor’s her key

Her riffs give us glee 

Such vocals we’ll never forget 

David is more like a cemetery at night

Moody, morose, often poised for flight

Quiet as a tomb

His mind toys with doom

But with siblings he feels less uptight

As a family we’re sort of a Swedish stew

All these fine flavors go into the brew  

True, no two are alike 

A happy medium we strike  

And that said, I will bid you adieu

From My Poetry Room

In a hollow cavity at the back of my mind

there is a hidden room 

where I go when I need to write a poem

I simply close my eyes, grit my teeth, and pass through the portal 

shutting the sturdy door firmly behind me

A room that smells of lilacs and peppermint schnapps

decorated in pastel stripes

Fuscia, lavender, eggplant, plum

Thelonious Monk might be playing Misterioso in the background

Or Miles Davis, Sketches of Spain 

A large bay window on the North wall

displays a series of inspiring scenes

The Menominee River, Ludlow Avenue at dusk 

children at play in the forest

the beach at Siesta Key 

wretched souls in the fifth circle of Hell 

Life-sized portraits on the East wall stare back at me

Dorothy Parker, Ferlinghetti, Hilaire Belloc 

Charles Bukowski, Spike Milligan, Langston Hughes 

A digital message board is mounted on the South wall 

depicting an endless array of poetry prompts

Neurotic anxieties, Valentine wishes, what dogs get confused about

horrid parents, the lucky number 3, cryptids, arthritic joints

On the West wall placards list instructions for poetic forms

Villanelle, Kyriele, Shadorma

Triolet, Ghazal, Rondeau, Oviellejo   

Two armchairs await in the corner

One, plush and over-stuffed, prompts a gentle flow of poetic imagery

The other vibrates madly and shakes loose long buried ideas

For sustenance, the mini-refrigerator offers

Lorna Doone cookies and Canadian whiskey  

On the counter, half a dozen corked vials

contain smelling salts that induce emotions of choice

Joy, torment, grief, longing, mild amusement, confusion 

There at my desk a yellow legal pad, a laptop computer, a #2 pencil 

a thesaurus, a rhyming dictionary, a copy of Bartlett’s Quotations  

I am actually sitting in my poetry room at this very moment

writing this poem for you

I had planned to take a lunch break but

the door is locked, I’ve lost the key

I do have all the necessities

I will just stay here locked in my room 

until the end of my days