#Micropoetry Monday: The Writer’s Life

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Her poetic license had no expiration date,
for she went around putting line breaks
where she thought they should be,
inserting the Oxford comma wherever she went,
omitting needless words,
adverbs,
& clichés,
for just as brevity was literary minimalism,
clarity was literary purity.

When she brainstormed,
her fingers were like lightning
across the keyboard,
her words like thunder
as she hammered away at a clump of words
to create a viable human-interest story.

It was reading, writing, & arithmetic
in grammar school,
academics, arts, & athletics
in college.
Sara Lee Storey excelled in the arts,
writing about the academics, 
& editing the words of those
who wrote about athletics.

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#Micropoetry Monday: Opposites

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Sham & Wow were an odd couple,
Sham, the messy one,
Wow, the neat one,
but together,
they were the perfect oddity
that was a commodity,
for without the Wow,
Sham was a fraud,
& without the Sham,
Wow was just a common,
upside-down
tattoo.

He was Generation X,
she, Generation Y.
Though algebra wasn’t her thing,
she knew enough to know that
this x+y was the solution,
not the problem.

Lil’s passion was dumbbells & barbells,
Lily’s, poetics & texts of the literary kind,
but they were the best of friends—
until they shared a love for a thing called Chad,
who was as well-muscled as he was eggheaded.
When 2 sets of scratches ended up on his back,
that’s when the cat nipping turned into a
no-nails-barred cat fight.

#Micropoetry Monday: The Lighter Side

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The Brotherhood of the Traveling Boxers
hit a snag on its debut,
for one man’s junk was just not another man’s treasure.

When Left Sock met Right Sock,
they felt unique & wonderfully-knitted,
until they ended up in the underwear drawer
with Panty, who told them they were
interchangeable—
destined to depreciate with every use.

Though their husbands were known as
“Team Wilma” & “Team Betty,”
Kiki & Lulu had no recourse,
for they’d already found their Barney & Fred.

#Micropoetry Monday: Strong Women

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Mrs. Richardson lived a life of sticky notes,
monthly planners, & endless to-do lists,
& was often bombarded with emails & texts
for the times she couldn’t be there
or they couldn’t be there.
She spent too much time
trying to coordinate
a fraction of time
that didn’t conflict with jobs or classes
or anything else.
So she looked forward to the incredible luxury
of a career that wouldn’t follow her home,
but could,
nevertheless,
buy her one.

Marnie Owens spent her days
slaying needless words,
knocking out commas,
& stopping run-on sentences
in their muddy tracks.
She even killed
a story or two sometimes.
Her evenings were spent
moonlighting
as a Math Lab supervisor,
yet she didn’t know
a differential equation from
a non-differential equation
& thought of cube roots
as the 3-D version
of the square root.
She was no Charlie’s Angel,
but she managed to work
on a novel in her free time
& make it home in time
to read her little girl a bedtime story,
for such was all in day’s work.

Melody Doremi was a fashion dessert plate,
every piece she wore making a statement.
For some,
the message was a little too hot,
for others,
a little too cold;
for others still,
it was total umami.
Weary of the coverage,
she ditched her clothes altogether,
only to realize there was no longer
a way
to cover up the tattoos that said it all.

#Micropoetry Monday: The Writer’s Life

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Subject & Verb had a disagreement,
for Dynamic Verb believed it was superior
to Static Subject,
until Verb realized that without a vessel,
his work could not be done,
& Subject realized that without some action,
no one would care.
It was then they decided that the real enemy
was the Adverb—
an extremely, incredibly, annoyingly extraneous
part of speech.

Through her typewriter,
the introvert known as Elizabeth von Baron
became known as Dear Libby,
so that as she became established in the spirit,
her shyness,
in the flesh,
disintegrated.

She scribbled on the walls,
a pre-literate graffiti,
a magenta crayon being her tool of choice.
She drew her stories on the carbon paper
her mother brought home,
each picture numbering 1000 words.
She wrote her stories in black-&-white
composition notebooks—
stories that rewrote her history—
so that she became the worst sort
of unreliable narrator,
for she plagiarized from no one’s life,
not even her own.

#Micropoetry Monday: Opposites

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He took astronomy,
to understand the universe.
She took humanities,
to understand the world.

She filled cradles,
he, caskets.
She was young at heart,
he, an old soul.
They served their purposes,
with purpose,
if not on purpose,
for he’d inherited his father’s business,
& she,
a life of indentured surrogacy.

When Yankee ingenuity
met Southern hospitality,
they each felt superior—
the Reb,
with their manners,
& the Yank,
with their side having won
the war.

#Micropoetry Monday: The Lighter Side

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Chaos & Control were 2 of a mother,
Chaos, preferring the surf side any day,
Control, poolside & the sound side
only on green flag days.
Control retained her hourglass figure,
whereas Chaos had been as shapely
as every fruit in the basket.

Sir Benedict was a good egg,
always on the sunny side,
though sometimes he got scrambled
when he came out of his shell.
He could also be hard-boiled when unwell,
when his chicken-hearted mother,
who was bit on the overly easy side
would coddle him,
basting him with soup–
courtesy of one of his relatives.

Mr. Ruffles was known for his candies—
his chocolaterie being a real jimdandy.
Yet he was pounded into mincemeat,
when he dipped the shroomy truffle sweets
into the magic that made him randy.