A deep spelunking of my archives found these efforts from my late teens or early twenties, I think.
LOVE AT THE POETRY SLAM
Love is the only subject for poetry, she proclaimed!
Love is what we write on!
If love is the only subject it certainly explains
the reason poets fight on.
So we sit in a room and write about love,
wracking our brains to do it:
Is love a flower, a song, or a dove—
or gum, after we chew it?
Love is the only subject for us!
Our pens are true and bold!
Love can be written without too much fuss,
for true love can never get old.
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UNFOCUSED SONNET
The passing moments take me by surprise:
Each second comes and suddenly is gone,
Then comes and goes the next, and time flows on,
And every minute flees before my eyes.
Here in this passing we are too soon spent.
Each passing hour touches eternity,
And never will return again—but we
Become subsumed in how to pay the rent.
The sonnet form is harder than you think!
When halfway through without a conclusion
The poet's thoughts all turn to confusion
(Though she may take some solace in pink ink).
The last couplet is the grand finale:
In theory, it's a hot tamale!
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