Monkeys with Typewriters

 We poets are all Monkey’s with Typewriters

In cages of flesh,

with fire of thought,

We tap at keys,

by instinct or whim.

A game of chance and rhyme,

An epiphany scrawled,

or gibberish hurled?

A Shakespeare sonnet ,

or monkeys' world?

Each word falls,

a puzzle laid,

‘A world created,

at our fingertips beat.

Poets write

because they have to.

Happy for bananas,

or praise

though money wouldn’t hurt.

The Break up

 The Breakup

I thought Winter  had left me, 

with her cold-hearted ways,

cutting me to the bone.

I was happy to see her go.

now the snow is falling

and the windows are rattling.

Looks like the bitch is back.

                                       ch2024