A Poet’s Lament

Hubby is quiet
Most of the time
Except when I
Am trying to rhyme

I compose a poem
Once every week
I aim for jolly
And never bleak

Hubby knows
My Sunday plan
In fact, of my poems
He’s rather a fan

I pick up my pen
To begin the ditty
Aiming for clever
Charming and witty

Hubby gets chatty
The moment I start
I have to tell him
I’m not that smart

I can’t converse
And rhyme together
Talk to me later
About the weather

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The Sunday Night Blues

When it comes to Sundays
They have a way
Of going where they will
No matter what I say

I always make plans
To get a lot done
But what else comes up?
Most everything under the sun

My to-do list lingers
With nothing crossed off
It’s as if Sunday knows
At my lists it should scoff

I plan to go shopping
But a call from a friend
Sets me back hours
The thing never ends

Once I get to the store
My needs they don’t stock
Sunday showed them my list
Clerk says check down the block

But the shop down the street
Today closes early
I go home empty-handed
My mood turning surly

Okay, I’ll try laundry
But lo, I’m out of soap
Maybe I’ll go back to bed
Cuz’ I’m finding it hard to cope

Sunday night is now here
I give up and drink wine
Next Sunday will go better
And everything will be fine

But deep down and honestly
I already know
Next Sunday’s to-do list
To the winds I should throw

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