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I have two new cats
Yakkity yak, smacky-smack
I have two new cats

And now, some Bad Poetry© based on a dinner at EPCOT’s San Angel Inn (which is very dark, if you’ve never been, or even if you have).

This also sings well to the tune of “I’m a Baby Bumblebee”, in case that helps you, or even if it doesn’t.

There’s a blob of something on my fork
Might be chicken, maybe beef or pork, it’s
Covered in a tasty sauce with cheese
Could somebody tell me what I’m eating please?

© 2010, Michael’s Bad Poetry

Mangled is the bit
Kernel panic screams failure
So free, so happy

I’m quoting my own works here, which might indicate some small lack of effort, or perhaps I’m just saving the environment by recycling. Either way I like this better and I hope you do too.

The debutante Duck was feeling quite sad
so a Daschund she found in a romantic ad
The Duck got a long little doggie to tea
Wonderment happened, now the Platypus Be.

A fetching young grizzly was feeling alone
So off the the zoo bar she went on her own
A handsome young penguin she happened to see
Wonderment happened, now the Panda Bear Be.

That selfsame young Panda had grown up a lot
“Some kids of my own would be perfect!” she thought.
She rode on a Horse and was married to he,
Wonderment happened, now the Ze-boh-rah Be.

A grumpy old Badger was dreaming while nappin’
of a sexy spined Sea Urchin. Hey, strange things happen!
He brought home a wife from his trip to the sea
Wonderment happened, now the Porcupine Be.

Despite all these wild pairings shown unto thee,
Nothing explains why a Congressman Be.

A fetching young grizzly was feeling alone

So off the the zoo bar she went on her own

A handsome young penguin she happened to see

And that’s how the Panda Bear came to be.

Happy New Year, everyone!

I waft on a stream of coincidence
much as I float on a warm sea.

I’ve seen this performance so many times
I sail through my part
not knowing how I know my paths, my motivation, my gestalt
yet knowing I have hit my marks.

Synchronicity fills the air of the real
elbowing in, making it thin
showing me ripples, the gathering echoes,
long before whatever is meant to disturb the stillness
does.

Whether bad manners
or vivid imagination
or desperate portents
or merely reality’s dancing indulgence
is yet to be seen…

or if I have seen already, yet to be reassembled
reconnected
referenced
real.

If Robert steals Alice‘s
identity,
and Alice finds out
and asphyxiates he,
when the police arrive
they will have to decide:
charge her with murder,
or just suicide?