I heard about writing "Pilish" poems from my poetry club. (Yes, I'm in a poetry club. Yes, that is as hipster as it gets. No, the other people in the club won't acknowledge I'm in it. No, I don't have anymore comments about said poetry club.) Basically, you write a poem using the number sequence of Pi to determine how many letters each word in the poem has. I adjusted it from letters in a word to syllables in a line, since I find myself to be much more of a syllable guy. I guess you could say I'm "sylly" that way. Ahem. Sorry. Anyway, the result is the poem below. Enjoy!
Eating Pie.
Well,
My day’s a long
Tale,
And here is its song:
Early in the morning, I go out
To school
And give inspiring shout
To girls in the pool.
Then shower
And quickly get dressed;
Making a rush to sit for an hour,
Rehearsing a short skit, slightly messed.
After time unacknowledged
The bell rings, and I go for my prep.
Lessons polished,
Next step.
Assembly,
Some chaos, the thrill of the lights.
I state humbly,
Ours, the show’s best of sights.
Then back,
Second hour soon commences:
Teaching attack,
Class winces.
One more show
Leads into quickening classes,
To and fro
Masses.
Lunch is a break, right? Ha ha!
Clamoring students need help with grades,
Not quite Shangri-la!
School’s out!
But still plenty grading is left;
I sit, I stare, I almost pout—
A break bereft.
Home.
My retreat’s careful plan leaves loose end,
But strait-laced mind need to roam—
Bend.
Weather confirms the thought,
And home holds the promise I expect
Then a blot—
A forgotten meeting in mind crept.
With regret I leave my family,
Oh so dear,
Attend this meeting, manly
(Though turn a deaf ear).
Then
Race to home again,
Fighting daylight’s lowering tide.
“What waste!”
I charge against the day in my haste.
“Life’s too busy to enjoy!”
Home welcomes me,
Though not with craziness pre-bedtime.
I smell, not see,
My reward’s sign.
It’s an apple pie!
A sweet-smelling symbol of my home.
And I?
I want some!
Not content just to eat it,
We head to the balcony and …
Sit!
The day is now in debt,
Dusk ate sky’s blue.
March fourteenth won’t renew.
March fourteenth won’t renew.
Yet still,
In some magic way time seems to die,
And forever, I will
Eat pie.
©2013 Marty Reeder
