Monday, March 18, 2013

Eating Pie.

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.

My day’s a long
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.

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

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.

My retreat’s careful plan leaves loose end,
But strait-laced mind need to roam—

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).

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 …

The day is now in debt,
Dusk ate sky’s blue.
March fourteenth won’t renew.

Yet still,
In some magic way time seems to die,
And forever, I will
Eat pie.

©2013 Marty Reeder