Ode to Whatever

Blood Moon

Didn’t know what to write about,
For my weekly rant and rave,
Deciding not to yell and shout,
Inscribing a poem instead.

Who wants to read a litany of complaints,
Penned faithfully by yours truly every week?
How did Andy Rooney get away with it,
Every Sunday on 60 Minutes when he did speak?

Putting together a rhyme is not an easy chore,
While attempting to make sense, tell a story, and not be a bore,
Counting words as I go, searching for some more,
Four hundred left to meet my quota before closing this journal’s door.

Looking for some merriment to bestow upon my devoted readers,
My thoughts are obstructed like when rocks fill the inside of a bird-feeder.
Mounds of complaints lay steadfastly in my mind,
A virtual broom to sweep the hollows of my head is what I must find.

Two more hours before my posting deadline awaits,
And yet I’m not halfway through this poetic debate.
Not complaining but beginning to raise a sweat,
Worrying about finding more verses before the time is spent.

Trying to remain forever lighthearted and filled with glee,
Is tougher than titanium for a guy like me,
A chap perceptibly a descendant of Diogenese,
A cynic in every conceivable way to be.

Reviewing this past week’s turns of events,
Leaving out politics which lately has really been hell-bent,
On making people miserable at our own expense,
While pampering legislative egos who think they’re all heaven-sent.

Can’t help but mention this nation’s predicament,
While not trying to offend, so for that I omit,
Anything or anyone that has something to do,
With the gripes held by many, resulting from so few.

But let’s get away from Washington, D.C. for now,
This is supposed to be happy, not mentioning political cows,
With all the BS that has fallen amiss,
Let us all take a moment and live in bliss.

In the US, Winter Storm Harper is barreling through,
The worst has left the West and Mid-West askew,
And now the Northeast has to take it on the chin,
Thankfully in Philadelphia rain is how it begins.

A quick polar vortex is following this mess,
Arriving here on Sunday, supposedly our day of rest,
Continuing on Monday, a holiday for Martin Luther King Jr.,
Freezing our proverbial jewels, observing an eclipse that’s lunar.

Now there’s a happy thought,
A Super Blood Moon and lunar eclipse can be caught,
Starting Sunday night EST at around 11 o’clock,
Lasting until 2 a.m. when it will depart.

Just be sure to dress appropriately,
As if you were in the Tundra, North Pole, seriously,
But that’s mainly for east of the Mississippi,
Where the polar vortex will be gripping our bippy.

Full Super Blood Moon-Lunar Eclipse in 2014, in case it gets too cold to go outside and see it.

Less than 50 words to go,
Can’t believe I didn’t stoop so low,
As to fill this poem with useless wit,
And calling anyone a bumbling twit.

But as I said, let’s leave politics out of this,
And anybody else whom I can diss,
After all, no complaining in this diatribe,
Has to be noteworthy, one of a kind, for this wannabe scribe.

To compensate and to make this right all wrong,
Allow me to express my complaints in a song…

Thanks for stopping by and for your continued support.

About Mike Slickster

As an early retiree with an honorary doctorate degree from the proverbial "School of Hard Knocks," this upcoming author with a lot of free time on his hands utilizes his expansive repertoire for humorous yet tragic, wildly creative writing that contains years of imaginative fantasy, pure nonsense, classic slapstick, extreme happiness and searing heartbreak; gathered by a wealth of personal experiences throughout his thrilling—sometimes mundane or unusually horrid—free-spirited, rock-'n'-roller-coaster ride around our beloved Planet Earth. Mike Slickster's illustrious quest continues, living now in Act Three of his present incarnation, quite a bit on the cutting edge of profundity and philosophical merriment as seen through his colorful characters, most notably evident in the amusing Thirty Days Across the Big Pond series, all of which can be found at Lulu.com.
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