Some Saturdays are entertaining and filled with fun. Today (for me) wasn’t one of those Saturdays. Attempting to get a head-start on my usual April 15th scramble, I carved out today to get the annual torment completed. And, much as I expected, the tedious exercise took the best part of my day. (Can anyone say Fair Tax or Flat Tax?)
No, I’m not going to moan and complain in this space. I probably couldn’t because after spending the day with my eyes glued to a computer screen and to a variety of small-print tax forms and instruction booklets, my brain is fried anyway.
Besides, it’s National Poetry Month! Would I really allow myself to be driven into the doldrums by taxes when they’re not the only game in town?
Sadly, yes, I would. At first, I thought to simply reblog my post from April 15, 2014, which was a simple limerick about the dreadfulness of Tax Day. But I’m reluctant to reblog, because my brain (even fried as it is) will then accuse me of laziness. (Anyone suffer this strange malady? Please say yes and I’ll feel better!)
Instead, I offer this weak effort … in true NaPoWriMo fashion, a poem composed start to finish on this day … coming as it were from my desperately fried brain. (I can’t be accused of laziness now, though I’m quite ready to admit the poem is far from my best work.)
Yes! You asked for someone to say it and now I have. Just arrived home from church where I received a good preaching about perfectionism. Sometimes it is allowed to repeat a blog or poem or just not sweep the floor! It’s not always laziness. Sometimes it is freedom from the tyranny of perfectionism! Woohoo!
Oh, Debbie. What would I do without your encouragement? But truly, you haven’t seen my house lately … you would know the floors have gone a long while without being swept, much to my shame! (If only I were more obsessive about cleaning!)
Believe me, my house goes way too long with nary a touch these days. I did clean fairly well this week, only because I may have a stranger coming to spend a couple of nights here to attend a conference at our church. There are simply too many more important and fulfilling pursuits for us at our age. Dirt is so boring.
WB I get the same guilt when I re-post old stuff. It comforts me somewhat to know other poetry-bloggers have such ridiculous worries. I enjoyed this poem. Is there a name for this type of verse-structure?
So glad I’m not alone on this! I have a million ways to perceive myself as a slacker and suspect I’m not the only one. As to form, I think it’s sort of a modified limerick structure. I just think of it simply as light verse.