THIS IS JUST TO SAY
I have run over
the pulled-up weeds
that you left
in the grass
and which
you were apparently thinking
the pulled-up weed fairy
was going to come along and take
Forgive me
they were laying there
in the grass
waiting for you to finish that weed-pulling project that you got tired of.
gales of laughter
Likewise:
Midnight, in a metro dreary, while I waited, weak and weary
Waiting for the train that was supposed to come at 12:04
While I waited, nearly snoring, suddenly there came a roaring;
It vibrated through the flooring, through the platform’s granite floor.
“Tis the train at last,” I muttered, “that doth through the tunnel roar;
Only this…and nothing more.”
This took place, I recollect, at metro station Joliette,
And no westbound train had yet disturbed the silence the air bore;
Eagerly I wish’d to be rolling to Place-St-Henri
Where at home awaited me dinner warm and bed in store;
A larder full of victuals and a comfy bed in store;
At that point I wish’d no more.
And the truly hideous styling metro Joliette reviling
Made me want to flee the urine-yellow walls and hideous floor;
So that now to quell the violence of the hues, I closed my eyelids
And awaited the train’s pilot’s ingress and the opening door;
The ka-thunk that doth accompany the opening of the door;
This I wanted, nothing more.
Presently the roar diminished, but my wait was not yet finished;
For no metro train stood waiting, and by this time I was sore;
“Truly,” muttered I in summing, as my fingers started drumming,
“Longer is this train in coming then my third boyfriend Igor,
Who would leave my wrist exhausted when we coupled - that Igor -
Him I’m glad to see no more.”
Then more hollow than a funnel came the roar from out the tunnel,
So I walk’d unto the gunwale and continued waiting for
The train which to me was promis’d; but t’was cursed by St. Thomas,
By the callous Doubting Thomas who believèd not that roar;
For no train’s swift advance produced that falsely cheerful roar,
Silenced now forevermore.
And your poet, never flitting, still am sitting, still am sitting,
Here in hideous Joliette metro, or am pacing 'long the floor;
For the train that would have banished all this boredom seems t’have vanished,
In some strange Klein-bottle tunnel which the drivers all abhor;
And my soul shall from this metro station which I do abhor
Be transported - nevermore!
So much depends
upon
a red wheel
barrow
filled with pulled
weeds
beside the dirty
driveway
Some say the lawn will end in weeds
Some say from drought.
From what I know of how a dandelion breeds
I hold with those who favor weeds.
But, if I know what I’m about
I think I know enough of weather
To say that for destruction drought is also clever
And leave no doubt.
Brilliant, all of you!
Whose weeds these are I think I know
The house is facing the other way, though
They will not see me stop right here
And leave the rest of the weeds to grow.
They, will, of course, think it queer
That I stopped with the end so near
But I think I need a break
So I will go and get some beer.
And maybe walk down to the lake
While he the lawnmower will take
And run over that blasted weed
While I bask in the sun and bake.
I do not regret my dastardly deed
For I lie here and feed
I do not care to go back and weed
I do not care to go back and weed.
I don’t know who wrote this one but it seems he was a Brit and not in a good mood.
… After reading it, one might be tempted to say he was in a fowl mood.
One might. But I won’t - I value my life too much 
** I Will Alarm Islamic Owls**
by William Carlos Williams
I will be alarming
the Islamic owls
that are in
the barn
and which
you warned me
are very jittery
and susceptible to loud noises
Forgive me
they see so well in the dark
so feathery
and so dedicated to Allah
From the Holy Tango of Poetry.
[sup]© 2001 by Modern Humorist, Inc.[/sup]