Shall I write of thee on this April’s day?
Thou art more lovely and more of plastic:
rough joints may plague thee– but hey!
some of this at least has been fantastic.
Sometime too hot the orange palette shines,
and often the pale complexion yellows
and every fair of toy sometime reminds,
by chance, of your franchise’s changing fellows.
But thy eternal glimmer shall not fade
nor lose possession of that mode thou ow’st
nor shall rust brag thou crumbl’st in its shade
when also in eternal lineart thou grow’st.
So long as haters seethe and eyes can roll
out loud I commit to you my own soul.
(After Sonnet 18; following Napowrimo.net prompt.)
I have neglected
that was meant
you were probably
to be better
but it isn’t
deal with it
I am actually fairly annoyed at myself for not getting one done on the 26th. Have a themed pun.
How do I love thee? Let me count the ways.
I love thee to the depth and breadth and height
my hand can reach, when feeling to the right
and left of the box, as just a trace
of sweet clings to my fingers like glaze.
I feel the need to take a little bite.
I love thee sweetly and thy coat of white
I love thy insides soft, held by maize
starch – and yes, that is the British use.
I love thee, sweet child, and mourn your death
at my hands, tongue and teeth; and I mmfl mng
I luvmnmm thmm hgmnmngnnn nomnomnomnom.
(Sorry, Elizabeth Barrett Browning)