Yes, unfortunately I fell behind. So, I write two poems today to make up for it.
Yesterday’s prompt was to write a poem inspired by noir. Since I didn’t write a poem yesterday, I wrote one today that makes fun of me neglecting to write. It isn’t very good, but it should be entertaining.
Today’s prompt was to write an “un-love” poem. Read the post to understand what that means. I’m not sure mine fits that description. It’s a little too serious, I think. Regardless, I hope you enjoy.
Mystery of the Missing Poem
By Nathan Marchand
I’d just lit up my cigarette when she came in.
That cliché beautiful blonde who always bugged me.
Said it was April, which meant it was NaPoWriMo.
“What the H-E-double hockey sticks is that?” I asked.
“National Poetry Writing Month,” she replied.
“What does that have to do with me?”
“Someone was supposed to write a poem
For me yesterday, but he didn’t give it to me.
I need you to find it. Please, I beg you!”
She batted her overlong eyelashes at me.
I, also being a cliché, have a weakness for blondes,
So I took the job at a discounted rate.
Poor dame musta had her heart set on that poem.
She told me the poet was some guy from Indiana
Who had a knack for submitting poems at the last minute.
She gave me his address, which wasn’t far.
“I’ll probably be back before I finish my cig,” I said.
She cracked that beautiful as I walked out the door.
I found this poet’s place a few blocks away,
His apartment buried in the back of a decaying house.
Cool as a cucumber (I do love clichés), I opened the door,
And found the wide-eyed poet sitting at his typewriter.
“Beautiful dame tells me you owed her a poem yesterday,”
I said, exhaling smoke at him. “Where’s it at?”
Wringing his hands, he said, “It’s quite simple.
It was…stolen. By the mafia. The boss’s named Vinnie.”
He talked like a bad salesman selling me a car.
I dragged on my cig and said, “Look, kid, don’t lie to me.
Let’s make it simple: do ya or don’t ya have the poem?”
His head hung, he replied: “I forgot to write it.
I was busy visiting friends yesterday. Tell her
I’ll write two today to make up for it.”
“You better, kid, ‘cause I’ll be watchin’ you,” I said,
And exited the room, walking back to my office,
Where I know a blonde dame will be happy.
I wish every mystery were this easy.
By Nathan Marchand
She loves me…
No, she loves me not.
Her lovers are the greenbacks:
Jackson, Grant, and Franklin.
She finds security in their power
And not in my arms.
She comes to me, hoping
She can get to them through me,
But finds I’m Gilbert and not Mr. Darcy,
Who the greenbacks always favored.
So she took the coward’s path
And discarded me from afar,
Not daring to look me in the eye.
“Good riddance,” I say to hide my broken heart,
“Some say her lovers are root of all evil.
I doubt it, but her love for them certainly is.”
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