This Year's Batch

I guess I suppose I should post the latest zombie haiku to ooze forth from my pen, although it wasn't the best year for these. Even worse than last year.  Oh, well. I actually finished these up at a CUWP retreat at Daniel's Summit. Despite the poor haiku, I love CUWP activities like this retreat, the Walk and Writes (like the one earlier this month at beautiful Bridal Veil Falls). They actually "fill my cup," to borrow from Dewitt Jones, and they drive me to finish my dissertation so I can spend more time writing about things I enjoy. Yes, I know that my dissertation is about the writing project, but that's another story. It's what I'll be doing instead of NaNoWriMo this year. Boo! Hiss! So, with that, here are three times seventeen syllables of undead poetry:

seventh period
need not fear the zombie attack
due to brain shortage

(It really was sad to try helping them write zombie haiku.)

unhealthy zombies
don't watch their cholesterol;
they feed with eyes closed

off-key zombies help
eliminate that crazy
song stuck in your head

(See, I told you it was a poor crop.)

...and one more from this weekend:

even zombies have
blood-sucking competition:
el chupacabras!

Driving through Life

The other day I was discussing metaphors for life with my students and assigned them to write a poem using either a metaphor or a simile for life, or an aspect of life. This was the overly cheesy didactic mess that spilled out of my pen:

“Driving through Life”

Wasn’t Driver’s Ed enough?

I read the instruction manual…

once.

Okay, so I perused

the pictures,

maybe skimmed the text

an hour before I scribbled

the written portion of the test

at that cramped DMV building

reeking of overused coffee filters,

unwashed government employees,

and Fritos.

Scraping by

the driving test

makes me

an expert doesn’t it?

Scraping the side view mirror

Doesn’t count too harshly

against my record.

I still passed, so now

I don’t need to remember

all the rules

or follow them,

really.

Who parallel parks any more,

or uses

their blinkers? They’re old-

fashioned.

That’s what insurance is for.

That pesky highway patrol

and those commercials about texting

and distractions

and drowsiness

cramp my style and don’t

allow me to drive

the way I want.

Can’t I just make it up

as I drive through life?

As long as I stay

between the lines,

don’t wreck,

or kill

anybody,

I’m good—

No one reads

The Book,

any more,

really,

and I won’t either…

until

I find myself

in trouble or

in traffic court or

breathing shallowly

in a ditch,

wishing I had remembered

10 and 2.