Another Day, Another Poem. Poem by Deluke Muwanigwa

No success

Today was a bad day
September sixteenth
Twenty twenty one
Remember this day
For it was the day of failure
The day of disappointment
When from morning to evening
I tried without success
I tried sitting in the car
The heat kept nagging me
I tried sitting in the shade
Things were just not lining up
I took a break
Big mistake
Rekindling things
Proved futile
It was like i was starting again
I drove home from work
Hoping i would crank up my inspiration
Aside from the perspiration
There was no breakthrough
I kept staring at my keyboard
Index fingers itching to start typing
My poem of the day
I gave up
No success

C.16092021

Today's task is to turn this poem into a poem. Get it?
Keep your eyes peeled and your ears open for the final read and the sinful chuckle that comes when its all done. I love poetry and i hate being unapoetic as i was on 16092021. Unapologetic i am where poetry is concerned.

Another day, another poem

On this day the sun rose hot throwing spanners in my works.
The fifteenth had tried to calm down this day, with prose and an alphabet poem, but the sixteenth would have none of it, arguing its uniqueness in the two thousand and twenty one years of Jesus's departure and that as such it would rain photons of discomfort and huge spanners embossed 'failure' instead of 'Drop forged'. I, being a great believer in the therapeutics of poetry (Poeting Therapoetics) , i wanted to write a poem of the day for the day, believing a poem a day keeps the boredom at bay, (apples and doctors move over!) , but the inspirational control centre in my medulla oblonganta would have none of it. The sun heated all my ideas and the clangour of the proverbial spanners in my brain stymied the rhyme.

As the saying goes, if it's too hot in the kitchen get out, excepting this was no kitchen but my control centre aka the brain aka my art zone aka my medulla oblongata, so moving out of it would mean i would be out of my mind, pun intended. Instead i tried some cool inspiration sitting in my car, windows opened and a cold coca cola running down past my vocal chords priming them for the chuckle of the day after i finished my poem of the day for the day. The fibre optic link between my art centre and my poetic index finger was compromised. There was, as electronic engineers would say, a bus conflict with totem pole. My poetry finger was in suspended animation. Failing to get those megabytes of poetry onto my cellphone. From the car, i moved to a shade expectant of cooler vibes, but success was not to be. I did another strategic retreat to my home and tried, again, to fight the demon of dullness from a home base and at the end of the day i retreated to my bunker, read bed, after only having written ' No success'. Another day, another poem. On with muse!

C.17092021