Comma Trauma

I've never been the Queen of Drama,
But the Oxford Comma
Causes me stress, strain, and trauma.

Semi-colons by comparison are easy;
Their rules are far less breezy.
No need to get all ill, upset, or queasy.

Periods don't take a whole lot of thought.
They never make me even mildly distraught,
Happily aiding my characters, dialogue, and plot.

What about exclamation points, the curious might ask.
Are they apt to lead you to the flask?
No. Not even those are a chore, job, or task.

Sweet little colons are also not too bad
I use them so seldom; they make me not sad.
And as this poem finds an end, aren't you happy, joyful, and glad?

But comma dilemmas really haunt me a lot.
The nuances of usage I still do not got.
But enough of this silliness, absurdity, and rot.

Don't Be Cross At Spanish Moss

Biking on Jekyll Island one is bound
To see Spanish Moss all around
It's everywhere, everywhere, from sky to ground

It hangs in high branches and falls out of trees
Sometimes it just swings up there, enjoying the breeze

For some reason palm trees are devoid of the stuff
But live oaks? Let me tell you, they can't get enough

What's amazingly terrific?
Spanish Moss is epiphytic
It causes no alarming harm
But only adds disarming charm

Ode to Champagne

Oh, the horror of it
It happened, it's true
I opened my fridge
And knew I was through

No champagne!

I searched on the shelf
I checked in the door
I went to the cupboard
Hoping to score

No champagne!

I ran to my neighbor's
And told her the troubley
I asked if I might borrow
A cupful of bubbly

No champagne!

She searched in her fridge
And double-checked in the door
She went to her cupboard
Hoping to score

No champagne!

Continuing my quest
I hopped into my car
Surely a supply of the stuff
Couldn't be far?

No champagne!

To the market I hastened
I cut through the crowds
Made a beeline for the wine cooler
And shouted out loud

Champagne!

I bought a dozen bottles
There's a discount that way
And ignoring the disapproving glances
Stepped up to pay

Champagne!

The refrigerator replenished
My cupboard completed
I raised up my goblet
And this solemn vow repeated

Champagne!

Life is too short
So I shall take a firm stand
To always keep a champagne stash
Chilled and on hand

My Moody Muse

When my muse comes down with a horrid blight

The writing goes wrong with no end in sight

Every word, thought, and sentence turns out trite

Leaving me feeling oh so contrite

And wondering if an end will appear for my impossible plight



But when the writing goes right

My muse alights

To amazing new heights

Of creative delights

Then the sun shines bright

And my mood takes flight!