Poet:  Good Morning Darling!  Can you hear the birds?  The sun is creeping up, too beautiful for words!

Accountant:  It’s 54 degrees with a high of 72 predicted.  You won’t need a coat.

Poet: Ah, the warmth of afternoon sun, won’t our picnic today be fun?

Accountant:  We should leave by 10:30.  I have to get gas.  Have you packed our lunch?

Poet:  I have chicken salad for our lunch, potato chips to add some crunch, I baked the cookies that you liked last time, and bought a bottle of your favorite wine!

Accountant:  I set the GPS.  We should get there right at 11:15.  Do you have a blanket?

Poet:  Yes, a blanket to lay upon the ground, at the edge of the woods that we once found, while lost upon a country road, turned the fortune of our day around!

Accountant:  I charged my cell phone and the ball game starts at 1:20.   A win puts us in first place.  Are you sure we’ll have cell reception?

Poet: Ah, but I will read you poetry about the love I have for thee, leave the city’s crowds and noise behind, to all else but ourselves be blind.

Accountant:  Honey, why are you talking like that?

Poet:  I just joined Hello Poetry, now all the world’s a verse to me, to read and share with HP friends, ecstatic when a poem trends!

Accountant: Yeah, is that what you showed me the other day?  Looked to me like you guys all ‘like’ each other’s poems, and 95% of the people that read yours don’t even like them.

Poet: Really?  (holding back tears)

Accountant: That’s what I calculated.  How many of those cookies are you bringing anyway?

Poet:  I have a dozen, but I can bake more.

Accountant: Nah, 12 is plenty, and by the way, Baby, I just love your poetry, it’s filled with creativity, each word picked out is absolute, with premise that I can’t dispute, I guess one more thing I should say: I’d like it more if it would pay!
PwL May 3, 2015

i like angry poetry
the kind that churns
in your gut,
with razors for teeth
and gums bleeding.
i like the violent sound
of verbs clashing
on a decaying page,
like the shot of a gun
on a quiet day.
i like the poetry that stays,
that lies in waiting
like a dog in a cage,
words that creep like
voided birds into the
wired tress of my brain,
that pay their rent
like drunken travelers
and trash the place.
i like angry poetry
the kind that sears it's
screams to my lips,
which spirit echoes and
moans for eager,
****** eyes.
words that hit like *****,
giving their reader
a killer hangover.
i like angry poetry,
the kind that leave you
with a smoky exit.