(idea for a poem)

Sociopaths have run us down.
While normies watched their silly game.
Lies and war-crimes rule the night;
We search for someone new to blame.
Let Jews and Persians fight their war—
The people languish, keeping score.

Taking in water on high seas
The nation’s going down; bad-news.
We roll amidst the mounting waves
Aware that what was gained, we lose.
Now treading water, in the swell
Our pleasure cruise has gone to hell.

I am finding it so difficult to participate in Ntl. Poetry Month this year. Not sure why. 
My muse is blowing me off. Sigh…

He claimed we descend from apes, silly simian similitude—but does it hold water?
If I could, I would hold Darwin’s head under that water . . . until he sees GOD.

And now, here’s our prompt for the day — totally optional, as usual.
The Roman poet Catullus wrote a famous two-line poem:

Odi et amo: quare id faciam fortasse requiris.
Nescio, sed fieri sentio et excrucior.

Here’s an English translation.

                I hate and I love. Why do I do this, you ask?
I don’t know, but I feel it happening and am tortured.

I thought about this poem the other day when I read a social media post collecting sentences from Charles Darwin’s letters, including:

                “Oh my God how do I hate species & varieties.”

                “I am very tired, very stomachy & hate nearly the whole world.”

                “I am very poorly today & very stupid & hate everybody & everything.”

                “I hate myself, I hate clover, and I hate bees.”

                “I am languid & bedeviled & hate writing & hate everybody.”

I must confess, the idea of being so grumpy that you have come to hate clover and bees is highly amusing to me. Today, your challenge is to take a page from Catullus and Darwin, and write a poem in which you talk about disliking something 

PROMPT #4

craft your own short poem that involves a weather phenomenon and some aspect of the season.
Try using rhyme and keeping your lines of roughly even length.

She stirs in her cell, unaware she’s free

The keyboards start to click in joyous dread;

For you, O useless reader, hold the key

To rouse this sleeping prisoner from her bed.

Accustomed to her dull imprisoned state

Unused to warmth, she babbles in her cage

She fears, at first, the freedom to create;

Awakening, our muse begins to rage

Across the warming threshold into light,

She strides as verses blossom on the page

To chastise and put winter’s ghosts to flight.

The thawing wind! She shakes her golden hair

And lyric pollination seeds the air . . .