In Which A Simple Chore Makes Me Question My Sanity Every Time

An open suitcase sits upon my bed,

All items from my list are in there, and

Some extra things, besides. But in my head

My packing's incomplete. You understand,

You list-makers, who start long weeks before

A trip, and check the damned thing ev'ry day,

Who scribble things out, then add a few more,

Quite certain aught's forgotten. There's no way

A perfect packing job has been achieved,

Not ever in my lifetime, this I know!

I start too soon and second guess me, grieved

To think of being without something. I'll go

O'er these two lists once more before I sleep,

But dream of errors; wake up early. Meep!

O Noes! I Still Have To Write A Sonnet

I put in sev'ral hours of overtime,
Ran errands all around this crazy town
(Including one last box run. At least I'm
In hopes that I've enough. I'm sick of brown
Cardboard stacked all around me all day long),
Was photographed to prove that I am me,
And got the keys to my new house. A long
Day has been mine, but I am still not free!
There are things yet that still need to be stashed
In boxes or in trash bags. That's not all;
While packing is what's really got me trashed
One more task beckons with insistent call:
It's a new day and this day's spot was blank
And bonus sonnets don't count toward the bank.

I Do Not Beat My Mom, But I Don't Turn Down Her Offers Of Assistance Either

Like Coraline, I found a secret drawer
While starting to pack up my kitchen gear.
I have a turkey lacing kit? What's more,
A blender part and more spoons did appear!
Oh, moving house is ever so much fun,
Especially when one works by oneself.
In candour I've become nearly undone,
Since ne'er did I find magic packing elf.
So to my rescue came my own dear Mom
To help me keep on track and pack more smart.
Alas, before one hour had passed her palm
And face and knee and pride, but not her heart
Were torn and bleeding. Yes, she took a spill
On ice and asphalt. Yet she helps me still!

Procrastinating On My Procrastination, I Pontificate Upon It

Last night, instead of packing up my stuff,
I spent an hour or so just making jam,
And when that did not seem to be enough
Procrastinating - this is how I am -
I calculated taxes, got them filed,
And then at last was tired and went to bed.
Meanwhile all the belongings I have piled
And stacked and gathered all danced 'round my head.
So much for rest. The irony is, though,
I'm putting off what I've used to put off
Preparing something I promised to show.
Some readers now will bellow, nod and cough.
I wrote a novel back when it was Fall.
It's still in longhand, ne'er been read at all.