Today marks the very obscure celebration of Edward Lear's birthday. He wrote the book Book of Nonsense in 1846, and today is the day to get your fill of silly limerick poetry.
Now being a gardener, and it being spring, I do have some unexplained need to burst into poetic verbage. Alas, my attempts at poetry seem to be more likened to a Vogon's than to Maya Angelou. I guess if I practiced haiku more regularly, I might actually write one that could be repeated without too much embarrassment. (I'm guessing that's why so much sake is imbibed while haiku sessions abounded in springtime gardens.) But I find limericks fit into my life very well. I get to rattle off a few rhyming lines, and try ever so hard to remain true to the metrical pattern of a limerick. And if I can twist in a punch line, so much the better. But usually the joke is on me. Here's two for this year:
I find that I do love to garden;
the trowels and the pots you must pardon.
I keep finding tasks
as plants grow so fast.
I'd clean if the gardening were done.
Those who know me will quickly confirm
My unending love of the worm
They eat your tossed scraps
and make plant growing "cast".
I know not why they make people squirm.