My poems
are at that difficult stage

teenagers.

They sit around in my mind
all day

doing nothing except
lying there.

I remember
when I gave birth to them

they were so
cute

now they are just so
annoying

scoffing biscuits
over the computer

so the crumbs
get stuck between the words

leaving their dirty
metaphors

scattered all over the sofa

borrowing my similes
without telling me

corrupting words
too young to know better.

I long for them
to leave home

go find a book
of their own

live in a little
poetry magazine

or the tip of
somebody’s tongue.

Instead they go
to all night raves

stagger home

their adjectives
all wide-eyed

their nouns
intoxicated

(I just hate it)

misquoting themselves

or thinking
they were written

by someone more
famous.

“We wish we were
Onelia’s babies! ”
They scream & holler!

“Well...you ain’t! ”
I scream back at them
screaming back at me.

So now I have left
my brain

upon the coffee table
with the dirty magazines.

They’re welcome
to it.

“I’ve given up
the ghost! ”

“You’ll be back! ”
they boast.





“Don’t you use that
easy rhyme on me! ”

I laugh at them
floundering now

not knowing where
the next line is...

...coming from.

Huh! Poems...who’d have them!

Dónall Dempsey

http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/huh-poems-for-onelia/