April 24, 2014 
I strum my grief
& pluck one-liners
~riffing beats~
as I define
/ a life in leaf /
my story time…
in bits-so-sweet
until decline–
there never was a prelude finer–
worth a sonnet
and a shiner.
Through a reed &
with some weed
I blow my smoke
in piping…
oboes, flutes,
kazoos that toot
to mellow
bellowed griping…
My odes
unload!
My poems
come home!
My villanelles unveiling–
in measured chord
dynamic score
of trial’ing & tre’vailing…
For mortal wounds
the gizmo used
is full on Philharmonic,
no poem
but tome
–a fiction long–
subverts
the hurt to tonic…
As lullabye
may I imply
to me all words
are music
witty, ditty
>even shitty<
can sound pretty
when I choose it.
©Karen Robiscoe
Charron's Chatter 
I like to march to the beat of my own drum. Sometimes a bit out of tune – but still – my own drum. LOL
an’ me? I just bang on me drum all day!! (cuz iiiIIIIIIiiiii doan wanna work…I want to…:)