Made-up stuff

How I entertain myself, sometimes.



My son bounced home from preschool with a letter. 

Next week is Teacher Recognition Week, in jaunty type. 

Any kind jesters would be appreciated.


The same imperfect homophone appeared at work

in the chart of a patient on the psych ward.

He’d been making suicidal jesters every day for a week.


I know people like this.

They sound almost right 

but are misused in context.


There was the nun who taught my sex ed class, 

the jazz pianist playing at worship last Sunday, 

and me, the novelist cleaning your bedpan.

PoemLaura Rees