Surreal poetry

If Mondays were Sundays

It all started simply enough
A small and cozy white house, A man, A woman
A child named Sammy.
Or a child named Betsy.
Or a child named (write your name here).

But, then something went terribly wrong
You were just trying to wash your face.
With the click-clack typewriter
The slippery soap squirted from your hand.

With the whales spouting nonsense
Margaret aimlessly whistled Dixie
On a shore long forgotten

The Light switch

If there were no pizza for breakfast
I would make you soup
Tomato soup
While we laughed instead of cried at our poverty

Cats’ tails twist on the veranda
The slaves will sweat for supper
Cotton mouths like Uncle Tom
Thanksgiving for the turkeys this year.

And Stan won’t come back
If the light is off
But the power failed
And tomorrow has come

Today’s News

The world is mother-of-pearl
With the fallen snow
When she steps outsideto gather the news of the day.

Sitting at the table and feeling vaguely content.
The news is white and black
Outside the falling water
Swirling through the galaxy
Where wingless birds fly on featherless wings

Africa is traced by yellow on the map.
And blossoms of cherries bloom in the mirror
She is cracked and old
But, the luck will be good.

I wonder what became of me?