The Wonder of Waffles
Mar 6, 2021
A perforated pancake in a hot electric plate
sizzles in its cauldron, but it's really worth the wait.
When the lid is lifted and the vapors have escaped
you'll know that you've been waffled,
not tortilla'ed, crumbed, or crepe'd.
When it's sopped in syrup and the bacon's brought to bear
this breakfast will be better than all other Belgian fare!
Beyond This Hell
Feb 24, 2021
The cowards' shame and heroes' praise,
are lost amidst the battle's haze,
lead, loam, and shrapnel fill the air,
each bloodied grunt absorbs his share,
with life and limb he dearly pays.
Across the fen their barrels blaze,
our battered lines they hope to raze,
the dead among us blankly stare,
beyond this hell.
The politicians' evil ways,
perpetuate this warring craze,
dissemble, fib, dismiss all care,
for all our soldiers "over there,"
while glibly spouting cheap cliches.
Pastiche/tribute/continuation of McCrae's In Flanders Fields.
Paradise: Just Around the Infinite Corner
Apr 7, 2021
It seems so close, so near at hand,
the path is clear, from where I stand,
to bounteous wealth,
to hearth and home,
it seems the time has finally come...
to welcome life in all its forms,
to honor love--forget the "norms,"
we'll linger, lounge, on lazy days
and lie beneath the languid rays
we'll ride the tides and windswept waves
while automation duly slaves--
we're not exactly there,
although I'd like to think it's fair
to say it's all within our reach,
within our sights,
we've got to have the guts to teach
the future generations yet to come
that mythic gods and astral chaps
from scripture's hasty scribbled scraps
are fictions wrought from heaven's slum--
traditions better left unsung...
and then proceed with kinder ways
to live astride the moon and sun.
Those threadbare stories from "The Book"*
aren't really worth a second look,
the wisdom's caked in slaves and blood,
a homicidal godly flood,
a magic fruit, a talking snake,
it's more than logic's meant to take.
Put all religions in our sights,
to be replaced with human rights,
No gods, no hells, no phantom frights,
just flesh & love throughout the nights...
So let us shed our outer wraps,
and clothe our bodies, richly blessed,
in sunshine, shade and tropic wind...
devoid of wires, buttons, straps,
let's find the strength to soon rescind,
the loathesome laws which once were forged,
for moral strength,
whose weakness now,
exposed, at length...
are better left denied,
and foment hate
s o c i e t y
Let everybody wander free,
no borders, lines, au-thor-i-ty...
Let all corruption disappear,
Let common sense subdue all fear.
We simply need to learn to share,
the earth ensures there's lots to spare
yet half the world has nought to eat,
the bodies writhing in the street,
Can tinhorn thugs not understand
the gains from raising "common" man,
to comfort, knowledge, silk and suede,
by managed resource, vibrant trade?
Or must we keep him deaf and dumb
a brutish beast beneath the thumb,
who struggles for each crust and crumb?
Is NOW not quite the perfect time
to wipe out hunger, death** and crime?
Is there some vaunted better day
to which we're wiser to delay?
Do tyrants ever lead the way
to better homes and bigger pay?
Do socialisms' gents and dames,
make good on all their lofty claims
Or do they lie, prevaricate,
with serpent smiles ingratiate,
then let their suffering masses die?
They do. They have. I wonder why.
So let me make this crystal clear,
for each transgender, bi or gay,
or "Poly" groups who like to play
YOUR Paradise is awfully near...
...but those old stawarts grim and mean,
who always find a group to bash,
whose sackcloth rags are doused in ash
whose prayers adopt a godly sheen...
THEY'RE too immersed in unfound fear!
Thus Paradise is near and far,
it all depends on who you are:
to living as you'd like to be;
to living large and living free...
according to the hand you're dealt,
causation means you've never felt,
elation as its felt to me
nor have I seen the way you see
but if we start afresh, anew
Utopia begins with (YO)U!
*The Book--The Bible, The Qur'an, The Gita, The What have you.
** to wipe out hunger, death** and crime? -- that is, eliminate the avoidable causes of death to whatever degree possible.
Upon A Pale Horse
O Protestants, Cath'lics get out of my way!
enough of your vapidness, spittle and spray
you pound on your pulpits with nothing to say
with pious pretensions so ashen and gray.
Don't drop to your knees, and don't bother to pray,
enough of your Bible, your babble and bray!
the skin of the sinner you're itching to flay,
and consummate dreams of an auto-da-fe.
Veracity's absent, your flock's in decay,
there isn't an ominous Lord to obey!
your myths and your mysteries are steeped in cliche,
enough is enough and it must end today!
So, this is my passion and you are my prey,
I'm on my pale horse and I will not give sway,
till every last church is besmirched where she lay,
till every last person might live as he may!
Auto-da-fe... the ceremony for pronouncing judgment by the Inquisition which was followed by the execution of sentence by secular authorities (usually hanged, disemboweled, burned at the stake, racked, or any other number of tortures dreamed up by Holy Mother Church.)
An Honorable Choice
Mar 10, 2019
There is no lofty afterlife,
nor vaunted pearly gate--
no all-consuming God of love
nor devil brimmed with hate--
there's only somewhere in between
this circus we call earth,
and if your life's unbearable
and you regret your birth,
and circumstance is terrible,
then let me give you cheer--
it's not for any man to judge
nor has he right to jeer,
if you no longer care to trudge
along life's daily grind,
and hunger for eternal rest
and simply feel inclined,
to cash it in, and end the race
then let no one deter,
your choice of method, time and place,
and details you prefer--
for who believes we are compelled
to see that utmost day
in rasping, gurgling, tortured health
and grimmest dark decay?
I despise the notion that some would promote to the effect that suicide is an unforgivable sin. What foolishness.
Everyone should decide for themselves when and how they want to meet their end, if possible.
Loss of Individuality
Mar 4, 2019
Of all the blizzards come and gone
across broad seas and plains
accumulating dusk till dawn
on trees and dusted lanes
with no two crystals just alike
unique in spar and spike
yet underneath the springtime sun
the trillions merge as one
prompt: THAW; constraints <= 50 words.
A Hedonist Responds to Anything Goes
Feb 05, 2019
You didn't just offer a contest to those
Indelible Poets pursuing a prize,
enticing their muses with "Anything Goes",
their pens at the ready, with GOLD in their eyes...
WOOHOO! HALLELUJAH! I'M OFF TO THE RACES!
I'll dwell on the subjects that grace my book cases!
I'll fill up your noggin with sundry diversions,
from satellite data to lunar excursions!
We'll talk about hist'ry, religion and art,
we'll try to discover if stars played a part
in earth's evolution from eons ago,
or whether Jehovah's in charge of the show!
We'll travel to wonderful far-away places,
Topanga, Katanga, and quaint cyberspaces!
We'll delve into fictions and dream-scapes surreal,
we'll try to find something that has some appeal,
to super-smart people who challenge their brains
with trigonometric ellipses and chains.
We'll study some methods for lottery winning,
(philosophy sanctions what what some see as sinning.)
Let's touch on the classics from Egypt and Greece,
reflect on the wars, even more on the peace.
Acropolis, Athens, Colossus of Rhodes!
the catacombs under Rome's poorest abodes!
Agricola, Cicero, Crassus, Pompeii!
Demosthenes, Xenophon, Greece in decay!
The topics are many, the limits are few,
I get so excited I just want to spew,
the facts in my brain in a parallel queue,
just rat-a-tat-tat like a ratamacue...
Let's broach cunnilingus and subjects taboo:
fellatio, tribbing, and things that folks do.
We needn't get squeamish nor squirm in our chair,
when "Anything Goes" then it only seems fair,
that subjects are covered, whatever they be,
we'll not be uncouth, but the truth sets us free.
So, nudity, naturists, folks without clothes,
excite the sensations the pious priest loathes,
but life's for the living, it ain't for the dead,
let's have a good time but make use of our head...
Propriety beckons, and children are prime,
responsibly balance their care with your time
indulging in fetishes, flings, and caprice,
Republicans, Democrats: LOVE WITHOUT CEASE!
We squibble and squabble with petulant flair,
we're voicing opinions, at times without care,
for people whose presence--just names on a page--
are actually quite human, who wince at our rage.
For ev'ryone out there, I think you'll do well,
surrender all notions of heaven and hell...
conjectures from ancients with no other means
to cipher the causes of atoms and genes.
I think I've exhausted the bulk of my list,
I'm certain by now that you all get the gist...
Relax all your tensions, breathe deep and exhale,
Now let your libidinous nature prevail!
Indelible Poets is an invitation-only group of poets at AllPoetry.com.
Gold refers to AllPoetry's virtual trophy award system.
This entry ended up with the second place "silver" trophy :-)
The Cloying Effect of Rhyme
Mar 03, 2019
Well! "Anything Goes" is here again!
and folks you must know,
I have just got the yen,
to blither, and blather myself in a lather
with phonics Teutonic, and sonic harmonics!
It's slapdash and whiplash, it's crockery broken,
it's verbally vocalized words that are spoken
From Patterson, Newark and even Ho-bo-ken...
with nasal congestion it sounds like I'm chokin',
but that's just the way it is out there--
Then off on a tangent we'll cover the bases
from floral arrangements in violin cases
to totally trapezoid structures and braces
as well as the finely formed Finlander faces.
It's random, it's epic, it's darts in the ether
neutrinos, bambinos, and albums by Seether.
We'll ricochet rockets off Jovian moons,
We'll sing silly songs while we're popping balloons,
We'll fling all our things into far-away drawers,
We'll harvest the largest Siberian spores,
then sell them to buyers in E-bay's abyss
We'll rack up the rubles if nothing's amiss,
and no one suspects us of fraud or abuse,
it's perfectly moral, though slightly obtuse.
I dive in the waters of ANYTHING's deep,
I put to the pen all the slop from my sleep
that spills into visions of vistas surreal
with bonny-faced bimbos who urge me to feel
their melons and veggies they bought at the mart
with great disappointment I rise with a start,
disgruntled I didn't just go for the gold,
perhaps a good sign that I'm getting too old...
So now your misfortune is mingled with mine,
you're seeing first-hand a good brain in decline,
with simpleton verses in ANYTHING GOES,
with poem's too tepid, no talent for prose...
and yet I find solace, relaxed I compose,
something something something (that rhymes with -ohs.)
Just a bit of fun for another contest.
A Paine-ful Sonnet
Mar 3, 2019
I sing your praise in part to pay the debt,
for visions and ambitions so immense,
appeasing George you saw as no safe bet,
we thenceforth steered by rules of Common Sense.
And, were it not enough your course prevailed,
aristocrats in England tried to ban,
your thoughts against the monarchs well assailed,
within your brilliant pamphlet Rights of Man.
From there to heroes' welcome in Calais,
to aid the Revolution of the French,
where you remained the calmest in their fray,
a league above the Reign of Terror's stench.
But then your Age of Reason was abhorred,
and so you died forgotten and ignored.
Thomas Paine, American number one, a champion of liberty, a spokesman against senseless brutality, a hero many times over, dared to give his heartfelt opinions on the Bible. Like Rousseau and Voltaire's critique of the book, his writing style in Age of Reason takes no prisoners and he ably destroys any credibility the venerable old book might have had, but in so doing, lost the respect of those who were still the victims of religious tyranny. Those who most needed these words were his harshest critics. It is said only six people attended his funeral, and I fully suspect he is counted as the sixth.
Fell the Tree, Remove the Stump
Arise from your bed and get off of the couch!
there isn't spare space for a sleepy-head slouch!
The churches are spreading a hoax called "The Word,"
but let's be succinct, such a notion's ABSURD!!!
Their book is a howler from paragraph one,
with ancient mythologies not so well spun...
Now listen, and hear this, for everyone's sake,
NO WOMAN WAS WOOED BY A SWEET TALKING SNAKE!
That dogma, that doctrine, persisted for years,
by patriarch pirates awash in their fears
that women were competent, savvy, and brave,
yet valued as that of a second-rate slave.
And what should we make of the farcical ark
Another great tale which has sure missed its mark
For reasons too many to possibly doubt,
This fiction must somehow be edited out.
And who thinks the Torah bears words of our Lord?
Has anyone ever been suitably floored,
That "THOU SHALT NOT MURDER" was promptly ignored,
When Canaanite children were put to the sword?
And Hittites, and Amorites, Moabites too
Their women and infants ol' Joshua slew,
Along with the cattle, their lambs and their goats,
Such dastardly acts the Old Testament notes,
Were ordered by Yahweh, the author of love???
But knowing men's nature I think the above
was greedy-gut humans with envious eyes
deflecting their shame to the empty blue skies.
And though the Old Testament begs for more scorn,
at homocide, concubines, Joshua's horn...
it's time I addressed the "impossible Jew"--
Conceived by a virgin(!) let's skip to the "New".
The Gospels are straight from the myth-maker's press
with quite a few issues I'd like to address:
→ The ludicrous lists of the who-begat-whos
→ and mountain-top temptings with round-the-globe views.
→ Ambiguous dates as to when He was born,
→ No cause nor effect for the temple veil torn,
→ Assumptions that demons cause every disease
→ Describing a lake as though one of the Seas.
→ that zombies arose and were seen in the streets,
→ that Matthew and Luke were just Markan repeats,
→ that no one can fathom the trinity three
→ did Judas explode or just hang from a tree?
The Gospels are fertile for risible claims
and Pauline epistles are equally lame
Without explanation nor too much detail,
I'll take just a moment to duly assail
the notion that gov'ners are chosen by God,
Jehovah chose Hitler??? Oh isn't that odd!?
But click on this link and you'll see on your screen
the infamous words that start Romans Thirteen
So what's my agenda? Just what is my cause?
I want you to notice the manifold flaws
that litter the Bible from start to the end
then pummel each sibling, each stranger and friend,
with every shortcoming, with every false word,
it's crucial your voices are never deterred--
from chipping away at the Judaic trunk
inventions and dogmas not hard to debunk.
Since Islam and Christendom branch from this tree
we'll sacrifice one to eliminate three.
With love to every victim of religious indoctrination.
Feb 24, 2019
Buchephalus! haughty, and high on his hocks,
with boulder-sized shoulders and head of an ox,
oblivious creature to arrows and rocks,
advances relentlentless t'ward enemy lines.
Bucephalus! sentient, seeing the signs
attacks the soft middle and thereby aligns
formations which follow in better designs
compelling their rivals to run in retreat.
Bucephalus! conqueror, fast on his feet,
conveys Alexander so he can complete,
the terms of surrender / submission / defeat
then finds a cool clearing in which he can lie.
Bucephalus! finished, a gash in his thigh,
an arrow, some cuts, but that look in his eye!
defiant! combative! he still has to try,
but everything's fading...
his last sigh.
---Bucephalus was the horse of Alexander the Great---
The Buzzard of Boogaloo County
Feb 24, 2019
Though Boogaloo County is wealthy and neat,
with residents living in lux'ry and ease,
they're preppy, pretentious and rather effete,
with bachelors, masters, and doct'rate degrees
They live with french poodles and elegant pets,
exotic, expensive, like never you've seen,
so pampered by whisperers, psychics and vets,
and armies of groomers who keep them pristine,
that all of them lost their instinctual flair,
since none had faced challenges out in the street,
their training ensured a most dignified air,
condemning the lot to be rendered dead meat.
To understand fully you must comprehend,
that nature comports to particular laws,
which, once circumvented, one cannot depend,
on any specific subsection or clause...
See, out on the fringes t'ward Spurious Springs
a family of buzzards competed for scraps
of mammals succumbing to scorpions' stings,
or coyotes and badgers in iron-jawed traps.
But Buddha the Buzzard, the fattest of all,
was weary of carcasses, stench and decay,
he'd studied the eagles and knew how they'd haul
fresh kills to their aeries, their "dish of the day."
He also had harbored one other concern...
the menu was losing its rancid appeal,
the "bumper"-crop roadkill would bubble and burn
the meat would go rotten and blood would congeal.
So Buddha made off for the ritzier burbs
he circled the neighborhoods, making his rounds
then when it was safe he would swoop to the curbs
abducting the tastiest doggies and hounds:
Chihuahuas and spaniels, salukis and chows
Akitas, blue heelers and various mutts,
He'd even snag mastiffs the size of small cows
He'd rip through the muscles to get at their guts.
The terriers, huskies, retrievers and chins,
were dinners much better than possums and skunks,
Alsatians, dalmatians, and tiny min-pins,
were hacked with his beak then ingested in chunks.
The folly of collies with tiny IQs,
the ego of beagles who chase their own tails,
would find it was they who'd eventually lose
to Buddha the buzzard who silenty sails
o'er sidewalks, through dog parks, on over the town,
while casing each household, each doorway and deck
and on his great beak there's a frightening frown
sufficient to chomp through a rottweiler's neck.
So efforts for making your puppies genteel,
and robbing their spirits of chew, bark and bite,
is fine in the house when you hush their each squeal,
but bad in the "hood" where they may need to fight
The Buzzard of Boogaloo flies to this day,
in lazy circuitous rings in the sky
so should you send Fido outside for some play,
When silence arrives, well, at least you'll know why!
As translated from the original Kittenese... written by my cat Kokomo. Notice, no felines were hurt in this story!
A Clinical Analysis of the One I call 'Me'
Feb 24, 2019
Exotic, chaotic, presumptive and clean
Cathartic, lethargic, and all points between
I'm radical, fanciful, slightly obscene,
elated, indifferent, or venting my spleen.
I'm caring and daring, assured of my sex
(though hetero fibers have nominal flex)
I charge on my card and write plenty of checks,
but credit is perfect, no blemish, no specks!
I'm agile, not fragile, quick-witted and brave,
quite lucky, I'm plucky, and keep a close shave
no whiskers, no moustache, no beard do I wave
A thousand-some books line the walls of my cave.
I'm amorous, glamorous ('cept when I'm not'...
a few of the floozies still think that I'm hot)
I'm harried (yes, married), I tied that old knot
I'm venereous, generous, give what I got.
Scholastic, fantastic, (at least in my mind)
I'm Leo the leader, yet always behind,
Astrologists should have just left me unsigned
I'm too independent for any one kind.
I'm potty trained, scatter brained, sure to bring smiles
wearing or tearing my out-of-date styles.
My poems are kept in gargantuan piles,
if stretched end-to-end would consume fifty miles.
So that's who I am and that's just how I be,
I hope you're the wiser for now knowing me...
I'm sorry these verses had no guarantee...
sometimes with the facts I'm a little too free!
The Clockwork Cloak
Feb 23, 2019
The fissures, rills and dusty plains
beneath the lunar mountain chains
and Tycho's bright distinguished rays
so clear in Luna's fullest phase
all disappear and fade from view
each month when Luna's phase is "new"
then every half-a-dozen trips
she pauses for a brief eclipse.
Write a poem for contest:
New Moon → 50 words
Live the Dream
Feb 22, 2019
O, dream without the fetters
imposed by man or church,
Ensure your dreams rest haughty,
upon the highest perch!
Let not your heart be troubled,
nor let her dreams be shamed,
pursue your quests with vigor,
and lead a life untamed--
--unchained by facile limits,
of smallish minds of men,
engage your lusts with passion,
then live them all again--
--immersed in tactile pleasures,
that satisfy your "soul"
let others stew with envy,
while you perfect your "whole."
Though scoffers might abhor this,
if everybody lived it,
we'd live in Paradise.
---OK, with a host of caveats and notable exceptions. The poem assumes a mature and altruistic atmosphere
which, at present, isn't sufficiently evident in society. Still, as the church exerts less influence with its once
overly austere notions of proper conduct, the world is, in some sense, approaching this objective.
Feb 22, 2019
As an every-day commuter I eschew the prof and tutor for a cuter little setup of my own,
What I'm finding so rewarding are the LibriVox recordings which my Buick's amplifying through my phone.
While within my cushioned vecture* I absorb a book or lecture as the snowy winter furlongs pass me by,
In the very fine tradition of insightful erudition I improve my brain's condition on the fly!
*vecture: (obsolete) The act of carrying; conveyance; carriage.
Make Some Love Today
Feb 10, 2019
Forgive the Christian bigots,
they know not what they do,
and 'fundy' Muslim zealots
are inculcated too.
They're blinded by traditions,
and scriptures in their book
they're slaves to their perspective
and dare not take a look
at other moral frameworks,
at cultures unlike theirs,
they're taught that thoughts of freedom,
can harbor many snares,
So, fears of retribution,
and fears of life and limb,
convince them to stay faithful,
the odds they'll leave are slim.
The core of their assertions,
contains a grain of truth,
that guys and gals should marry
and then support the youth...
...it's not without its merits,
it sets a fine ideal,
yet same-sex love for many
has just as much appeal.
So, if our drive's genetic,
or if indeed we choose,
the rights of those affected,
should never be abused.
Confess there's some advantage,
to couples so inclined,
the human race will prosper,
with more love of this kind...
can easily be solved--
encourage same-sex households--
be sad when they're dissolved.
By now we've been enlightened,
there's much we must achieve,
let love grow where it's planted,
let everyone believe,
that sex for procreation,
or sex for pure release,
or solo masturbation,
or sex to make the peace...
...is healthy and addictive,
for humans straight or gay,
let's drop our false pretenses,
and make some love today.
Write a poem for contest Lgbtq+ Poetry - Treerose14
Wilde and Tame
Feb 9, 2019
They didn't give a whit
for old Walt Whitman
rollicking, dying, aching--
and they thought Wystan Hugh
Auden've loved those special few.
When seeing the glorious sunrise breaking
polychrome, puissant, defiant day,
they mumbled discontented wrath
with Edna St. Vincent Millay
whose shoes were ever taking
her down that wayward Plath.
Where Egos Dare
Feb 5, 2019
There's someone I'm always attempting to be,
a freethinking sooth, or a man of the sea,
an intellect valued for wisdom and wit,
a billiard-ball wizard, a man who won't quit.
Photographer, programmer, poet, and friend,
congenial, cerebral, and happy to lend
a hand for a project, or ride in my car,
I'll even buy strangers a drink at the bar.
While most of the nation seems hopelessly 'prude',
I'd love to have friends who would fraternize nude.
I have a few scars and some varicose veins,
my joints are reporting a host of sharp pains,
but nevertheless I feel able and spry,
indecent exposure's a wretched false lie...
My narcissist tendencies truly exist,
I'll share my nude selfies, Oh come! I insist!
We're humans, we're social, we're harboring needs,
Utopia starts with a few who sew seeds,
of freedom, of reason, of love and of lust--
when orthodox dogma's adrift in our dust.
Don't praise isolation, don't shy from the touch,
of intimate kisses or maybe the clutch
of someone who's needing emotional balm,
provide them that solace, your secular psalm.
So that's my philosophy, that's what I feel,
let all of the nations begin to congeal,
Leave navies at anchor, leave armies on base,
Let hate find extinction, let love take its place.
The Measure of Your Muse
Jan 27, 2019
Your love for other creatures must begin within your mind,
for nothing comes from something if you're brutal, blunt and blind.
You need to know your nature, are you savvy and sincere;
and are you self sufficient, or if challenged, shrink in fear?
The chemistry of romance isn't ever guaranteed,
and yet it has its elements which help one to succeed;
the Calvinists and Puritans in pious days of olde,
consumed with good behavior were in practice stern and cold.
Your physical attraction is a matter to address,
and here again there isn't any sure path to success.
The glamour stars get married then you hear them stray off course
A Christie Brinkley body has been three times through divorce.
A true romantic doesn't need a penny to his name,
he strives to please his missus and she strives to do the same.*
my only cogent insight which I'm thinking you can use,
is happiness is balanced by the measure of your muse.
*substitute girlfriend/boyfriend/partner/he/she etc. throughout this stanza to suit.
The Heavenly Hillbillies
Jan 27, 2019
Come and listen to my story 'bout a dude named God,
Eternal in his nature which may strike you kinda odd!
But then one day he was thinking up a plan
To create a singularity for selfish, sinful man!
Earth, that is!
Well the next thing you know old God's a deity
He's worshiped in the temples by the priests and laity
They said "Hey Jehovah, we could use a Jesus too,"
So he told the Holy Spirit to go see what he could do.
Well a couple minutes later Mother Mary had a child,
They hauled him off to Egypt so he wouldn't be defiled,
by hateful, haughty Herod and his Roman soldier crew,
so he learned the Jewish scriptures for the likes of me and you.
In another couple decades poor old Jesus came to loss,
The priests and Roman puppets had him tacked upon the cross
but he was resurrected and is even here today,
where two or three will gather when they feel the need to pray...
Heaven, that is,
Well, now it's time to say goodbye to God and all his kin,
Aphrodite and Osiris offer thanks for droppin' in,
you're all invited to Valhalla's balconies and decks,
for endless streams of virgins and some grand Islamic sex!
The anthophobic mindset of the monster Pistol Pete
was known by every person from each block on ev'ry street,
in Plimpton, Arizona where the wary trod with care
when Peter used his "heater" for a fear he couldn't bear.
He'd murder mint and myrtle in the arid midday sun,
or shoot some cute petunias as a sordid sort of fun.
He'd mow those rows of posies with the bullets from his gun...
then get a thrill each time he'd drill an unarmed daffodil.
He longed to shoot at bluebells since their name began with B,
and never flinched at killing blooms in letters S or T.
The tragic trail of tulips which he tapped in Tennessee,
were picked off with his pop gun when the lad was only three.
His parents wouldn't criticize his faulty fear of plants,
despite the fact he'd often hack the gardens 'round their manse.
His aunts and uncles joined his fun, he had them all in stitches,
by making perfect cutoffs out of distant Dutchmen's breeches.
In time this fear consumed him and he slowly came to see,
that unhygienic gymnosperms in letters "A" through "Zee"
deserved to die since every fly, mosquito, moth and bug,
would putz around its petals sucking pollen, acting smug.
He couldn't even stand their names, he'd always plug his ears,
to listen to a botanist would fire up all his fears,
and taxonomic syntax triggered spasms, chills and shakes
as Latin oft precipitated full psychotic breaks!
Yet as he aged his mind engaged to cope with his tirade,
he tried to turn his lemons into full-strength lemonade.
He made some decent money with his shotgun clearing weeds,
but simply couldn't overcome his blossom-blasting needs.
Behind his back, thrown in the air, or quick draws from the hip,
nasturtiums and narcissus were among his faves to clip.
The poppies, pansies, peonies were pistoled full of holes,
and morning glories never got a full foot up their poles.
The citizens of Plimpton called the Justice of the Peace,
demanding that he issue Pete a writ to make him cease,
but Justice Karl Kreuger was an anthophobic too,
and with his trusty Luger killed the flowers at the zoo.
So, city fathers met one day to put their heads together,
the Plimpton plotters hatched a plan to save both heath and heather:
they sewed a trail of bulbs and seeds, of flowers odd and sundry,
that led from Plimpton's outskirts to the heart of cougar country!
When spring arrived the blossomed trail provided quite a view,
and proved a dale too tempting for the flower-hating two.
They loaded up and blasted blooms for nine days, maybe ten,
what happened next is just a guess, they've not been seen again!
Jan 22, 2019
Recruited to the navy as a bright, potential nuke,
my discipline in boot camp was a little less than cool,
my company commander often screamed his stern rebuke,
but none the less he shipped me out for steam-propulsion school.
While there I lost my chow pass but, with cunning, guile and wit,
produced a valid "Watch Pass" which allowed a cut in line,
then one day someone noticed this was close but counterfeit,
and off I went to captain's mast for reprimand and fine.
From Great Lakes to Orlando for my training as a nuke,
where often I would hop the fence than bother with the gate,
it's there they opted not to train a counterfeiting kook,
so off to San Diego as a fleet machinist mate.
The good ship Monticello is the place I made my home,
an amphib built in Cold War days to ferry troops and boats,
we had a berth in Portland when St. Helens blew her dome,
the ash descended on our deck in six or seven coats.
A friend and I took off one day, without official leave,
from Portland to Orlando we were gone and living large,
despite some other incidents, the likes you can't believe,
I actu'lly have a document: an "Honorable Discharge!"
The Din on Lincoln Lake
Jan 19, 2019
Duke the duck, bereft of luck,
at Lincoln Lake wherein he'd snuck,
met Dudley Blake who'd come to take
a shoreline shot at such a drake.
The darkly feathered Duke was duped
by Dudley's decoys neatly grouped.
The plucky duck was shot then scooped
when from aloft he swiftly swooped.
50 words exactly.
Touch and be Touched
Jan 16, 2019
Those Christians and Muslims and Jews in a fray,
those nitpicking nabobs who blather and bray,
those preachers and rabbis, those hypocrite beasts,
those swamis and imams and charlatan priests--
whose fingers are wagging, whose spittle is spewn,
who lecture relentless from sun-up till noon--
then after stale crumpets and verdigris tea,
will rant in a tantrum till quarter-to-three.
They'll fall on their bellies, their faces and knees,
they'll beg the Almighty and grovel to please
that Prude in the heavens whose utmost concern,
is touch-happy humans deserving to burn.
There's nothing more galling, there's nothing more sick,
than hedonist lovers who hug, kiss, and lick!
Condemn them! Convict them! Confine to a cell,
those libertine lovers, then SEND THEM TO HELL!!!
Jehovah's ecstatic, and Allah's all smiles,
The Holy Ghost's holding the Judgment Day files!
The clergy is blaming transgenders and gays,
the cross-dressing queens in their grand cabarets,
pornographers, prostitutes, fixers, and pimps,
the casting-couch kingpins, and speakeasy simps.
The churches have poisoned our most divine sense
they shame as they blame, selling guilt so immense,
that minds become muddled, confused in the din
we're pressed to accept that our lust is a sin!
I'm hereby refusing to stay in their clutch,
My motto forever is: "Touch and be touched!"
The Illusion of Free Will
Jan 15, 2019
Your awareness vocalizes what your eyeball visualizes
as synapses by the million change their state,
these electrical abstractions cause your sundry interactions
whether happy, sad or instantly irate.
All the stimulii are channeled through your networks so empaneled
that there's really nothing random in response,
say, perceiving someone's violence you cannot restrain your silence
nor display some dreary form of nonchalance...
then your billiard-ball emotions will be vectored on the oceans
of what seems to be the endless seas of choice
but you're really just conforming to the cause/effect of "storming"
when some other party amplifies their voice.
So, I say predestination is the stick-and-ball causation
of every interaction which you see,
If I'm right, yea, just a smidgen, then it's plain that all religion
must be false because our will can not be free!
Jan 13, 2019
Simple soulful solace on the sedentary seas, rocking in the ripples of a soft Aegean breeze, whisp'ring rites of winter in the wisps of autumn airs, floating on the freeform flights of atmospheric stairs, blending with the bottom of the South Sargasso deep, the fulcrum of effulgence sings across its silent sweep... oscillating billows lift the blenny, tang and bream, saturating silhouettes of oceanic steam, schools of silky shadows swim in clustered knots and chains, mellow rays and mantas skim across abyssal plains, dazzled by the sinking sun's reflection far away, the luminescent neighborhood begins its bright display, and as the fading sun succumbs beneath the starry store, the evanescent ocean slips its tide far off the shore.
Jan 12, 2019
Her octahedral crystals,
in black, or darkish gray,
are found quite close together
in jumbled disarray.
Her luster is metallic,
In practice has no cleavage,
is brittle, and will break.
Her isometric axes
are cubic to the core,
her formal nomenclature
I find her so attractive,
she clings to me at night--
I'll always be her lodestone,
while she's my magnetite!
Jan 6, 2019
The Gospels are littered with low hanging fruit
which atheists harvest to logically show
that Jesus was neither as smart nor astute
compared to the likes of Voltaire or Rousseau
“No heed for the ‘morrow” was madly unsound
like cursing a tree when the season was late
or “Pluck out thy eye when a beauty’s around”
or “Love thee thy foe whom thou loathest with hate”
or “Burn thee in hell for reproving: ‘Thou fool!’”
or “Give up thy coat when the court takes thy shirt”
“Do good unto those who are vicious and cruel”
These saws often cause lesser good/greater hurt
In sixth-century Rome we’d be burned at the stake
for similar views which we might’ve upheld
Such thoughts are as sound as what thinkers can make
yet paranoid clergy would see them dispelled
for sanctity dies in the eyes of the church
if doctrines should differ by even a drop
their terror and torture assures that one’s search
for clearer convictions WILL come to a stop
Thus, like-minded pagans were murdered in droves
poor peasants so punished, eclipsed by the score
in slaughter-soaked cities and countryside groves
by Emperor Christians at one with their war
They justified murderous mayhem and death
Whilst spreading the gospel ‘cross sinuous sands
With ‘brotherhood,’ ‘virtue’ and ‘love’ on each breath
They witnessed and warred with incarnadine hands.
For the uninitiated, INCARNADINE is sort of a dark crimson-pink, which could be portrayed as the color between blood's wet and dry state.
A Billion and One
The Garden of Eden, God's finest resort,
was also the site of our planet's first court.
A tenant named Adam, along with wife Eve,
were tricked by a serpent and made to believe
that statutes on eating (by godly decree)
were quite ineffective as they would soon see.
The rules would make sense once "the stuff" was consumed
and no one would suffer, be cursed, or be doomed.
"There's nothing forbidden, and no one will die,
you must know God's warnings are really a lie!
So much can be learned by the fruit of this tree,
all moral dilemmas you'll instantly see!"
So Eve convinced Adam to dish up the fruit,
he never suspected Jehovah's big boot,
would really connect with his uncovered tush,
and land him in Mesopotamia's bush.
While gobbling up knowledge of right versus wrong,
poor Adam discovered the "shame" of his schlong,
and Eve with her beaver exposed to the snake
was shocked and embarrassed, she started to shake!
She mended up fig leaves and fashioned a dress,
it itched and abraded although she cared less,
and Adam was likewise employed making clothes:
a fig leaf tuxedo from neck to his toes.
Then God ambled back to the garden aware,
that many fig branches were suddenly bare!
"Oh Adam, Miss Evie, where are you tonight?
Did someone enjoy a forbidden delight?"
Some silence from Adam ensued while thoughts gelled
it only now struck him that they had rebelled.
"My Lord, it wast Eve whom thou cast from mine rib,
she trusted the snake who, it seems, told a fib..."
"Enough!" boomed Jehovah, "you're grounded, you worm!
and Satan, you serpent, you'll squiggle and squirm,
thy days on thy belly you'll stay till you're dead,
you'll bite at man's heel, and he'll step on your head!"
So Adam and Eve with no purse and no sack,
no stow-away satchel, nor suitcase to pack!
departed their homeland for points to the east
the garden became a domain of the beast.
At Adam's suggestion (Ms. Eve did concur,)
they settled a village and named the place Ur
where Tigris combined with Euphrates they built,
a farm with some vineyards--grew grapes in the silt.
They farmed and they frolicked, made kids--quite a brood,
killed lambs for Jehovah to keep him subdued.
Their children would grill them spiced, seasoned or plain,
till one day poor Abel was murdered by Cain.
The cookouts then ended and Cain moved away,
a fugitive farmer and cursed in his day
to tilling and planting an unyielding land,
and marked on his forehead with God's special brand.
The story is three or four thousand years old,
and over the centuries a billion times told,
It's fiction and legend, it's story and myth,
and now that I've told it I'll end it forthwith!
There Isn't Time
June 1, 2013
There isn't time to sew, nor reap,
nor break the bonds which deign to keep
our human brethren penned like sheep,
Big Brother's got the edge.
There isn't time to cry for Greece,
or curb a bad regime's caprice,
United Nations keeps the peace,
the way Big Brothers do.
There isn't time to ball our fist,
we mustn't try to fight, resist,
embrace the shackles 'round each wrist,
Big Brother knows your name.
There isn't time for Christian praise,
we must embrace the Muslim ways,
and euthanize all Jews and gays,
Big Brother's now our God.
There isn't time for me or you,
because our bodies seem to spew,
that deadly compound: CO2.
Big Brother needs us gone.
There isn't time for freedom's ring,
or even one "...to Thee I sing,"
all dissidents will have to swing,
Big Brother suffers naught.
Don't pick a fight or make a fuss,
Big Brother's going to send the bus,
co-operation is a plus,
The Gulag's here again.
Contest prompt: "Many believe the tide of economic fascism is starting to sweep through Europe again and that the United States may not fare any better."
Let Us Bare Imperfect Bodies
March 25, 2012
Count the slaves to cuffs and collars;
count the devotees of dress;
meet the business kings and scholars,
on their highways to success.
Watch a million-dollar mogul,
in his jacket, slacks and tie,
pause to postulate and ogle,
humble nudists walking by.
San Franciscans bound for Eden,
got permission from the courts,
judges ruled that no one's needin',
any sandals, socks or shorts.
Still, the natives' aren't embracing,
newfound freedom from their clothes;
seems they're shy to start unlacing,
tethers which the nudist loathes.
Does 'immodest' mean 'immoral'?
Does it mean 'indecent' too?
Is it worth a public quarrel,
just to bid our clothes adieu?
"Aye," says I, for all the studies,
seem to show that nude's OK;
naked parents, neighbors, buddies,
aren't what "turn" some children gay.
Perverts, peepers, rogues and rapists,
hail from homes too strict, repressed.
Let us be clothes-free escapists,
when warm weather suits it best.
Let us bare imperfect bodies,
wrinkled, freckled, scarred or fat
Let us nurse our thirsty babies
with no ruckus, fuss or spat.
Let us strive to teach the callow
taunters in their pants and shirts,
not to be so cruel and shallow,
ridiculing till it hurts.
Let's beseech the Christian pious,
not to flinch nor take offense;
look upon us without bias...
nature knows what makes most sense!
The Masterpiece That Wasn't Meant To Be
Dec 1, 2011
An arm extended from her cheek,
another from her breast,
an eyeball floated soft and meek,
where Pablo thought it best
conveyed the attitude he sought
--compelling yet demure--
so, happy with the pose he caught,
dear Pablo felt secure
that further work would not enhance
this perfect piece of art,
but then, upon a second glance
he had a change of heart,
and felt a certain sense of shame,
accompanied with gloom,
it turns out when he signed his name:
( Pablo Diego José Francisco de Paula Juan Nepomuceno María de los Remedios Cipriano de la Santísima Trinidad Clito Ruiz y Picasso )
it took up too much room!
Nov 29, 2011
Penguin! Penguin! flying high,
Crazy eights across the sky.
What propels you through the air
Soaring winsome, debonair?
What compels you stay aloft
O'er the frozen, not-so-soft,
How thy heart doth not exhaust?
Upward, upward, further still,
O'er the snowy glaciered hill,
Blasting o'er the mount'nous rocks,
Baffling Penguin paradox!
Like some supersonic swan,
Madly flapping, pressing on,
Let that penguin train below,
March those furlongs through the snow!
Let them push on step by step,
You, rare bird, too full of pep,
Won't let mortal science books
Hold you down with theory's hooks!
Penguin! Penguin! flying high,
Crazy eights across the sky.
What propels you through the air
Soaring winsome, debonair?
after William Blake's "Tiger! Tiger! Burning Bright"
Limit Christmas To December
Nov 27, 2011
Please stop with the ornaments, tinsel and sleigh,
it's early September, near ninety degrees!
This Labor Day weekend we'll find time to play,
now take all those boxes upstairs if you please!
Oh why are you hanging the Christmas house lights
I feel it's my duty, I must intervene,
We're not doing Christmas for 60-some nights
there's still a full week till we have Halloween!
And stop with commercials and pre-season screed,
we still haven't had our Thanksgiving Day bash.
Can't someone with conscience attempt to concede,
that Christmas this early is vulgar and brash?
Well finally it's Christmas, the blood sport is here,
with shoplifting, violence, a midnight stampede.
The parking lot rumbles spread holiday fear,
and pepper sprayed shoppers are victims of greed.
Perhaps it's a season that's losing its charm,
as merchants start earlier year after year,
and people are causing some good and much harm,
as Christ is the last man these shoppers revere!
The Flipping Philologist Hillary Hoo
Nov 25, 2011
It happened in Whoville two decades ago
that experts predicted five feet of fresh snow
on belfries and buildings and balcony decks
the fluffy stuff fell for five days in a row.
So honking Who-scooters were fitted with plows
they buckled up carts to Who horses and cows
which hauled the huge deluge to gullies and pits
or down to the river, delivered to scows.
They built a Who-scooper with bucket and boom
which featured a reacher with rotating broom
that swept the stuff up to the bucket’s great jaws
and huffed through the night as it puffed through the gloom,
and while the Who-scooper was thusly employed
the doctors next door were disturbed and annoyed
with all of the noises from buckets and trucks
the peace in the place was completely destroyed.
Yet Winifred Hoo was soon due with her child
she labored intensely while doctors got riled
with all of the clamor just out on the street
where much of the snow was conveniently piled.
But doctors were apt to adapt, persevere,
they improvised plugs which they stuck in each ear
still something went wrong with the birth on that night
most likely arising since no one could hear.
Had someone been pushing when ordered to pull?
Did someone say “half” when they meant to say “full”
distracted by all of the clamor and din
were thin cotton blankets supposed to be wool?
The baby was timely, arriving on cue
she wasn’t a preemie, nor long overdue.
Still no one is certain just what went awry
the night they delivered Miss Hillary Hoo.
It seemed that Miss Hilly would wiggle and wend
From fetal position she’d flip end-to-end
Her body was bent when she’d eat or she’d sleep
She loved to contract then abruptly extend!
She wiggled through day care and then into school
she liked to do flips off the library stool
she never sat still a whole day in her life
yet other kids liked her, they thought she was cool.
So now she’s a teacher and has her degree
Philology major, and mother of three
she married an acrobat (Cirque du Soleil)
and studies at night for a full PhD.
It wasn’t all gravy, she’s wallowed in doubt,
She had a few spells where she’d mope and she’d pout
but now what I see when I go for a drive…
a fam’ly of five and they’re all flipping out!
Time To Present A Cogent Alternative
Nov 21, 2011
Our polarized perceptions bear an ever growing strain
as "occupiers" agitate without a plan or path;
to me, it seems, their idle dreams show little chance of gain
unless they crunch some numbers with a smidge of modern math.
Their languor mixed with anger doesn't verbalize a case,
their aims are still amorphous in a prefatory phase;
if banks and corporations disappeared without a trace
the country couldn't last a day on "Occupy's" clichés.
Written in response to Occupy Wallstreet's ridiculous lack of coherence or meaningful substance.