Poem: Wild Wind Wiggle Works

The wild wind wiggle works 

the old nails from their old over bored holes 

of the old worn wood boards.

The loose boards must be re-nail bound

Before they are discovered free by a snoopy hound

For they will make their escape fast and for good

And terrier-ize out past into the neighborhood

Poetry Link: The Next Poem in My Blog

Poem: Getting Syrious About Syria with DJT

"Very soon, or not so soon at all.", 

said the orange hairy buffoon bumbling baboon who is 6 foot tall

who thinks he thinks he's bright 

like Dr. Seuss in a book would write

but sounds like a freak 

when his brain leaks to speak

Oh, the things which you can get to become,

When you are very rich and yet very dumb.

Dumbbell Jumble Tumble

A Poem for Today

Mumble, mumble, mumble...

Rumble, rumble, rumble...

Dumbbell, dumbbell, dumbbell?

Fumble, fumble, fumble!

Crumble, crumble, crumble...

Grumble, grumble, grumble.

Tumble, 

  Tumble, 

   Tumble.

This Could Very Well Be My Cryptic Suicide Note

Someone asked the question, "Who is going to break first, me or Trump?" My response:

I feel your pain, 

time just seems to drain,

Drip.

Drip.

Too many times my waking thought

Is what the hell did I do to deserve what I got,

Blip.

Oh, the semi-horror beyond belief

Of the constant muffled internal scream of no relief,

Skip.

Skip.

And now there is a younger junior insane profane vulgurer version asinine assistant named Mooch,

My traumatized soul says, 

Its now just way too muuch,

Rip.

How Little Rain

How little rain can come down

In our little desolate Texas town

That only an ant could possibly drown

And the grass will prob'bly stay crispy brown 

Where the roof hangs over the side of the house

The concrete slab didn't feel the miniscule douse

The flood ravaged on a molecular scale

But left very little in the rainwater pail

And the dog asleep out back didn't seem to care

That the rarified rain had slightly matted his hair

And this I can plainly prove of the quiet pup quite a lot

By the distance that he didn't move from his dog shaped dry spot

The house must have noticed I arrived too late for the storm

So it mustered up all the moisture its roof could form

And it landed on my left shoulder suddenly with a plop

The torrent of a tiny single solitary water drop

Poem: Wiggle Worm Warm

(After several weeks of dryness, where grassland fires have claimed the lives of local ranchers and thousands of acres burned, it has finally started raining some.)

Sprinkle, sprinkle little cloud

Your noise is a wee bit loud

But the rain is very nice

As long as there is no ice

Oh, but later loud round ice does come

It seems every storm here has at least some

And the little scared dog's favorite hiding place

Is to wiggle worm warm under my arm his face

Poem: Sprung

Spring has sprung

So summer can simmer

Us on to an awesome Autumn 

Of full Fall

To store more for 

To enter Winter

Clearly a yearly

Thing to spring to do

For me and for you

To meander through

Spring Brings Fling

In 'Lost & Found' on Facebook someone presented a photograph of a pair of shoes, that had been tied together, and then thrown up into a tree. So I wrote this poem about them.

Spring Brings Fling

Spring will bring out a juvenile thought

To fling a thing like two shoes aloft,

Something normally found upon the ground

Is now in branches bound and uneasily downed.

But now the birds can groom it best

As a robin builds a fancy two room nest.

She just must remember not to untie the knot

Or her young could fall and die for naught.

Poles

Poles

I Think That I shall never see
A pole lovely as a Tree

A pole wiTh a horizonTal 2 by 4 aT iTs cresT
Upon iT insulaTors where wires can resT

A pole thaT poinTs direcTly up aT God all day
Unless a weak foundaTion has made iT sway

A pole That may someTimes protecTively wear
A poisonous Tar coaTing To make insecTs beware

And cables To carry The currenT we all need
To give our appliances such whirring speed

And provide The power They conTinue To do
Unless a massive sTorm snaps The wires in Two

Poems are made by me when I geT silly
BuT a power pole is made by a sawmilly
 
(Poem structure based on 'Trees' by Joyce Kilmer, 1913)

Poetry Link: The Next Poem in My Blog

I Fill I

Yea! I managed to get a blog post published every day for November completing the NaBloPoMo goal. Actually I did an eXtra nine. So here is my last post of the month, which I wrote earlier in the day, but got delayed publishing it until just a couple minutes before midnight, AND I came very close to getting stuck at a railroad crossing with an eXtremely long train on a long trip home from Dallas. So, from on the road, a poem piece:

Oh, I have been to Jason's deli
And put some soup deep down in my empty belly,
Just what flavors did then I fill I?
Onion and cheese on Southwestern Chicken Chili !!!

Septembrrrr

Hello Septembrrrr,
Cool Is Nice,
Cold Is N ice

I went outside just now to be sure really,
that it was still as temp brrrr chilly,
ah, I love this temp brrr at sure, thrilly,
no longer like living in a solar -bleep- grilly.


Poetry Link: The Next Poem in My Blog

A Broken Dry Sky

I would like to be on vacation right now.
Where?
Anywhere,
any how,
as long as it rained,
and rained [lightly]
every single minute of
every single day
and
I would smile
the whole while,
the whole way,
and
bask in the chill
of the feel
of the tingle spray.
I clutch my icy water bottle
from the night stand
in my warm dark fanned room,
tilt
and drown my dry brown sorrows,
knowing there is no scheduled hope
for several tomorrows.



Ear-Lier To-Day:

I made a delivery today for my wife's business because the customer had told my wife that "she didn't have a way to get to our shop". The house was on "Mary" street which was right next to "Turner" street, which was interesting to me because those are the names of one of my relatives from a long time ago.

BUT I was not very amused when I discovered there were 8 (EIGHT) vehicles surrounding HER house, after wasting at least a gallon of MY diesel for the trip. AND the purchase had sat at our shop for two months after repeated calls had been made to the customer to pick up her order. Grrrr ....

My Cousin Asked: Hmmm, coincidence?

My Response: Yes, coin side dents.

Boo Stew

One of my friends named Stew had a picture taken with a startled look on his face. I don't know the story behind the photo or why the face of fear and fright, or even if it was a true eXpression because someone right beside him was smiling. There was just a caption: "Stew saw a ghost."

My Response: But did the ghost see you, and was the eXpression on the ghost face aghast as fast, and did the ghost say 'boo', 'boo-hoo', or 'say, who you, OH, its Stew!'?

Poetry Link: The Next Poem in My Blog

This Giant Earth

Right now I am awake in bed 

and don't want to be at 2:48 AM 

with thoughts of youth in Asia afar, 

would prefer a nice dream instead, 

and I am thinking about someone I miss greatly, 

for their charm and mirth, 

and they know who they are 

and they are hidden from us 

by the horizon curve and current darkness 

of this giant Earth.

Two cookies and one hour later I am back in bed, 

but I think The Dog smelled 

my secretly eaten treat with a sniff and a puff, 

and whined briefly in verbal disgust 

and then left the room in a huff. 

"Where is my usual shared morsel, 

my minute lunette shaped portion of Pecan Sandie, man?", 

an act of unshared baked treat betrayal, 

oh, I have had quite enough, 

{ruff}.

So it is now close to AM 4:38 

but I risked getting ever so slightly fatter, 

to take care of this shattered friendship matter, 

for 3 aren't too many to be ate 

even if its terribly early or horribly late, 

by sharing a cookie number three 

with someone (some-dog) who means a lot to me.

POETRY LINK: next poem in my blog ...

Forte - Poem - on hearing about a book of poetry being burned

Poem based loosely on D.H. Lawrence's 'Piano', one of my favorites

Occasion: I heard that one of my friends was burning a book of poetry due to a lack of shelf space.

Forte

Softly, in the dusk, a woman is burning me;

Taking me back down to the state of ashes, till I see

Myself sitting on a book store shelf anew,

Waiting for the first human to crack me open and take a view.

In spite of myself, the insidious mystery of rhyme

Betrays me back, till the spine of me weeps to belong

To the old Sunday evenings at home, with April 25th outside

And hymns by the cozy fireplace, the blinkling iPod our guide.

So now it is vain for the book to burst into flames

With the tiny black Apple audio appliance appassionato.

The glamour of editorial days is upon me, my table of contents is cast

Down in the flood of remembrance, I smolder like a charcoal briquette for the past.

POETRY LINK: next poem in my blog ...

Agog

After the long night,

we awoke agog to a fog,

morning wet white light


Poetry LINK: next poem in my blog ...

2 of 3

.2 of 3.

Two Out Of Our Three
Here At Our Casa Tonight
Eat Abacaxi

(ah-bah-cah-shee - accent on the last)

It Is The One Word
Of The Braz-Portuguese Tongue
My Wife Ne'er Forgets.

POETRY LINK: The next poem in my blog ...

"Is Stan Back from Uzbekistan?" - The Saga of an Exotic Pet Broker in the Middle East

This is the rough draft of a poem I started early this morning.

Give the Uzi back to Stan so he can safely go backpack through the peaks of Pakistan, searching for strange and many a wonderful pet, things our customers are unlikely to forget. But knowing him from previous trips, and how his brain has been known for its “skips” like that trip one time, he wound where? We found him crashed in a pub of Tashkent in The Republic of Uzbekistan, singing on and on cheery bar songs about Norm and Cliff and confused them with hiking trips he had taken in his youth near the French Normandy cliffs.

And if he loses his visa, and has to pay, that might not teach him a lesson or it possibly may.

And if he gets lost in Turkmenistan, then send again in our Armenian men from the home office of Turkey to find Stan our man, and remind him again to stick to his agenda: ‘Find Exotics For Us Plan', please Stan.

But don’t be surprised if he gets lost again, and if Stan’s ‘mental compass’ fails in a forest, and there's no one there to hear our man, when he fails, when he falls or even if he calls, will there be a hero for our Stan man?

And if Stan again gets another dog in Afghanistan, smuggled in from the East of Iran from a clandestine not-so-sure he’s was such a reputable man, who tells our Stan, “Oh, you’re a big canine fan, and Poochie is the finest Afgan best-friend-of-man”, and he hounds Stan until he not only buys just one pooch Afgan (that's really a French poodle with big aft gams) that strangely resembles a wooly on-steroids baby lamb, (baa-ark!), but the seller misunderstood the Stan order as “Okay, nine is fine” and then suddenly everyone hears our German friend Stan the Shepard arrive on the unloading dock with a flock of dog-sheep-dogs, just please, just please don’t have any one back at the exotic pet store roar, “oh, man, oh, man, he’s flocked up again!” as that will just confuse and anger many a man, and especially the Sultan, the top guy on that eastern tip of Arabia, known as Oman.

POETRY LINK: the next poem in my blog ...

If Michael Jordan Was A Mouse

MJM

If Michael Jordan was a mouse,
and MJM lived in your house,
this is what you just might see,
what appears to be a white bright light of
very high intensity,
a doorway in the wall all aglow, I'm thinking
"how can this be?",
that suddenly appeared quite
unexpectedly!

(Remember this is just a piece of fiction,
and I don't expect a future expensive
restriction,
if my mansion goes up for auction,
and mouse haters arrive with false
expectations,
and they ask for complete X-rays of the
walls as part of the inspection.)

Emanating from inside my wall,
It sounds as noisy as a pool hall!?!?!
I didn't remember installing this at all,
And you would think that I would remember
something quite that tall,
for the mice in my past were typically not size thrice,
but just the normal size "one",
brown & round, and nice & small.

And I thought to myself, say, isn't that an
outside wall?
Well, sure enough there are things a tall
rich mouse will install.
I checked it out and its luxurious, several
mousey (size 3) floors tall!
He couldn't get the building permits to go
north horizon-tal,
So he settled for what he originally wanted
after all,
straight up inside, a build between the wall
studs filled, all verti-cal.

MJM looked over this piece to see if
anything was askew,
as neighborly gesture, I thought, as a
poetical editorial review,
and he felt my rhyming patterns were
okay, as far as he knew.
BUT found it highly unacceptable in section
number two,
as he said whatEVer made THIS thought
appear in you,
to think that you could sell MY megamouse
size condo here at house number 102?

And on MJM went to clarify that "man"-sion
isn't quite the descriptive word for what he
had in mind,
but rather, "mice"-sion or "mouse"-sion,
(words in a human dictionary you are likely
to not find),
and these now seem to me, in better sight
hind,
to signify the more important occupant(s),
those of a rodentia kind.





Poetry Link: to my next poem in the blog ...