Add some brown, instead of blood
It’s sure to be drug through the mud.
You let it touch the ground, you see
Instead of flying high and free.
If, in life, you take this tack
Of always being in the black.
Then what you show off to the world
Won’t be worth being unfurled.
A flag of boring, neutral grey
Will live to fight some other day.
Although I don’t believe in Zeus,
And I hate to play this fast and loose,
But in things of creativity
In spite of innate proclivity
You must know how to be your own muse.
TO PURLOIN A SIRLOIN IS TO TAKE A STEAK
Waiting at the gustation
Knife and fork, spoon and cork.
Collander and hollandaise
Grab a bottle from the cellar,
Pair the oysters rockefeller.
Someone said the sky was falling.
Now I know they’re right.
The stars that burned so brightly hot,
Have now turned cold and white.
They make their way, each one unique
And on the ground alight,
Accumulate and call to me “let’s have a snowball fight!”
Leafing through the pages strewn
Throughout the Autumn afternoon.
They’re rounded up and bound together.
With covers sewn for Wintry weather.
A brainstorm-front, a silver cloud.
The sounds of Spring are read aloud.
And Summer’s sun will play its part
To grow His words up from our heart.
Hearing the click of leaves that pass
Down through the branches to land on the grass.
Water off a duck’s back.
Echo of a duck’s quack.
Neither wave has much effect,
And neither cause what you’d expect.
DO you ever wonder how melodies are?
REcalling the time that we danced neath the stars.
MIx it with laughter, are you feeling the spirit?
FAr from the noise of the crowd. Can you hear it?
SOrrow is gone and the fear disappears.
LAst but not least, take the muse by the ears.
TIming yourself, step out onto the floor.
DOn’t you realize that’s what music is for?
Saw the universe.
Swirling around in my cup…
I stirred, it was gone.
as my thoughts turn dreams
I realize a world awaits
that’s all in my head…
His salvation free, priceless,
Yet costs everything.
The word f*** has a ring
That I think I should mention
Is real good at getting
A person’s attention.
But when using this word,
Use caution, you should.
Because often when heard,
They talk of the elephant here in the room,
When they say I’ve had too much to drink.
They flatly insist that it’s something I’ve missed.
But I see it right there and it’s pink!
Elide the “i”, would Apple die?
With all the Pads and Pods bereft,
And to its own devices left,
Ive would have to lend his letter,
To make it better.
A parakeet and a marmoset
Stood atop a parapet.
A pair of pets, they made a bet
To see how far from their cage they’d get.
Elide the “L”, the “I”, the “D”.
Now kern the “3″ and make a “B”.
This is how the first typesetters
Pared the words that made the letters.
Better than ‘bollocks’, better than ‘blast’: better say “ballast” and hurry up fast!
Cresting the cusp of a former horizon. All you can do is strabismus your eyes, then.
Maggie danced to bring the rain. Grew old in May and hid the pain. Bought the farm quite literally and treated Bob with much disdain.
Secret Santa dons his shades and shrugs into his trenchcoat gray. Loads his bag and hitches eight white elephants to spirit away his sleigh.
From supercollider to super colder:
Freeze this word, you know you should. Elide the “L”, the “I”, that’s good. Now put a space between, don’t doubt. And even Kelvin would be proud.
Pencil in the “L”, the “I”/Do no harm in saving lives/Growing mold and writing scripts/Requires better penmanship.
An artificial edifice.
A hollow mountain’s face.
A surreptitious precipice
That hides a secret place.
Owed to the Sea of Ingenuity
There is a crater on the moon,
(The one affecting all the tide)
Whose shores are ripe with bright ideas,
No H2O at all inside.
A Sea of Ingenuity,
On the dark side of the lunar face.
Of cleverness and imagination.
Staring longingly to space.
See, darkness isn’t all that bad,
When anchored as a satellite.
The sun at your back each and every day.
The earth, your audience by night.
I turn to shout it to the crowd.
But fear my voice will be too loud.
And fear that they will be too wowed.
To see the things that God’s allowed
As things that must be said aloud.
Fear not. Say it anyway.
“Soon” says the moon
As it crests on the rise.
It looks at the Valley
Through milky-white eyes.
With one on the sun
And one cast below,
Reflecting the light
Like a pallid pillow.
THIRTY DAYS HAVE SEPTEMBER
APRIL, JUNE, AND NOVEMBER.
ALL THE REST HAVE THIRTY-ONE
EXCEPT IN LEAPYEAR THAT’S THE TIME
WHEN THE REST OF THE POEM DOESN’T RHYME.
Tragic flaws, foibles, tells.
Things that make us grimace, wince.
Chinks that we perceive in others,
Shed light on what’s inside ourselves.
And like a root, its stem is severed/Springs to life, it seems it’s tethered/To the Sun for which it yearns/Hope, intangible, it burns.
Put the “s” back in inanity
But not so much you plead insanity.
Your equanimity’s here to stay
So long as you’re spelling things the right way.