So I walked into my local supermarket
to buy my weekly shipment of Kit Kat bars,
Cinnamon Toast Crunch,
and Ovaltine powder mix.
As I shake off the snow on my fake Timberland boots,
coated in frozen animation,
thaws into warmth’s teardrops from
the supermarket’s 75 degree vents.
This moist sense of happiness was quickly interrupted
when I heard Wilson Phillips, “Hold On”
over the PA system.
Thankfully, the cutlery isle was just to my left.
So, now, I had plans!
But, before I could commit felony’s song,
I saw her.
A Portuguese goddess
with a strut that can ruin a man’s dignity.
She had Autobahn curves,
dark brown curls of hair & visuals,
and thick flesh meat that even Vegans would envy.
Her face lacked Maybelline coated misapprehension.
Cause I never did like clowns.
After staring longingly at her,
like a crack head with impulsive eyes upon a broken/unlabeled bag of baby powder,
she breezed past my stifled posture and clocked in to work.
She didn’t even get a chance to smell my $500 cologne called “Piece of Me”.
So with new-found urges to grab all my groceries,
like a burglar who really has to pee,
I rush to express checkout.
There she is.
Her register beeps in coupon lady’s rhapsody,
while my register needs a cleanup on Isle 9.
Now it’s my turn.
With girlish inner-screams of boy-band intensity,
I say, “Hi”.
She scans my apples, while I scan her melons.
The melons that the customer ahead of me didn’t want…
…they were on sale.
As if she read my mind,
“Are you feeling warm now?”
“All I want is to be the heat in your moment”,
which I almost said.
But, “Now I am”, is uttered.
As she smiled with seductive demure,
she handed me my receipt
with her phone number on back.
As I left the market,
I began to get cold again.
These winds of change
became gusts of numbness.
I locked myself out of my heart.
I turned around to go back inside.
Only to discover,
she didn’t have the key.
© Drake J. Eszes
Copyright © Drake Eszes | Year Posted 2010
There are things I don't understand
And would really like to know
Such as why they call it rush hour
And you move so freakin' slow
How come you get a learner's permit
To get a license to drive a car
But they don't give one for a marriage license
Now I think that's going too far
Why do they put deer crossing signs up
Do you believe there is really any need
In all my years of driving
I've never met a single deer who can read
I was reading a map in the park
And it definitely astonished me so
It had a red X that said you are here
And I was wondering how they know.
Copyright © Vince Suzadail Jr. | Year Posted 2006
Madness, the Hatter blinks.
Madness, Oz's link.
Repercussions of concussions.
Madness was Portnoy's complaint**,
Madness must reciprocate!
Hallucinations filter by....
Leary* winks at Dali's eye.
A house lands on Dorothy's thighs...
Chicken Little wanders by.
"Madness," Hitler's honcho’s sneer.
Madness splices genes with fear.
"Lobotomize!" becomes the cheer.
Kellogg’s* enema's find waiting rears.
"Are you the ass? Or is it me?
Have I ears and a nose? What do you see?"
"Hehawww," said Pinocchio's friends.
"Heeehaw," said Darwin* back again.
Round and round went Steven Hawkings*.
"Madness," said Lenore's raven* squawking.
"Madness," said Einstein* in a blink.
"Reciprocate!," said the missing link.
Reference Poem Knock Knock by The Archaic Poet - topic madness
* Art by Salvador Dali
* Portnoy's Complaint by Phillip Roth states
if you know you are crazy than you must be sane.
* Timothy Leary explored LSD and other hallucinogenic drugs.
* Kellog [of cereal fame] proposed enema's as the cure to
all health ills, plus loads of sex!
* Darwin proposed man evolved from apes.
* Edgar Allen Poe was mad when he wrote The Raven.
* Einstein had aspergers syndrome a type of
* Steven Hawkings is a wheelchair bound scientist who autism.
extrapolates on the edge of mathematical reality.
Copyright © Debbie Guzzi | Year Posted 2009
Why is it poetry, is a like dirty word and talked of in undertones?
It’s like a naughty postcard, more flesh than there are bones.
Poets tend to deny their art, “I’m not a poet, I’m a rhym-er”
Come on you lot get stuck in don’t be a poetry two-timer.
After a glass of alcohol some may admit-“I like a little verse”
“But no I m not into poetry…” It’s like a speech they did rehearse.
Now poems I’m getting good at, but famous poets I don’t know any
Don’t ask me if I’m a poet, because in wages I don’t earn a penny.
Now rhyme I am not bad at, but at free verse I would stink
As for haiku, senryu, and other forms, I stink I really think…
I listened to some so called poets; decry their art the other day
They denied their art while they listened, to what each other had to say.
Standing there with their poems held high, “I’m not a poet” they all said
Well get down from the microphone and let’s hear a poet instead…
They pass their poems around the table, like some black market currency
Not wanting anyone to see it, but they are at a reading for poetry.
So be loud and proud you poets stand firm for what you believe in
Tell them you are a poet, and just get used to all the teasing
I used to be a shy poet and I write verse with some frivolity
But the definition in my dictionary says “words with a pleasing quality.”
So now I am open to judgement from all of you wonderful poets
You have all commented on my work, but do you really know it?
You all have qualities that scare me, you really seem so clever
So can I finally admit to being a poet, from now on and forever?
Copyright © Mandy Tams The Golden Girl | Year Posted 2012
Sweet and Sour hectic sign
Love me, trust me, the stars align
Balance of truth and dare
Good and Evil, full of care
Blind when it comes to blood line
Copyright © Poet Destroyer A | Year Posted 2010
Flailin’, flailin’, flailin’;
There goes my ball sailin’
Into a trap, the water or the woods.
Flailin’, flailin’, flailin’;
You can hear me wailin’,
“Why won’t that damn ball go where it should?
Drives go right. Putts go wrong.
I shank my wedges or ‘skull’em’ long.
My golf game’s just no damn good.
I’m swingin’ too hard & lookin’ up;
As if I’ll actually see it go in the cup….
As if it ever really would.
My alignment’s too far left or right.
My ball can find the only tree or trap in sight,
Even if the shot starts out lookin’ good.
These days, I carry some special tools:
A handheld weed eater with extra spools
And a pruning saw, in case I’m in the woods.
I’ve even tried to ‘buy’ a better game.
No matter. My scores were just as lame.
Those new clubs didn’t do what they should.
Bogies & doubles...even triples... are common scores.
I very rarely get pars any more.
Believe me, I’d change it if I could.
My buddies said it must be me,
A teaching pro I should go see.
They said he’d fix my game…..if anybody could.
The pro said, “Hit some balls while I watch you.
Just set up and hit’em like you normally do.
We’ll see if I can do your game any good.”
After the first bucket of balls I hit,
He calmly said, “Take two weeks off…then quit.
Take my advice. You really should.”
Now, what really has me vexed,
I’m wondering what I’ll try next.
That pro’s advice was no damn good.
So, I struggle along with my flailin’ game;
But, strangely enough, have fun just the same,
Finding hope in rare shots that are actually good.
Copyright © Robert Candler | Year Posted 2014
I called upon yonder window
That was up to high for me to be
For my maiden gracefully sleeps there
In her bed,beside the sea
I asked her to come hither
For her beautiful face I yearned to see
Twas yawning in the morning dew
As she slowly came to the window for me
To my amazement came forth a ragged wench
Whos hair was as raged as the sea
With eyes that were burnt as nightposts
To bloodshot and squinty to even see
For this was not my fair maiden?
Whos beauty would forever be
But a drunken harlot who came hither
That she spent the night with instead of me
My heart now broken to pieces
Wondering how could this tragedy be?
For my maiden now sleeps with a harlot?
Without the love that she once gave to me?
My mind was now enraged
So I dashed for the wrestling sea
With thoughts of drowning this useless body
That's no longer good enough for my maiden to see
With water just over waist height
And a large wave about to crash over me
I heard a calling from yonder window
Twas my beautiful maiden as I turned to see
Her beautiful eyes in such distress
Her beautiful hair flowing so care free
Twas the beauty of my fair maiden
That I had called upon yonder window to see
For the thoughts that raced through my mind
Evidently,weren't truely what happend to be
For it was her promiscuous sister
Who had come from the other side of the sea
My heart now rebuilt with a sigh of love
A large wave suddenly crashes over me
The last thing I saw was my fair maiden
As my lifeless body is carried out by the sea
Copyright © Dan Kearley | Year Posted 2013
Your love is real
the love you feel.
Your love is great
the love you make.
Your records are on fire
its your desire.
Take me out tonight
and go wild and crazy,
or be fat and lazy.
So I played some Doors
and saw some whores.
So I said goodbye
and they all must die, fool.
So dig my guts
and eat my brain
and then go insane.
Care I love it
so forget it, Punk!
Copyright © Blake Holland | Year Posted 2015
'Tis strange where we should get the notion
That poetry expressed in motion
Should within the human form reside.
When nature gives us many chances
Unpractised and ephemeral dances
Like in a muddy field when sheep collide
Truth is, that nature's not so humble
And doesn't mind the dancer's stumble
There's nothing that it ever seeks to hide
Uncaring it leaves all revealed
And is not shamed if one small field
Has crazy sheep and one long muddy slide
They're mad, they're bad, they're having fun
Those naughty sheep and every one
Is doing what convention has denied
The hillside's muddy, wet and slick
With crazy sheepies sliding quick
Down to the bottom, down where sheep collide.
Many count good nature's fare
The birdsong and the country air
Among the wonders of the countryside
But strange delight can yet be found
In woolly bodies sliding round
A simple muddy field where sheep collide.
While nature guides celestial spheres
In cosmic dances, it appears,
With majesty the earthborn are denied
Down far beneath in mud and grass
A sheep slides on its woolly a***:
A sense of fun, though not a sense of pride.
Copyright © Lee Leon | Year Posted 2010
-honestly...I have no clue why...-
As I began to rest in my fickle dream
Suddenly I was stirred from my sleep
I was greeted by many a whisker
And petulant snores from my sister
The cat mewed ferociously and purred
For there on the other side of the window—was a bird!
It chirped like a wobbly siren—the ass!
And I swear by my bosom it was pecking the glass
Suddenly, I sprang up in alarm
I swear my bosom was gone!
The cat then motioned at the feathered brat
For her bright breasts seemed extra fat
Of course it wouldn’t have been that
But I couldn’t just blame the cat!
I opened the window only a crack
And asked very kindly, “May I have my breasts back?”
Such pride she attained from my bosom
Yet why? –how would she use ‘em!?
The mockingbird merely turned a goodbye
But the stolen twins were too heavy to fly!
She plopped to the ground and squawked
I would have laughed, but I was shocked!
The cat scratched at the window and with her eyes
Said, “Prithee, take your breasts—she’s mine!”
Before I could think I had fallen to the ground
To a booming, most terrible sound!
My eyes then opened to a cat on my head
As the booming sound continued from my sister’s bed
Copyright © Laura Breidenthal | Year Posted 2013
Extraordinary, I am
Craving for unusual thoughts
Endless exploration without boundary
Understanding the gift I shouldn't fought
Invisible drawings in my mind
Playing with the words in my head
The food of my soul
I feel so lucky
The random thoughts
A lifetime companion
A self esteem builder
A goal planner
Be my forever life saver
I write more
I talk less
I want to please
I chose to bore
What tickles me the most
Is to know what I'm for
Thinking is my love
When my mind goes empty
That's when I hate
My day dreaming lust
Organizing things in my mind
Playing roles of simulation
Where images of art is my vision
And words of attitude is my heart
Copyright © Katrina Salem | Year Posted 2012
Now here's a contest that seems pointless
But, up to a point, I guess it will do.
The points in my life have sometimes been fruitless,
I just thought I would point that out to you.
Oh, the point of this rhyme
May be pointed one way,
But it is at this point in time
To score points by what I say.
The point that I am making,
Is that there is always some point
That life points in a way forsaking,
Giving your point a grave disjoint.
I have pointed out many times
that points are good and bad.
But the good points I remember better
Rather than the bad points I have had.
You can sometimes see how pointless it is
To try to point these things out.
As for the point I am making,
You get the point...no doubt!
Copyright © Daniel Cwiak | Year Posted 2011
Did you ever have the feeling there's a man in your can?
Or a ball down the hall with an eye to spy?
Sometimes I'm sure I have ants on a tour of my house without cure.
And sometimes I know there's a pup in my cup, yelling "Hey, what's up!"
And that white ram in the door jam well, he's on the lam.
That's the kind of paranoia I live with each day.
I admit I'm delusional in a big way!
Some visitors are quite friendly like the girl with a curl under my bed with Earle.
But Bower in the shower, well he sings for hours!
And the lady named Sadie why she is quite shady!
I like Randy. He always has candy.
But the man looking at me in the TV, him I wish I couldn't see.
All the brunettes in the cabinets, they love to dance about.
But that meanie named Bellini, him I could do without!
The cat in my hat I don't like at all.
And I get quite nervous when Saul runs down the hall.
The bears on the stairs taunt me without a sound.
And so do the others who like to hang around.
Like Bert, and Mert, and Kurt, and Gert who live inside my shirt.
I don't care if you don't believe it, find me my straitjacket. I'll never leave it!
*Based on the book, There's a Wocket in My Pocket
for Dr. Seuss Theme and Form contest (Joann Grisetti)
Copyright © Rhonda Johnson-Saunders | Year Posted 2012
Here’s what I’m thinking now
at the end of the world:
There are no atheists in foxholes—
no theists in politics.
If knowledge is power,
and power corrupts,
then why did I bother reading you, Cicero?
Does it matter that I didn't’t love you?
Would it have mattered if I did?
There’s a poetry reading tonight
whence I’I'll chide other poets
who don’t sit alone.
I won’t bring up death
but I might have to breathe,
even into a mike
and mouth lines to get a snap or a boo
maybe even a wince or two.
Just maybe I’I'll talk about love
and how following your heart is like following a dog—
it only leads to vittles and (female dogs).
But how many times have I used that line
since the story I wrote about you,
a witty and sexy and fictional you?
Most likely I’I'll read something tonight about you.
I won’t recite it from memory
because I don’t think about you that much anymore,
not even when I search for my socks in your drawer
or when I put on the scratchy sweaters you give me,
horizontally striped to bring out my eyes?
I don’t remember your eyes
except they are blue.
And I don’t remember you,
not even when I smell cucumber and apple,
not even when I sleep on my side of the bed
or when you walk through the door
happy to see me;
even then I don’t remember you.
Does it matter that I don’t love you?
Would it have mattered if I did?
How about a few one-liners
for the end of days?—
Depression is self-awareness,
which you’d know if you were;
I need Ritalin to listen to you,
Lithium to hug you,
Viagra to feel you,
and Valium to sleep.
All you need
is me standing there, waiting at home
with turns of phrase and word plays
telling you about why I hate Ayn Rand
but want to buy as much as I can
and how I love celebrity gossip
and detest poetry slams
and find rhyming trite
except when I am.
Hypocrites can still be right,
which you do understand
because you nod at my nonsense
about fighting the man.
But now, at the end of all things—
I’m speechless and witless and pointlessly well-read,
and you’re just sitting there, smiling
asking me to pass the bread.
Copyright © Nick Hertzog | Year Posted 2010
A Joint Poem by Brian Johnston and Abekah Emmanuel
Did you really understand what I just said?
If I didn't understand my misunderstanding was so complete that I did not understand that I did not understand!
Amusingly amazing misunderstanding!
So you understand my confusion? I am so glad that someone does! You know dear this could be a poem. It clears up so many things!
Aside to reader:
And might even contribute to my getting some... peace that is, a little later on. [Wink, Wink]
May 24, 2015
Copyright © Brian Johnston | Year Posted 2015
not sure how she got here
only know she needs to leave
underneath the stranger
my arm numb; asleep,
mouth a desert.
a hundred dead cigarettes dance my tongue dry
princess of night
exposed by light.
get me out of this;
another dreaded morning mess.
along with my will.
I swore never again;
the lie is half the thrill.
Copyright © JSLambert Mister ROBOTO | Year Posted 2011
I do not know?
Hello my friend,
Hope all is well
This is your bud,
'Ol tom bell
You might wish
To read this poem
"Bad Day at the Eyedoctors"
A true tom tale
And shows what a fool I be
So check it out,
And you'll see!
Copyright © tom bell | Year Posted 2008
Fat egg you're a mess!
I can't believe the scramble where you fell
There's slime dirt and yellow on your shell
Impossible, I must confess
With all the king's horses
all the king's men
and the ovaries of a hen
It seems quite ridiculous
a job so meticulous
Copyright © daver austin | Year Posted 2008
I do not know?
I hate it when I'm
told to do
This damn thing
And I hate it
When I don't do it
And am made to
feel a rat!
So what is it that
I hate much more
To do or not to do?
The former is within myself
The latter within me, too!
Copyright © Karam Misra | Year Posted 2005
I wonder if I'm crazy,
It seems as though I am
I'm puzzled by so many things
Like what makes grape jelly
different from grape jam?
Or how anyone could have such low self-esteem,
To let their dumb commercials run
Are we to follow the dinosaurs?
And disappear beneath the sun?
Or how I could be so brain-dead
To find in my refrig,
Some food from the time
of the reign of Ramses,
How could I be so dumb?
The very thought, it scares me,
Makes my mind go numb.
Everything I buy or own,
I seem to lose real quick,
Is there a brain tumor inside me?
Or am I just mentally sick?
Too caught up in great thoughts?
Or just too gosh darn thick?
Sometimes I I find I wander
Into a room, and can't remember why
Is this for people normal?
Or did my brain just fry?
I guess there's no good reason,
To worry about things like this,
Sometimes your brain's on target
Sometimes it just can't help but miss.
Copyright © tom bell | Year Posted 2007
Seeing you all glistening wet
from your nice, long hot shower,
Makes things tight in my lower stomach
and frustrated that you have that power.
One minute, I can be mad.
The next second see you dripping wet.
You did this on purpose so I'd no longer
be irritated and to make me forget.
Eye candy is what you are,
you know it works every time.
Seeing you all sexy and clean
and knowing you are mine.
Unfair advantage is what you play.
But I'm no longer mad at you.
It's the quickest way to calm me down,
and it's something you always knew.
Have no fear your time will come,
And turnabout is fair play.
I'll save my wrath for you
and use it another day.
You look too sexy for me
to stay mad at you for long.
Lucky for you, a naked, sexy
wet man makes me less strong.
Copyright © Aleera Canino | Year Posted 2009
I received a joke text yesterday, on to it was attached
L.M.A.O. and my head I sat and scratched
I thought why do you Like My Aunties Osteopath
I was just about to find what would raise my wrath
Then another on said L.O.L I am confused I must confess
I could not understand why you Love Oldies Less
Then Facebook I was browsing and there upon the screen
More letters of obscurity that would make me less serene
The letters T.T.F.N. my mind began to derail
Why would anyone be interested that you Trapped The Finger Nail
Then I noticed C.B.A. and by it I was floored
Could this be what I’m waiting for a Cadbury Bar Award
So I no understandy text or Facebook speak
So I write the verse in a state of heightened pique
Leave me an old codger a message I can read
Though I think it is beyond you, because it’s done for speed
So now I have a message, for the young who have bought out
This very shortened writing version, that makes me scream and shout
Write It Simply Easy for those of us so old
Remember W.I.S.E. comes with age which soon you will behold
Copyright © Owen Yeates | Year Posted 2012
A true story.
Here I was,
23 or 24...
Classed an "Executive"
NYC Dept Store Chain,
"Executive" label meant
I could work overtime
For one half of my normal salary...
But a fool sees stars
Where he should see crime
Promoted "Furniture Buyer"....
Big Ticket spot....
They seemed out to prove
Smart I was not.
Big Furniture Market,
High Point, N.C.,
Invited out to dinner,
By big shot vendor....
Oh...whoop, whoop, yea!
Of course, my stuffy boss
In the next chair
At this odd restaurant...
"The Factory" it's name,
After that night,
I was never looked at the same....
Big shot, Big City....
It wasn't pretty....
The menu did start
Entrees priced more
Than my annual salary
And I'm confused
There's a boiler next to me!
So this Big City Buyer,
In his $99.00 suit
Ordered a shrimp cocktail,
Oh, what a hoot!
Like Studio 54
I had no idea
What I was in for!
Got my shrimp cocktail,
Oh, I do love my shrimp!
But the lemon wedge,
Was wrapped up
My mind now a' crimp
In this decorative yellow stuff,
All fit with a bow....
How do I open it, I wondered...
I wanted to know...
But I'm a Big Shot NYC Buyer,
Sure, I've seen it all....
How dare these dumb hicks...
Have such a gall!!
I took my fork,
I took my knike....
I started trying to open
This thing like....
It meant my very life!
I was struggling,
And frustrated and mad
Got some of the weirdest looks
I ever have had...
These Carolina Hicks...
Out to make a fool of me...
Slowly I realized
Everyone looking at me...
My boss's eyes swollen
How dumb his young buyer
Should be in a cornfield
And call himself "Town Crier"
Eventually I learned....
This stuff was called
Ridiculous I thought...
No cheddar or swiss
Like this had I ever bought...
In silence I remained
Through the rest of my meal....
To me the biggest embarrassment
To me the biggest deal....
Big City Hot Shot Buyer...
Dumb as a farm hand.....
Put in a Manhattan restaurant...
Without but a strand....
Of what was, what wasn't
Of how, and of why...
All I wanted to do
Is to crawl under a rock
(This is true!!!)
Copyright © tom bell | Year Posted 2008
I've told you how desperate
I am for sleep,
And I got a suggestion
It made me leap
Simplicity itself ; earslugs!
So I went out on a slug hunt,
Without realizing what a stunt,
It takes to be a successful slug-hunter
I found one at last,
Picked it up and so fast,
It oozed through my yucky fingers
More prepared the next chance,
I scooped it up on paper
And watched it's giggly dance,
Dumped it in a glass jar,
And didn't have to go far.
To find my next ear-slug...
Dumped it in as well,
But now I couldn't tell,
What seperated one from the other...
Oh, darn, who cares,
I'll cut this big mess into pairs,
Of suitably sized ear slugs
Home at last,
Poured them out of the glass,
And promptly cut them in 2,
Inserted one in each ear,
I could no longer hear,
But somehow lost my sense of balance,
Crawled to my bed, oh sure,
But I could not long endure
This swishing sound in my ears,
And jelly-like stinking mess
That oozed onto my chest,
And stained my sheets something fearful...
My ears oozed slime for 6 weeks,
And that forbade sleep one seeks,
And the stench of rotting slugs was horrific,
So next time someone suggests ear slugs,
Tell them no thank you please,
Cause I've heard the story of Tom Terrific.
Copyright © tom bell | Year Posted 2008
Give me something smart to say
Or maybe something dumb
What should I do, Should I stay?
Or should I go, ho hum?
Nothing seems to come together
Nothing seems to flow
Should I brush my teeth right now?
Or watch the Oprah show?
Why are some days really nutty
And others just plain boring
Today I'm going to flip a coin
If it's tail, I'm going bowling.
Copyright © Marycile Beer | Year Posted 2006
I do not know?
I sometimes sit and ponder,
What is over yonder.
When I get to yonder,
I sometimes sit and ponder,
As to what is over yonder.
When I get to yonder,
I sometimes sit and ponder
As to what is over yonder___
Copyright © Marycile Beer | Year Posted 2005
White board…names written hori-
To go pee…right when class starts –
THAT’S just wrong…
Of students who have bladder
Problems – WOW!
Not using lunchtime to do
No one knows
When to do their duties – SER-
Copyright © JW Earnings | Year Posted 2013
"A person's tongue is a twisty thing,
there are plenty of words there of every kind,
and the range of words is wide, and their variation."
-- HOMER, The Iliad
When I say ice cream read I scream
When I say phonology read phone allergy
When I say insinuate read in sin you ate
When I say four candles read fork handles
When I say mint spy read mince pie
When I say greénhouse read green hoúse
When I say bláckboard read black boárd
When I say mesher read measure
When I say Alpine read alpine
When I say vowels read dishtowels
When I say Homophone read home on phone
When I say Polish read polish
When I say sonorant son of ant
When I say i.c.u. read I see you
When I say Lent read lent
When I say Turkey read turkey
When I say euthanasia read youth in Asia
When I say depreciate read deprecate
When I say farther read further
When I say collision read collusion
When I say endocentric read exocentric
When I say pharynx read larynx
When I say thought read though
When I say phonemic read phonetic
When I say weather read whether
When I say China read china
When I say call on phones read allophones
When I say stuffy nose read stuff he knows
© Joseph, 10/4/08
© All Rights Reserved
Comments: The Errata poem is based on mistake in speech or speaking, a Freudian slip,
mispronounced words, homophonic pronunciation, etc. Paul Muldoon from Ireland, and
Charles Simic from Yugoslavia wrote Errata poems based on this definition. The Errata poem
is a Linguists paradise.
Joseph S. Spence, Sr., is the author of "The Awakened One Poetics" (2009), which is
published in seven different languages. He invented the Epulaeryu poetry form, which
focuses on succulent cuisines and drinks. He is published in various forums, including the
World Haiku Association; Poetinis Druskininku, Milwaukee Area College, Phoenix Magazine;
Möbius Poetry, and Taj Mahal Review to name a few. Joseph is a Goodwill Ambassador for
the state of Arkansas, USA, a college faculty, and a military veteran.
Copyright © Joseph Spence Sr | Year Posted 2008
Simple Mathematics, really.
To eliminate one component
To solve a problem quickly.
I’ll form the problem into a manageable state,
By easily eliminating an unwanted variable.
Now, just what variable to eliminate?
First, I will multiply the X by two.
That’s the first step. Done, I feel fine.
I will multiply the Y too.
Now, I add my X plus X.
My Y plus Y.
That was to make sure it checks.
Now here’s the predicament (easy my shoe!)
This is my problem,
And a real head-scratcher too!
The equation adds up nicely
And the X and Y are simplified.
But, how do I eliminate my algebra homework
Copyright © Laura Meese | Year Posted 2005
***NOTE~TO BE READ WITH A RIDICULOUS "SILKY SOUTHERN DRAWL" (have fun:)***
"Storm over yet...?"
"Well hay'ell ye'ah!
sum'body git me a da'gumm cole beer.
whadda'bou that boy th'er?
sum'body git him'a cole beer too!"
"Diddy! that boy ain't nothin' but 8 years old!"
na'I don't give a jolly'durn, if he ain't nuttin but 8 year'owed!
'dat boy dun' sat him thr'ew a big ol', storm!
torna'durr warnin' too!
he gonna have him'a cole burr;
mama, git him'a cole burr!
ta'days father's day!"
© 2011 ~JSLambert Esquire
Copyright © JSLambert Mister ROBOTO | Year Posted 2011