¦¦¦¦ a song ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦¦¦¦¦
¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦¦ full of rye;
¦¦¦¦¦¦¦¦¦¦¦¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦¦¦¦¦¦
Baked in a pie!
¦¦¦¦ the pie ¦¦¦ opened
¦¦¦ birds began to sing;
Was not ¦¦¦¦ a dainty dish
¦¦¦ set before the king?
The king ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦¦¦¦¦¦¦¦¦¦¦
Counting out his money;
The queen was ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦¦¦
Eating bread and honey.
The maid ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦¦¦
Hanging out the clothes;
¦¦¦¦ down came a blackbird
¦¦¦ snapped off her nose.
(Blackout of Sing A Song Of Sixpence by Mother Goose)
They say her beauty was sheer perfection
She sun baked in the beach's tourist section
Her swimsuit so thin
It let the sun in
Reveling all her snow white complexion
Poetry — Easy
Poetry — Hard
Words — To Decide
Truth — Zero Sum
**********
Free To Disagree
We don’t always agree
but are free to take issue
With differing minds
— that our Founder’s defend
**********
First & Last
Say something ...
with every word
spoke or then written
heard or unheard
With every word
free a new moment
Eternally prescient
— divorcing from time
(Dreamsleep: June, 2026)
It's this last letter,
I write my sentiments,
I just hope that I'm not late,
To cast and pour my regret,
A once-better curse, I hope to forget.
This is my last letter,
Forever inked and bent,
In words that carry intent,
Baked in choice, soaked in pain,
With each verse, a chance,
For this long rain to end.
Dear beloved, it took its course,
I hope this finds you well...
It took shape without force,
An ocean vast with thought,
A sincere reflection of emotion,
Was my goal, with each tear that flowed.
The tears insisted a continuation,
Not a pause, not prose alone.
The lines resisted the halt,
Trapped behind a cracked dam
A seal upon these feelings,
Now deep and strong.
Rolling, rolling over the waves of swine
Black flour and sour milk combine
In Circe’s meat filled doughy pies
Filled with death and Ulysses men’s horrific cries.
The Queen was left to go untied
Moving out to sea she died
Past ghosts recovering lost saints
Rescued as floating foamy crumbling flakes
In blood-soaked waters
Ulysses saved, his mind all a shake
His men were drawn and baked in quarters
But he is still alive and much awake
It's this last letter,
I write my sentiments,
I just hope that I'm not late,
To cast and pour my regret,
A once-better curse,
I hope to forget.
This is my last letter,
Forever inked and bent,
In words that carry intent,
Baked in choice, soaked in pain,
With each verse, a chance,
For this long rain to end.
Dear beloved, it took its course,
I hope this finds you well...
It took shape without force,
An ocean vast with thought,
A sincere reflection of emotion,
Was my goal, with each tear that flowed.
The tears insisted a continuation,
Not a pause, not prose alone.
The lines resisted the halt,
Trapped behind a cracked dam
A seal upon these feelings,
Now strong and deep at last.
pumpkin
baked in a pie
I smell cloves, and nutmeg
cinnamon, ginger and allspice
tasty!
Sizzling thoughts
baked in burning skulls,
sliced and served
in salvers white,
before starving minds!
fee, fi, fo, fum
eenie, meenie, miny, mo...
absurdities abound
rubber buggy bumpers
for instance… or, blackbirds
baked in a pie… perchance
there's a fungus amungus...
eenie, meenie, desalini
ucha-a-wa'alini
hepta-minika-zokalini
doo-wa-diddy-diddy-dum-diddy-doo...
In honor of 'National Bad Poetry' day
(How'd I do-- D?)
{Halloween the norm?)
(Warning! -- not suitable for children
to read nor for folks presently having
mental issues. This short work is very
graphic and emotionally disturbing)
Sanity Loosely Defined
Is that a pimple to be punctured
or a sacred breast?
could they be real severed little-boy
testicles, fresh and raw, entree
for modern day
medical cannibals?~
arranged appealingly on
a ritual Progressive Plate
baked in dried flesh flour
for once human turned demon
to revoltingly devour?!
Sacrilegious Alternative Venue,
Culinary Institute of the New World Order
all inclusive Satanic Menu --
A wall of heat down on you bores
enervates your every pore
The fiery sun you implore
‘Who can take this anymore’
Your heart is deadened, your brain is fried
There’s not enough fresh air to sigh
Wring the sweat out of your shirt
Hide your body’s baked-in dirt
But check outside, just in case
Hey, what’s this your arms embrace
Drops of rain now splash your cheek
A fresh wind blows from mountain’s peak
A moment ago you’d surrendered
Thanks to Heaven need be rendered
Plump, firm, and juicy -
Enticing summer delight,
Achingly luscious,
Captured from your soft tree swing,
Hacked up and baked in a pie.
April 16—Rain
No Rain
In 2025, the world ended
With the collapse
Of the worldwide climate system.
Monster storms of the century
devastated half the world.
But the other half of the world
Had no rain or snow
For almost a whole year
The once-green grass was dying.
Crops failed everywhere
And baked in the unrelenting
Blastwave furnace-like heat
Heatwave after heatwave.
Military coups took place
Fascism re-emerged
The public demanded action
The politicians played
The blame game.
With the collapse of trade
And travel restrictions
People stayed home
Making do the best they could.
Home-grown gardens
Proliferated.
Feudal townships grew
As people walled themselves off
To save their communities.
The rich build underground cities
While the poor starved
And civilization crumbled
Wildlife proliferated
As did neo-savage
cannibal gangs.
By the year 2030
It was all over
And the rains
Never came out west.
I am a nutritious food.
My glossiness puts you in a good mood.
I am sweet, like delicious candy,
And smooth like the skin of a baby.
I can be crunchy, like biting a chip,
Or you can pour me and take a sip.
I am juicy, so moist and lush.
So shiny, I can't help but blush.
I am fragrant, like a perfume type,
And only picked when I am ripe.
I am fresh, like a newly baked loaf of bread.
My colors are yellow, green, pink, or red.
I am aromatic when baked in a pie,
Just give it a try.
I am crisp, like a dry, brown leaf.
Keeping the doctor away is one belief.
So what am I?
A scrumptious, flavorful, delicious apple, oh my!
Meaning is over there,
beyond the burnt paddocks
and blackened hills,
the crumpled, flattened ruins
of houses. It is further out
than that nothingness glazed
upon the distances
of a vacant stare.
A powdery dust now coates
the walls of a terrible absence.
There is a gaping silence,
a hole emptied of screams,
of moans, cries given up
to heaven. What was living
has been burnt back
to where only
a dull numbness
chafes against passing time.
Melted pots poke through
a tangle of charcoaled waste.
Memories, lifetimes crumble
into flakes of ash and amongst
the rubble,
a fire blackened teddy bear
with outstretched arms
seems baked in a posture
of perpetual still,
holding onto something
beyond the reach of fire.
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