Grandma goes for her coffee,
whilst grandson keeps his eyes shut…
—Quote by poet
waking up to drop
into the sandman’s beanbag
sheet shifting with sun
Lots of politicians gathered together
Maximising target area
what too creepy
How much do you get for resigning again
You voted a walking beanbag twice
Presidents to Kings wanted
Psychopathic tendencies preferred
Anyone who wants to be a politician should never be allowed to
Selling now
wanna buy
Genie, my dog:
She was mixed part Pomeranian part Shih Tzu
a female genius with excellent sight
wise beyond her years she always knew how to
appease me, when I was not feeling right
Used to get so many migraines they were chronic
so always had a bean bag in the freezer
one day I lay across my carpet feeling catatonic
to my Genie well this was not, a brain teaser
She watched me for a while then knew what to do
I had the beanbag sitting across my forehead
she flipped on her backside & scooted beneath it too
side by side we lay together playing dead
She was an empath like mom, always had a clue
as to what to do, she was amazing
at the ripe age of fifteen I knew what to do
I said my goodbyes then sent her in the forest of the Godlings.
*Image of San Francisco Street Neighborhood by Pixabay.
A Superb Forenoon
This superb forenoon down the avenue,
flower gardens, mostly lawns, up this part.
There's Sammy and Tammy, "How do you do!",
naught Baker's ... close, Cooke's, love their fine art.
In view, ol' Freddie sits at the bus stop,
this superb forenoon down the avenue.
Waits not for bus, just days headlines they'll swap,
park seats, down some, too far ... bus stop will do.
Fair breaths of air, perfect time, grows in view,
from this point, I approach the metal wind,
this superb forenoon down the avenue,
flaps Orient graces in a crosswind.
Chalked squares in my path, sits a small beanbag,
a lil' girl says, "A minute sir, thank you!",
"Welcome, Miss!", homestead nearby, let time lag,
this superb forenoon down the avenue.
2021 August 27
I’m sitting on a beanbag chair;
It’s perfect for my derrière.
My back is leaning on the bed,
Supporting both my neck and head.
My first apartment had one, too.
My roommate bought it, for we knew
That friends would always pop on by
And need a place to sit or lie.
My current seat’s in Henry’s room.
He’s 7 and I would assume
He won’t outgrow it for a while,
No matter if it’s out of style.
To me, it is a favorite perch
To read or write when I’m in search
Of someplace I can solo sit -
This beanbag chair’s the perfect fit.
don’t call him a baby...
don’t make fun of his tears...
his soul’s tender —
he runs and hides,
under a chromatic beanbag
with a dark emotional spectrum.
when he returns to play Sleeping Queens,* he
sniffles, wipes tears on his sleeve (and yours)
“You hurt my feelings.”
you find yourself not unlike the Road Runner**
sailing off a cliff —
suspended in animation.
the reward of leaning in,
hearing what this little soul has to say,
realizing your fool mistake,
this time taking the time
to explain what his limited mind
can take,
then you hug the stuffings
out of the little ruffian***
but only if you can catch him.
10/24/2019
*Card Game
**Cartoon
***Here ruffian is used as a term of endearment
Stopped at an Oktoberfest
Just to catch the scene -
Big steins of beer, a German band,
Appropriate cuisine.
Some lederhosen wearers
Did compete at beanbag toss,
Then swigged their pilsners cheerfully
With every win or loss.
The port-a-potties waited
With a needed job to fill,
For after every jumbo stein,
I guess you know the drill.
We only stayed a while
On this bright day in Oktober
For I think it would be much more fun
To patrons not quite sober.
In my great room I relax
Staring at my surroundings
The lighten curio shelters
Trinkets of horses and dolphins
Atop the curio
A Brazilian lady of porcelain
Sitting shirtless, her head rests in her palm
Beside her on center wall
Painted charcoal black, the family tree
Pictures dangle on leafless branches
Standing tall, a teepee shaped lamppost
Brightening and complimenting the oriental carpet
The twenty year sentimental object in the corner
Is Patrick, the fluffy dog beanbag
Shylo, the go-happy Malti-poo on her lap
She barks at the sighting of a Golden Retriever
Sipping my scotch from my crystal, I comfortably rest
My feet upon the ottoman and my buttocks in my dad's chair
Shylo speaks at a passer-bye
Excitingly, she jumps on my jewels...Ouch !
She spills the half full glass of fine scotch, clenched to my fingers
With her moistened tongue she licks my nose
I rest no more
on the beanbag he sleeps
curled up circle of fur
dry food he crunches
by the glass sliding door
ever alert looking around
leaps five feet of the ground
to take a mark
between his front paws
as he lands, he spills the bowl
of dry food and some of the milk
on the saucer
he eats the fly
is pleased with himself
cleans himself
on the beanbag he sleeps
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