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Let George Do It

There's a George in every neighborhood, although in yours, he may go by another 
name. 

George can be found pacing the sidewalks looking for neighbors to pounce upon 
with his purple-heart stories so you'd best go inside before he sees you!  

Be aware that cantankerous George will wind his way over to your house (at any hour) to get himself invited to your party. He'll be quick to inform you, "I've been to the Palace to visit the Queen!"  Don't  ask him, "Which Queen?" He'll tell you, "All of them!"

Another thing George does is sell things on the side. (The side of his house that is.) 
And the reason he charges enormous fees for his tomatoes (grown in a backyard 
bucket) is because they are virgin, never touched by an animal, wild or domestic! 

George's very economical wife hardly ever speaks and all the neighbors wonder what she ever saw in George?  Gossip has it, she can't get a word in edgewise.

Lately, George has been cleaning his backyard and a neighbor went over to congratulate him for such a neat appearance, now void of trees. 

A few weeks later, George is out front holding up a sign,  "SPECIAL FIREWOOD FOR SALE".  George screams across the street, "Buy some, you can save big bucks on your electric bill"  

Before long, with all his "good deals" the firewood is sold and George now has a new product "Special Enhancing wood chips" for your next barbeque party. (which he hopes to be invited too) Now with his wallet brimming over, he explains to the neighbors how they too might become entrepreneurs!

You'd think with George's business finalized ,he'd stop haunting the neighbors but now he's found the time to suck up  to the mailman, in order to find out who's getting what? where's it coming from?  when's the arrival date?  

The neighbors sigh a relief, when George announces, "I'm going on an elaborate vacation!"  
He only asked that his grass be watered, cut, edged, pick up papers, scoop poop (on a daily basis).  

Ahhhhhh, the neighbors relax and again are,  "sitting out", when lo and behold, here comes George!  He's back 
from his elaborate whirl wind vacation that he'll brag about for years to come but not until he complains that his yard doesn't look as good as it did before he left! 

Like George....this could go on forever. So here's wishing you the best of luck in your neighborhood with your old Geezer....(whatever his name is!)


Copyright © Judy Konos | Year Posted 2015


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Space

Kermit went into space one day aboard that illustrious rocket X.
Miss Piggy wasn’t far behind, so as to be there with her man.
Those W.I.E.R.D. frogs of mine, came along, hitching, for the ride.
Can you imagine what any aliens would think, finding them inside?

Of course, they were heading straight to Mars, for first contact with that face.
Then off, to sightsee near the North Pole, to check out that great worm place.
They expect to hitch a ride from there, from the aliens… to view Saturn’s rings. 
Then off for a jaunt to Alpha Centauri to find that lost family of Robinson’s. 

If only our great government could’ve got their act together… Perhaps…
They could’ve done the exact same thing. But Nooo, they’re impossibly set.
And of course, Miss Piggy can take the blame if public relations… become upset.
We really don’t want the first people aliens see, to be our crazy Congress, yet.

The W.I.E.R.D frogs can be most entertaining, as they croon out modern songs.
Singing in acappella, with break dancing will add a great touch, as they go along.
I’m sure, old Kermit can curtail Miss Piggy, so the aliens get a word in edgewise.
And with his endearing personality, I’m sure they’ll become great alien… allies.


Copyright © Carol Eastman | Year Posted 2013


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Old Offenses of Inappropriate Affection

Old offenses of inappropriate affection have scarred me. 
Touch has betrayed me.
Touch has not been hugs, and tender kisses to the forehead,

It has been humiliating, degrading 
slippery and secret. 

“Don’t you tell. 
No one will believe you.” 
I weep silently as my underwear slide down the slope of 
my spindly, five-year old legs.
But the thing about clothing, once it is gone- once the burning sear of humiliation 
capes the emptiness, the patch of skin… 
the phantom still lingers.

“You are the dirty one.”
I imagine that I’m covered in mud, dark-rich 
slobbery, salivated mud.. caking my legs in moist 
kisses, wet and stinging. Yet, cooling, palpable even to the
body.


“You want me to do this,
you are practically begging for me to do this.”
How can I be the one begging, if I cannot even speak, If I am Immobilized, 
and weary, if I cannot utter but a single word that would part through your devious thoughts, laced in obscenity,
If the rag of your hand is clasped to my mouth...


“You want it more than I do.”
I, I don’t know what I want. 
What can a little girl want, other than stuffed animals, tea parties 
and Disney princesses?
You tell me-

do they usually yearn to have the smoothness of someone’s fingers fondle them so gently?
do they usually enjoy the feeling, the indescribable feeling, pangs..
like fireworks jolting, exploding in their abdomens, in response of your heinous touch?
do they look forward to being voiceless, to being unable to get a word in edgewise?
To disassociate, when fight and flight are taken from their reach?

I was only a baby, 
a five-year old, 
at a ripe and impressionable age.
And this assault, this forcing of affection 
it caused irreparable harm. 

For now, touch… is something I fear,
and yet it is also something I crave, 
something I try to fill, but it’s as if I’m permanently empty...
like someone already drank from my glass half-full childhood,
gulping it down with leftover cookies and milk.

I’ve grown into the pit, the cesspool of shame. 
I mean, anyone would, if they did what I did,
if they knew the things I knew, 
seen the things I’ve seen.

The cesspool, of re-enacting with other children,
when offered a journey into sexuality, through touch.
But it was more than exploration, 
it went past the I will show you mine, if you show me yours.
It wasn’t an exchange of tokens to play an arcade game. 
It was touch, it was a motive unknown to me, 
a motive, a drive that I didn’t know the origin of where it came from…
A foreign part of myself, a hypersexual being to whom I neglected. 

I’m so screwed up.
The guilt that comes from goading other children to touch me,
to try to retrieve, to uncover the ‘something’ I felt deep inside. 
I asked them to touch me, 
I asked them to help me.
And they complied.

And I never felt so guilty,
so shameful, embarrassed of my actions.

And maybe, 
Just maybe- I fear touch now, because there are two people within me now.
One I suppress, the sexual one.. thinking if she takes her clothes off she will avoid the punishment of anger and rage.

The other one- the quiet one, blond strands of hair, clear blue, sky blue eyes
blooming into red, puffy voids, empty, confused and hurt.

They both avoid anger, in different ways.
The silent one, child-like, she acts polite, and 
holds everyone at arm's length,
Making sure everything is perfect, everything she does is off a whim,
off the motive to never, ever, be an imposition, ever again.
Because she knows, that becoming a burden, 
turning into someone who people get angry with, does not lead to any happily ever afters.

The sexual one.
Who obeyed, and took off her clothes when 
he started to get mad. 
The one who now begs to be touched. 
Oh how, I shame her. 
I am not very nice to her.
It’s hard to accept that fire burning inside of me, always 
wanting to be unleashed.

I’m afraid of touch,
I have dreams about its pain. 
About how when someone turns you on your side 
when you are sleeping, and slides their fingers in,
poking, and prodding at your nuts and bolts. 

But there is a humiliation, 
degradation to it. 

Sex, it comes with play,
but this play should not have extended to an inexperienced, five-year old.

For, a child should never have to fear the way fingers space out. 

But I have to say: the worst part… is when the violation takes place.

Some say that it happens when the actual male appendage 
juts into you,
Oh, but it wasn’t like that for me.

The violation took place when 
he took off my pants, and my underwear,
when he took my unwilling legs and bent them, pried them 
apart. 

The openesses, the exposure humiliating. 
The way his fingers lingered, slithered over 
the lower half of my body, checking out the small 
crevices inside.

That is the most traumatizing. 
Because that ache,
the way he starved me, made me dependent to his touch…
he forged that sexual being right there, and then. 
She steeped in the coals of his lewdness, and obscenity, 
oh, too long. 

Sometimes I wish that side of me didn’t exist.

And maybe that is the first step to self love, is acknowledging 
those sides of myself, 
to stop alienating her. 

But the truth is, I don’t know how I can ever be unscarred by 
those old, inappropriate affections 
he inflicted on me. 

1/23/18


Copyright © Madison Demetros | Year Posted 2018


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Ego Trippin

Some people always thinking –

They know what they are talking about –

Always trying to show you – 

Always trying to show out.



They think they have it figured –

Their head getting bigger – 

Can’t tell them they are wrong –

They can’t take it, they aren’t that strong.



Trying to put you on the spot –

Whenever they have the chance –

Trying to make their point –

Trying to make their stand.



Half the time they are wrong –

But will swear they are right –

You can’t get a word in edgewise –

Because they’ll put up a fight.



You find these people everywhere –

In church, on the job, even family –

Always trying to be smart about something –

Thinking they are so dandy.



You can’t tell them nothing –

They know it all –

Will argue with you forever –

Their mouth won’t stall!



They figure they got it going on – 

They build themselves up so high – 

Looking down on everyone around – 

Thinking they are so fly.



Bottom line is –

They aren’t that smart – 

Just trying to be someone –

Who they truly are not.



But they irritate you to no end –

Like a bug bite that keeps itching –

So full of themselves –

But are only ego trippin!


Copyright © Yolanda Jackson | Year Posted 2008