The expert arrived in time to show the rest of us
How to garden, how to bake, how to cook,
How to clean, how to make our own clothes.
She is the expert on everything.
She can show you how to arrange flowers,
How to bake a pie, how to talk to your husband.
When is she leaving? I ask the other women.
I already know how to do some of these things.
My way, not her way.
Frankly I do not stay around her long.
I do not do well around experts.
She runs out when she sees me get into my car.
Let me show you the correct way to start that, she says.
I gun the accelerator.
The blundering wind, blows absence of sensible youth.
It can tell no lies, nor can it tell the truth.
It blows strong on the flower and onto the grass.
Where they both huddle blindly, unaware they won't last.
Erstwhile the wind can blow for many dreadful days.
A stupendous blowhard, until nature tames its ways.
The shrewd stay protected, while the wind persists with rage.
The grass and the flower, are forever stuck in their cage.
While across the pond, grow the same flower and grass.
But over there they are protected, by big trees and their mass.
Both sides will survive, both have sun and will grow.
But the side with the trees, the wind they'll never know.
Unfortunately peace can be very difficult to achieve.
The wind will never give it, but will lead you to believe.
Relentlessly blowing and pounding, you can never be free.
When you grow tired of the wind, you're always welcome by the tree.
You are afraid you are too sensitive? Let me laugh.
First you would have to have feelings, Mr. Always Me Path.
Next you would have to care about another human being.
You are all about yourself, which is what I am always seeing.
Too sensitive? Are you kidding? It's a gag. It's a joke.
I have never in my life met a more "me-and-more-me" bloke.
Too sensitive? Who told you that, your sainted mother?
I know it was not your sister or your intelligent brother.
Your family and I laugh at your pompousness behind your back.
The amount of confidence you have is so clearly out of whack.
Your arrogance proceeds you, your selfishness a bore.
You are a blowhard pure and simple. Do you want to hear more?
FESTER BLOWHARD
Uncle Fester’s full of hot air.
He blows up at Frida Fayre.
An unfair and dark fellow,
Blowhard farts into a cello.
Freckled Frida just so feckless with her flute.
Her thin lips and puckered cheeks softly toot.
Fester fosters a hot-air balloon.
Frantically blows out his old bassoon.
Frida nervously nettles her fingers to pray.
Fester’s balloon bollixed, hellfire to pay.
6/25/2017
LIGHT POETRY
A Light To Like judged 7/28
Contest: Poem N/A'd from June to August
A sit before a screen or page and muse most momentarily
it seldom takes a minute more for it seems I’m always stewing
amazed at this, afraid of that, annoyed beyond endurance
with pen in hand or keyboards click, I truss the image up.
I tie the brash in blades of grass, I soundly trounce the villain
I’m so much happier in my mind, writing’s so fulfillin’
It is not hard to find the place the person or the scheme
to rant about, to cajole, the world is truly full of such
a never ending cavalcade of colors and of earthly joys
all I need is time and space and on and on I can elucidate
though the value maybe little oh how I enjoy it.
with a nose nailed to the ceiling
be they parvenu or just wishing really hard that they were,
smiling & chatting,
speaking with their pinky finger &
catering to their drink/instrument
from which they attempt to gain interest in
themselves---
name
dropping
as if it was going out of fashion &
always speaking of the aesthetics of “pieces” which
deserve to be paving the street adjacent to the nearest
pub,
oh how one loves to watch the
babbling blatherskite
finding their way through the crowd of
its own kind
worshipping physical art as if it held some
relevance in the greater scheme
where actual artists do so for a process of life
this cretin has never once made anything
outside a quick move for the
refreshments
which are always provided for such
intellectual trash.
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