By Poet: "LOVE, just four letters makes a very powerful word."
Have you looked inside of a store?
Filled from the ceiling to the floor,
with pretty gifts on every shelf.
Every aisle has more and then some more.
I see red everywhere for myself,
a pretty rose red bedspread for the elf.
Valentine's Day is full of love.
I will make red cornbread for thyself.
I am looking for a card like a dove,
not one showing a boxing glove.
This one will make him really smile,
as it shows my fun and true love.
Valentine's shopping went on for awhile,
now get home and decorate in style.
Cooking and baking for a great dinner,
will make him happy and be all worthwhile.
An idiosyncratic apothecary,
neo pop corollas line its grove;
The price and results may vary;
Heinous hues hang extraordinary,
the bourgeoise see a treasure trove;
An idiosyncratic apothecary;
Chartreuse poppin’ pills be wary,
a champion’s golden boxing glove;
The price and results may vary;
Bating mediocre alive to bury
immobile in the web they wove;
An idiosyncratic apothecary;
Citrine and amethystine they carry
promise calm, balance, and love;
The price and results may vary;
Naïveté of the Sucker is scary,
silk subterfuge we do not speak of;
An idiosyncratic apothecary,
the price and results may vary.
Bike to ramp and from ramp to tree
In just a second you can feel the hit
Hanging midair is a time of glee
Adrenaline rush with teeth a’grit
Grasping his precious jewels
The tens unit clung
Crank that cruel switch to eleven so
His unborn kids will know he was stung
A blindfolded face, cigarette tastes,
Tighty-whities, and a Big Mac burger,
A boxing glove hits a fragile place
So he screamed that his meat was murdered
Hot sauce dares with a barren gut
The bottle beckons, its all for good fun
Capsaicin will rain hell upon his you know what
Chug the demon’s drizzle and the damage is done
Office chair races down a favorite hill
Speeding down through memory lane
On my way towards a hefty dentist bill but
Jackassery is always worth the pain
Rock fights in mud is a childish leisure
With a soundtrack of chuckles and thuds
Growing up simple and hollow is a pleasure
When your friends are a bundle of duds
A small bat was flying in my house
circling over the bed.
With a pole and a boxing glove
I struck it to the floor.
Rabies shots we would get
while the docs cracked open it's head.
25-September-2021
No words to capture
elusive love.
Chased,
with boxing glove
laced to hand.
Attempt to catch
a feathered dove;
make a lasting stand.
Stalk
whispered wind
in noon-day traffic.
Place a collar on a flea.
This vessel spent, so suddenly
does seek repose.
Lord knows,
we do our part.
Patching daily hatred
with a beaten heart.
Hate
In civilized quarters, an outrageous obscenity:
Unwashed, perishing pant
And, for real, a dismaying insanity,
When a hater heatedly rants
At his subject of unusual dislike,
Whom he would’ve loved to strike:
His heart hammering vessel –damaging beats,
His head contending with an ache a doctor treats.
With hate, nothing is normal any more,
Haters best action, an unsightly sore,
With glances that like dagger stab
And fast breathing that would air grab
And reflections on hundreds of things
United by Death with wings!
Hate is the firmest shutting
Of the outlet to delicate love
And trust me - mortifying hitting
Of a non owner of even one boxing glove.
Knowledge of enemy’s demolishing fate
And serial number on Satan’s punitive slate
Comes with the Supreme Hate
Also, how long his success shall have to wait
Plus the exact date
Of the unlocking on his behalf of cemetery’s gate.
Monkey Man found in his perpetual boring bachelor flat
A darling tiny yellow spotted domesticated tabby cat.
The thing was mewing, and needed some milk.
Her coat was smooth, just a tad bit courser than silk.
Monkey Man embraced his privacy with a hermit type love.
But this helpless baby kitty snuggled up in a boxing glove.
He did not have the heart to throw it out into the wild.
It would have been eaten quickly, in a way not so mild.
He found out baby cats drink milk after he asked all over town.
With some coaxing and begging the baby drank half of it down.
You have to burp it, the old wives had told him relishing his plight.
Or you will be walking it as it wails from tummy ache all through the night.
Burping it was his undoing, it is when he became the cat’s daddy.
He lied to others about how long he kept it, and named it Paddy.
Six months later he was about to release Paddy into the wild
When he realized with pride, he couldn’t for this was his child!
(Especially, for new writers)
Just as in real life, some poets have the art of wearing masks of friendship.
You will know, when they stop commenting to all your works.
It's not rocket science to figure it out.
They just stop posting to you totally and it feels like being hit with a boxing glove.
No, your poetry is not inferior!
In fact, you may be a more than one time POTD winner!
Even then, they simply refuse to acknowledge you.
They just ride on white unicorns, under an allusion that they are superior?
How cheap, how tawdry, how unloving and cruel!
These poets who think they are some precious jewels?
But you must go on, though they ignore you like dirt.
They are nothing but arrogant, selfish-centered squirts.
The most loving poets are here in abundance.
They honor you, love you..
These lift your soul with a sweet, humble incense filled cadence.
......Write-on..ignore the unicorn riders......
"By their fruits, you will know them!"
January 14, 2020
A can of coke and a good book to read
Sitting in the sunshine embracing my greed
The sun's beaming rays piercing my skin
Microwaving my internal organs from within
My sanctuary from daily life is here
The worries of the day disappear
Feet up and entwined in this non fiction book
As if I’m caught on a grappling hook
I love my garden believe it or not
It’s a sun trap with no blind spot
Drinking my coke with ice and lime
Enjoying the peace in my spare time
Spare time is something we are deprived of
Trying to avoid the swing of life’s boxing glove
My garden is my part time sanctuary
My little house on the prairie
Mom knew long before I did
that I never made this bid
Proud and did not leave it under lid
She loved and never got rid
Her only son, her gift from above
God sent to her, with all His love
Peaceful as the white dove
God never intended for boxing glove
I believe He makes no mistakes
Although we treated like earthquakes
He gives us strength in His name
He does not play that dirty game
It is not a choice we had
It does not make us bad
We all live for just one thing
Joy our heart can bring
Mom and sisters loved me more
Protection they all swore
that no-one will harm
I don’t need to be alarm
God sends His blessings everyday
He keeps evil, quite at bay
You wonder how to be
just give love, that is all you see
Don’t carry hate
that will be your damned fate!
He was tough, he’d been raised to be big, fit and strong,
To hide any hurt, pain or fear.
He’d prepared for this fight, bottling his feelings,
Living an unemotional atmosphere.
Then the time had arrived, a fight till the end,
He had to win this fight at any price.
His opponent knocked on his door, ready to take him on,
By casually rolling the dice.
He swung to the left and glanced to the right,
Then an uppercut straight to the chin.
Then he kicked like a soldier, a seasoned marine,
And he thought he was going to win.
But his opponent was smart, and took all of his rage,
Took it with one boxing glove.
His opponent she won, so he lay down defeated,
Defeated by that emotion called love.
Dark thoughts twitching on a nightstand.
Wrinkled -bloated-bloodied.
Like an ancient boxing glove.
Powerless-broken-longshot.
A dead sea scroll- smoldering.
In the chambers of a burned-out heart.
They spied me in the sky, dropping bombs of love
on Ferguson, and bitchy women's rooms; and rednecks'
shooting range was next, the blooded boxing glove.
They spotted me in Tel-aviv and also in Tehran, collecting
Jewish kisses for the Iranian Imam.
They toasted me in the family courts, breaking hearts
I quickly soothed, and at their breakfast;Klu Klux Klan,
I spread their toast with jam.
They gifted me with patted back in Auschwitz and
Guantanamo, compassion was my hand; while Isis
and Seal Team 6, provided me a marching band.
They lauded me with accolades, the bankers and the poor,
while serial killers and the FBI, shot my name into the sky,
like Gotham on the screen.
And now I rest my head this night, beneath the troubled moon,
for tomorrow I go partying, with venerable, Ban-Ki-moon
Hand Grown In Thyme.
On Brummie Sea and Burnley oak,
In bearded wood and clove
I hidey in this Mutton cloth
That strangles like a choke.
Lampooned upon this Ferris wheel,
A chuckle for a hoot.
I swung with empty boxing glove
And knocked a joke aboot.
I thank you from my Uncles chin
And dear old Auntie Pat
Who did asunder to a sin
And dogged her pussycat!
They trundled stubborn as a toe
And caring not a care
Sent humphing parties to and fro
Though knew not who they were.
‘Bejees!’ I crippled all a goat
What finery I’ve found,
Four friends in foursome charging free-
A bargain at a pound.
‘Well fancy that,’ a woman sat,
And bending like a river
Weaved not a spell but nasty smell
And sent me all a quiver.
‘How come you like to gape alewd?’
I asked but half an inch.
To which the Lady took a fence
And hit me with a pinch.
I whispered lightly as a rose
To grease my oily bagpipe,
And sniffing with her hairy nose
A dwarf flew into sight.
‘Pull down your flabby chopsticks, man.’
She ordered like a waiter,
And lowering my name to Stan
Got on all fours to cater.
‘I am Dame Doris Chucklebum.’
She laughed but half an inch.
‘I like things that are rarely done.’
Then stroked me with a pinch.
‘Take back thy sweaty chollocks, love.’
I pleaded like a pro,
And with a hefty boxing glove
Took on the lady so.
It lasted less than half a tick,
Less if you counted slow.
And with a little knowing trick
Fled fleeing on the go.
‘Come back! Don’t go!’ she wept with ploy,
‘I’ll change like Whitney Whopper.’
Enjoying but a little joy
And playing with her chopper.
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