When the joke's begun, it made you tense
They like poking fun, at your expense
Then laugh till they're blue, and choke on phlegm
When they laugh at you, the joke's on them
So, laugh when they laugh, it's up to you
You can gaff the gaff, they put you through
Just brush off their snide, and cold reply
When hushed deep inside, you wanna cry
I finished writing in my head
And reached to type it, but alas
I dropped the text, and it fell dead
Just crashed to pieces, like a vase
Words on the floor at random order
Glint in the sunny afternoon
I wrote them narrow, they get broader
And jumped away, to die too soon
Words quickly rot, but some look fresh
Like fruits in autumnal decline
Few nouns shine, like burning flesh
Verbs ill-begotten, spilled like wine
Visceral fear I tied with hope
What was the purpose, can’t recall
Hopes rolled like pebbles down the slope
And fears ended with great fall
Words on the floor, farewell, my dears
I need to clean the room today
Brush off the trash of hopes and fears
They weren’t needed anyway.
Ode to a Cat
You never ask for the spotlight,
yet the second you walk in, the room belongs to you.
You wear your quiet like a favorite sweater,
reminding me that silence can be incredibly comforting.
You only come for a cuddle when it’s your idea—
and honestly, I wouldn't have it any other way.
?That slow, sleepy blink says everything we need to say,
and your rumbling purr patches up the rough edges of my day.
You brush off an argument with a long, dramatic stretch,
tell me exactly how you feel with a flick of your tail,
and look at the morning as if we conquered the night together.
?You ask for so little—just a warm lap, a sunny spot, and trust.
Sitting here with you, I’ve finally figured out
that love doesn't need to shout to be real.
For all your mysterious ways, my friend,
you didn't just move into my house;
you quietly made yourself right at home in my heart.
Need not a hobby more like a job
in retirement becoming a slob
Don't know the time or even the day
no need for a calendar it's always holiday
Sleep with the TV on
awake only if coffee strong
Weather does it matter now
no need to go anywhere anyhow
If work from home
still be all alone
Need a purpose a task a goal
a feeling of doing in the know
To complete it and be satisfy
praise from a boss with pride
Co workers shout well done
work place hero son of a gun...
Brush off the old resume
interviews doing okay
Finally a job comes along
now asking, Want fries with that? all day long
The old guy always unclogs the toilet
minimum wage makes a thin wallet
Customers never pleased
co workers lazy thieves
But work for it must be done
it all fills so ho hum, ho hum
Back on the couch sleeping in
my second retirement now begins
Go to the Senior Center for games and friends
permanent vacation retirement win win.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The keys are still. No clatter, no chime~
just dust in the cracks where my fingers once climbed.
It remembers the weight of a story half-born,
the click-clack of hope in the cold before dawn.
But now it’s a relic, a tomb made of steel,
holding the ghosts of the things I might feel.
The E sticks a little—left thirsty too long,
the W whispers wait, but the moment is gone.
I brush off the grime like a guilt I can’t name.
The carriage return gives a sigh just the same.
What if I press it? Just once, just to see
if the letters still bleed what they used to be.
Something soft to give
Recoil/repulse
Parachutes
Are for girls
Draped in billowing clouds
Of silk linen and lace
I am a storm
Wrapped in black hide
Hides me
Easy to brush off
After a crash landing
Find my hand dreaming in this blaze of consolidation
Lighten your lift from out our tell-tale indentation
Brush off the beach in trickles that echoes still our play
above where my knees have offered themselves to pray
Under swaying shadows rustle out breezes cast from azure pools
Where white peaks slip into sprays spilling seas mirrored in jewels
Find sun drenched lips longing to be lapped free of the saline mist
Press them gently, offer what's left to us, be my Girl Friday kissed
Feel the naked surf pound, then tempt, crash back into zestful shove
Rush with me to join in being swept out, carried away, leapt above
Glow in emulation for this day that throws you around as your guide
Dive to where sand dollars hide their riches to find me deep inside
Did the ocean try to dry its splashy face?
Did mountains brush off dusty, grassy trace?
Did the ground hide softly from the rainy days?
Did the wind play statue at morning's crystal maze?
Did planets wear funny costumes, just in case?
Let your own glory glitter, like fireflies' wobbly space!
Crushed.
Dust chokes the air
And encircles the vicinity
Burnt.
Charred and battered.
A blackened stump,
The remains of what once was alive.
Hacked to pieces.
Still, lifeless—
Left to die
Will you still bloom?
Will you rise from the ruins,
Brush off the kiss of death?
Will you cling on to the fact that—
You still breathe?
Get up.
They crushed you.
They burnt you—
Tried to turn you to ash,
Hacked you to pieces,
But still—you stand.
Stand tall.
Raise that head high.
You overcame what no man ever did—
A living testimony.
Narrowly escaping your own death
You fought—
You fought the obstacles, the trials, the stones meant to hurt you
And yet—you bloomed.
No More
By Adam Becker
Weary they grow when day turns to night.
Their Dreams they have died which once they took flight.
They have toiled and labored yet brought to shame.
They are many yet have no name.
Their sorrows flow like a river with no end.
They lost their hope thine only friend.
The sky, it remains, the sun still shines.
Gives light to their tombs, their fallen shrines.
An army surrounds them, their mind at war.
They will be conquered; they strive no more.
The fields are marked where the dead they lay.
They have cried out for mercy, no longer they pray.
What have we here now? What do we find?
Life can be cruel, so cold and unkind.
But life can be resurrected, the dead come to life.
To shake off the ashes, to brush off the strife.
Look to the light and grab hold of hope.
Arise from your slumber, take hold of the rope.
Dreams can live again where once they were dead.
Look to the heavens, raise up your head.
You are greater than broken, greater than despair.
You still have a future, and your heart will repair.
When life tries to break you, let out a great cry.
No more will life conquer, no more will I die!
How does a Wallenda fly on a trapeze
How does ‘Houdini’ escape with such ease
How does a warrior rise from his sickbed
Is it courage of the heart or that of the head
How does a marathon runner persist
in howling pain from a severe ankle twist
How does a fireman jump from six stories high
brush off debris and say, ‘Nothing’s awry’
Is it courage of the heart or that of the head ~
or perhaps heaven's hand overspread
Brush off your ant bites.
Blind eye the hornets sting.
Gone so long with ways of violence.
Creatures having done nothing wrong.
But it’s fine “they aren’t important”.
Legs or wings or hair you just can’t bare.
Squash and flush because no voice.
If it spoke would you still fear?
Darling child with bugs in jars,
May your care linger on and on my dear.
In the heart of the city's thrum,
Amidst the rush and hum,
I, a modern-day nomad, roam,
Seeking treasures in concrete's dome.
Once lost in the urban sprawl,
Now found, heeding the city's call,
In alleyways, forgotten and old,
New adventures waiting to unfold.
Past the crowds and towering spires,
Through alleys filled with hidden desires,
I wander, a seeker of the unseen,
In the city's labyrinth, I find my sheen.
In a corner, amidst the decay,
A book lies, forgotten, in disarray,
I brush off dust, reveal its charm,
In its pages, I find my balm.
Words dance, painting worlds anew,
In forgotten tales, I find my view,
Of far-off lands and dreams untold,
In ink and paper, I find my gold.
So here I stand, in the city's glow,
A modern-day explorer, in ebb and flow,
For in the past, I found my spark,
But in the present, I leave my mark.
In the heart of the city's thrum,
Amidst the rush and hum,
That was then, this is now,
In ink and imagination, I find my vow.
Sheryl had never been a fan of public affection.
Harry knew this, but he was hoping.
When they parted she had used the term “boy next door”.
He saw that as a brush off.
She had been attending college for four months.
He had offered to pick her up from the airport.
He was hoping her feelings had changed.
Sheryl’s heart slammed as soon as she saw Harry.
She had now dated many young men.
None of them compared to Harry.
Their eyes met, and he put out his hand for her bag.
She dove right into him, preparing him for the rest of his life.
A hectic stare across the cliff,
grabs my prying mindfulness.
but yet I hanker after urban fare,
such ruptured loyalty alas,
has a solid grip as I inhale,
the rampant toxic seaweed odor,
for which release a bland choice,
as bulging dark gray torrents,
remind us of some threat,
a fancy name as birthmark,
blemish, or craven riddle,
consequential strain I fear,
might alter this delay,
how city haven slant,
bustle, blast, benign graft,
has fallout clearly vetted,
sink block, suction pump,
remedial quick brush off,
two rocky worlds aside,
where common ground,
that less distinct blight,
consuming blind thought,
downpour on the crevice,
outskirt mere sideshow,
flight a gut reaction say,
let valor plot or plod,
whatever barren sabotage,
malaise, daft wanton dash,
each muddled exit’s close loop,
one must master by right,
ominous veil now pending,
scatter brained inkling wrought,
lure, allure, attachment beckons,
departure problematic when pressed,
bursts of rain, bursts of sound,
seeking shelter but clueless,
would things be otherwise,
in large built up areas,
I ponder this dilemma,
while dreaming of fair vales,
or mystic laneways of yore
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