there is no one this poet hate more than
those little ers with power in their hand
who would do nothing but sit back and watch
as the world continues to burn in the fire
there is no one this poet hate more than
those little ers with hands full of money
who sold their soul to build the empires
that run on the back of the poorest
there is no one this poet hate more than
those little ers who have everything
but choose the silence as a way to escape
while the planet continues to cry out for help
Twas the night before Christmas, I finished the trees.
And feeling good cheer, I'd drank a few beers.
The treats I'd laid out didn't last very long.
As I found myself snacking, I knew that was wrong.
Then, later in bed, I awoke with a start.
And realized the reason: my own noisy fart.
Like sounds of ducks quacking, my buttocks were clapping.
I was almost surprised that the bed sheets weren't flapping.
It woke my poor spouse, and he yelled, "What the hell!"
As the noise from these quack-ers had caused quite a smell.
I told him a flock of wild ducks had flown in.
And although it was late, they'd decided to sing.
He said grab the Gas-X and tell them to leave.
As their singing was lousy, and he felt he might heave.
I told him I'd looked, but the Gas-X was gone.
And I feared that the duck tunes may last all night long.
So I handed him earbuds plus nose plugs as well.
And I said that would help block the sounds and the smell.
He gave me a look, then he quickly fired back.
"There's a wine cork downstairs; it will help plug that quack."
Worry-ers of the Past
Tears subside into sleep
Sleep subsides into Death
Arms wide open to receive you
Down in its murky depths
Frozen but aglow with warmth
Rivers of a salted sash
Meander on my face like yours
Flag us forever
As worry-ers of the past
We sink you and I
Dead, but still breathing
Dead and domineering
Afraid of our power
Burnt from shadows and feeling
my pupils
dilate
sated
by
van gogh
irises
then
i'm
in a
moan
over the
monet's
the flowers
the same
but now
waiting
salivating
for to see
the oooh
keeffe's
counting my
thumb as one
i have ten
fingers
and when
it comes
to toes
even
though odd
the little
piggie
that
went all
the way
home
makes
ten so
then
may
i add
up the
ways
that i
love
you
dock appendages
spring break at the beach
human barnacles
sestets with tail rhyme
Prayers to ponder – the seventeenth of John.
Prayers for Himself – “God, glorify your Son.”
Prayers take time
Prayers for his disciples – “God, make them one.”
Prayers for us – generations unborn.
Prayers take time.
Pray-ers ask, but they listen to God too.
Pray-ers confess sins, profess faith anew.
Pray-ers make time
Pray-ers think and thank, praise Jesus as true.
Pray-ers seek mercy, find service to do.
Pray-ers make time..