On a blistering branch of July,
a squirrel lay flat as a pancake,
tail limp, paws splayed,
melting into the bark like warm butter.
He squinted at the sun in the sky,
that smug, blazing tyrant,
and muttered to no one in particular,
“Honestly… this is excessive.”
Beads of sweat rolled down his nose.
Others dripped off his whiskers.
He fanned himself with a wilted leaf
that gave up halfway through the job.
Finally, he stood, wobbly and dramatic,
and shouted toward the sunlit void:
Has anyone tried turning the weather off and on again?
The oak trees rustled considering the suggestion
But the heat stayed.
The squirrel sighed,
flopped back down,
and added,
“Well… it worked for my router.”
Poor camel’s humps, the males whistled and stared
She said to herself, ‘I wish they weren’t there’ ~
She took a ‘magic pill’
Then elixir she swilled ~
Flat as a pancake, ‘falsies’ she now wears
Colorful butterflies were pressed on glass,
flat as a pancake, holding fast.
When the fairy godmother put down her boot,
Cinderella lost her soot.
In the first rays of dawn's early light,
all the butterflies took joyous flight.
Isaiah says “In my defense
I was talking about circumference.
Another hint the Caelifera company
As God looks down anthropomorphically
He doesn’t look down omnisciently
In this case He sees as a man would see
From that bird’s eye view, I mean
He sees the panoramic scene
If the heavens are a curtain or a tent
On an orb can you spread out, stretch or extend?
How can the sins be removed as far as east is from the west
If these cardinal points ever meet the promise can’t be kept
Yes the earth is God’s footstool
It’s where He rests, the back of the fool
And a footstool has a flat surface
It’s not round on top or curvaceous
I want to make this appeal
As Job did to the common weal
As God in Scripture did reveal
As to the impressed clay from the king’s seal
It is the LORD who sits upon the flood
But it’s to its entirety that He sits that gets the nod
It’s a Head East album for God’s sake
The earth's face is as flat as a pancake
P.S. Let us remember that there is an ice fence
That surrounds all of the earth's contents
we could
pound our perspectives
as flat as a pancake
and force-feed each other with them.
we could debate
until two plus two is five
and still arrive at
an impregnable impasse;
a dead-end street.
you seem to be as stubborn as I am.
my mind -
and yours -
clearly will not change.
so why don't we agree to disagree?
you see, I'm simply sick of shouting,
tired of talking.
Whatever happened to breakfast, lamented French Toast
People love me, gushing with syrup, I used to boast
But now my brand is flat as a pancake
~ as popular as a post-Halloween ghost
A dozen eggs beat back tears as they sat in a box
while patrons flocked toward the cream cheese and lox
Once a staple of a sound start to the day
~ now bagels and doughnuts hold sway
There there's whole milk and butter
lovingly culled from Betsy's best utter
Given way to that nebbish 'skim milk' and oily margarine
~ at their pale appearance I just shudder
But at least I pack my children a solid lunch ~
Peanut butter sandwich, corn chips, and twinkies to munch
A letter from Bristol arrived on my doorstep
I knew its contents would cause me such pain
An invitation for a routine mammogram –
My Goodness …two years have flown past again
I arrived at the breast-screening center
And sat down on a bright lime green chair
The x ray room I soon would enter
I’d have to strip off my pink underwear
The radiologist asked me some questions -
Did I have any worries about my breasts…
I replied they were droopy and sagging
And no longer pert on my chest!
The radiologist laughed at my answer
My humour really did break the ice
We discussed the detection of breast cancer
She listened and was so very nice
It was time for the dreaded deed to be done
Each breast squashed as flat as a pancake
Two images were taken of each compressed one
Good grief my boobies don’t half ache!
A few moments discomfort can detect cancer
Soon the pain was gone from my Bristol Cities
Early detection is really the answer
And in two years they will re squash my titties!
09~23~16
(Bristol Cities is cockney rhyming slang for titties)
What says the silence between us now
With dour acoustical deadness?
Roaring waves of invisible vagrancy,
Breaking down the white rock transparency
Heavy and burdened with leadenness.
And all that is unspoken screams
With clinical padded-cell madness,
Hissing clues in a deafening vacancy
Falling flat as a pancake melody
With an albatross-fated sadness.
What says the silence between us now
With love raped a dialogue soundless?
Splitting hairs with a dumb antipathy,
Lit up like a cross-wired Christmas tree
With its circuitry spitting and groundless.
And whatever decays behind us breathes
With lungs cursed of punctured tissue
Telling tales of an undying chemistry,
With a quick-fire wit and repartee
You and I left the lonely issue.
What says the silence between us now
With our feelings insidious as cancer?
Hung upon a mutual reticency,
What means it to you, what means it to me?
Even God can't conceive of an answer.
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