flax oil tastes royal says jim
he will drink quite a lot no whim
fda deems fit
his liver wont quit
alas friends we buried him.
Categories:
flaxseed, abuse, funny, hilarious, humor,
Form: Limerick
I can’t write today
my tongue is stuck in my cheek
the pen’s dry
powdered ink like sifting sand
on greased paper flees.
The well is dry.
Pump priming is required
and my feet are stuck
with my mind and **** to the inside
of a dry mouth.
Click, click, click
the false keys chirp
mimicking the old black
typewriter..
chitter chatter.
Sunbeams have lost their perk
caffeine has lost its BUZZ
the dust bunnies are playing stick ball
between my post caterpillar eyebrows
even flaxseed oil doesn’t damp the dry mouth.
Perhaps, I’ll have a cold one poured?
Prime numero uno..
grease the wheels of mediocrity?
Sharpen the nib of my font?
“Oh do stop that incessant gibber!”
Categories:
flaxseed, imagination, on writing and
Form: Free verse
The awesome foursome are the famous radio show on in the morning from 6 to
10
They are the three roosters and the mother hen
There is Bob who is full of lust
An insatiable appetite for beer and busts
Then there's Tom, who is never short for words
Or cell phones, I just heard he bought his 33rd
And now the female of the bunch
Who would choose flaxseed oil over a Nestle's Crunch
Here's the part we have all been waiting for
And then there's Chick, did you ever fix your attic floor?
They are all so great, I love the non- stop troop support
Without them a lot of today's top comedians will still be sweeping floors
Thanks to you all and all that you do
Bob, Tom, Kristy Lee and Chick even you
Categories:
flaxseed, dedication, thank you,
Form: ABC
Light leavens leaden doors.
Genealogies of genocide are lost
in long night rides through thistled trees,
dark reunions of distant blood.
Kinships are recounted, mantras murmured
of summer savory and sorrel flaxseed
like scars on wrists, a sparrow grass of needles.
We are immutable, terra cotta with wild glints
of sea-flecked eyes--
a mask of freedom, a final submission.
Origami moths mime legends in tallow lights,
stigmata their small dyings with rites of regeneration:
bleeding dim faiths, sealing silent sins
with the infection of sky.
We become insane shadows, cloistered cousins
of a dark, moist marrow
mythological as opaque men in pale pearled sheets,
chiaroscuro faces written in a white rage of worms.
Categories:
flaxseed, angst, childhood, death, faith,
Form: Free verse