At a supermarket in Pa.
I couldn’t quite avoid
A MAGA-hatted tattooed guy
Whose shirt got me annoyed.
Beneath a giant cross, it said,
“REPENT!” (Can you relate?)
And after that, what followed was,
“Before it is too late.”
I think religion ought to be
A personal embrace,
Without the need to shove it,
Uninvited, in my face.
And though some freedoms, such as speech,
Have not yet gone away,
An order to REPENT! is one
I never will obey.
Food thats good i beleive you'll find? raw milk
Not the usual, therm-ed out kind.
Link up with farmers, you can volunteer!!
Supply some spirit, spread more cheer
The bowler hatted farmer knows' his
Onions along with dear old Vobes'
And Brooks no nonsense Chris is in.'
That people power is starting to spin.!
A couple of million will do for starters
You can now show the world..
Who are? the real'
Useless farters.)
Gambling in the forest took on a whole new flavor today.
The princess Adrianna joined us, bringing dice to the fray.
We shook them and threw them, hoping for the big win.
Antlered deer had trouble, his hoofs are so thick, not thin.
Barn owl came to join us, he likes red apples too.
We congratulated him on his flight and the way he flew.
Antlered deer asked us to give him another roll, please.
We said okay, but the dice flipped over against the breeze.
He is cheating! The spoiled pointy-hatted princess yelled.
An arrow came by, but it was quickly diverted and felled.
Gambling in the forest is great! Said the rabbit up high.
All I want is one apple the deer said with a cough and sigh.
Departed poems in a gray post-dated heaven
clatter wings together like hens in a jailers coop.
Words never die, they bury themselves in
heaps of dry leaves, distant laughter scatters
the sadly said.
Muse-makers wear plastic rainhats
that flutter like bats in the sunlight.
Words have to be tied together
or they sink alone in an empty fish bowl.
Japanese girls in designer Nike's
skip over words completely and we all hear.
Silk flowers in China teacups sail a deep blue ink.
The poets speak in tie-dyed riddles,
in dribbles between the loosely connected.
Atop a mountain, goats bray,
love-sick donkeys harken with their heavy hearts.
Legions of cock-hatted rhymers are born again
to confuse the world with their simplistic sounds.
Writing for all the long dead letters
is an art for baby fingers and painted opera singers.
Undertakers gather; their electronic ankle-beepers
sing within freshly dug sonnets and odes.
The deceased travel on, spinning a gray language,
they are silk moths weaving tinsel rainbows
that by chance
speak words still wet from closed lips.
You hatted being called my brother or friend,
Than called you my neither brother nor friend,
You were very good in Chemistry and attend,
You like to care disabilities peopple like brind,
One thing today I want to understand,
When you was speaking about me with friend,
What about you feelings? Please do not pretend.
big hatted cat in a
hip city flat
remembering that
he was in a big
city
flat
not patient
like some other
dead cat
just not sure who's flat...or
why somebody else's
leaning over the balcony rail
looking across the
city
smoking a cigarette
shifting through too many
impressions
responding with
so little
effect
they've catered to crowds riotously angry
and brimming red hatted stadiums
but for wee places of worship
they're nailed shut with bullchit
it was never about safety, but ratings
Ashe is a punny name for a
Bandit and Aristocratic girl
I've never seen white blankets of winter stupor,but her hair is as white as snow
Gold-accents and speck of southern rich
The anxiety of teasing dynamite like grill sizzles hiss during a hot summer's day
Bold eyes with depth of color
independent heart-seeked brushed
All within a tempered-sodden lip
And the companioned bowler-hatted butler who like
any other gray canine attracts mechanical affection
Had I but ears to hear and see-I'd say
The submsissive click,click,click of a rebellious gunslinger
Blap of stray unerring pellets
Bombardment of red-candle top- adrenalined
ring,ring,ring
An opera of menace
And the animated vocal squall
-'Bob,do something!'
My blue hair women paintings are surprisingly fun,
But the most interesting are my blue black haired combo.
I know this because I am staring at them now.
Pony-tailed, hatted, hanging, one doing the mambo.
I always thought the pink hairs would be the most “ut”.
My pink cats and dragons have them completely topped.
If I counted all the flowers and hearts on my walk.
I would laugh at my ludicrous self, that I could have never stopped.
Painting has been a most enjoyable hobby to me.
It has kept me out of relatives’ squabbles galore.
Entertaining me in every which way and wild.
Keeping me away from cleaning which I truly abhor.
On caparisoned, filleted camels do they
Over the great, soft, tawny sands
Ride;
Unfurled flags and tribal standards flown amidst them,
In the very midst of them-
Of they, who astride great tan camels,
Seem rather scandent and saltant.
These are the irregular, well-armed cavalry of the
"Men In Ambush," for such is the literal translation of their
Nation's cognomen;
And on the sands of the undulant, granular, eminent
Near-Judean wilderness do they ride.
Photographing these from atop the vespertine-hued
Summit of a delivery truck from the nearby
Eminent, circumvallatory, hilly
And fortressed city;
From the very roof of an antiquated bread truck
(Though 'twas then very new by the standards of those bygone days)
Whose radiator is soon to vaporously explode
Amid the oppressive, anhydrous desert heat,
Photographs an American, hatted in the whitest
Of Panama hats, who is a correspondent reporting of wars.
The Arab cavalry ride for locales
Damascene, in order to pursue one's kingly wish
To renew the gardens Cordovan and long-vanished.
Days’ End
Emeralds twinkling with evening diamonds,
Twilight planes flying through cotton ball clouds,
Wending weary workers traveling home,
A sole spectator sun-hatted watches.
The roar of rolling roads, a siren sound,
Like ants they crawl through streets to empty town.
The smell of smoke o’er charcoal lit fences
Tips of skyscrapers blazing through late smog.
The city is stretching while joggers run,
Baseball boys carry their bats from the park,
The dusk is creeping neath the western sun,
The sole spectator sighs, be-hats, recalls.
Sleepy children with books curl on the floor
It’s the end of the day in my City.
My mind went for a walk, in the middle of the night,
To a place full of colourful lights.
I was having a beer with Nelson Mandela,
And we talked about our own civil rights.
He put down his drink and quietly said,
“It always seems impossible until it’s done”.
And then he just vanished, replaced by a tin hatted soldier,
Blood covered from World War 1.
He looked numb and dead, behind bleary eyes,
And didn’t really want to talk at all.
I think he wanted to weep, for the people in his mind,
When he let go a short mournful squall.
And then Jackson Pollock walked in, with a smile and a grin,
With a new paint of his crazy Blue Polls.
He shook hands with the soldier and gave him his painting,
Saying this is for all the lost souls.
My mind went for a walk, in the middle of the night,
Where everything seemed so extreme.
Can’t wait for tonight, when again, civil rights can be done,
In another profound, definitively chaotic dream.
This is for Brian Davey's "My cousin chaos" contest.
UNFINISHED IN CONNEMARA
Small drizzle - or sea spray?
Wets the face - not enough to teardrop.
Above a cold damp brow,
Beads edging down the black wool -
Not heavy enough to run, nor wet enough to drip.
Tiny Atlantic turbulence in my hatted ear :
Flurrying, blustering squalls.
Buffets of whetted wind
Bring back Connemara
When she was there.
As in a seashell.
............................................................
Note.........Connemara is a bleak but beautiful remote part of Ireland - always rainy and windy
Don’t know how it started, or how it ends
I’m older now then I will be then; when
I was scribing with quill, candle and scroll
A mind of dubiety, road full of holes
A wanderlust dream, of apples true taste
A destined arrival, from earth to space
Learning my place around the bend
My limbs sinking in the chair akin
To the rustic oak desk, branded by toil
My hands numbing, gears lacking oil
Watching raindrops kiss the window
A top hatted, hunched mans figure descends
He says with a grin, I’ll show you how
To properly command your pen
I pinch myself over and over again
Thinking I’ll wake next moments blink
I said sir, let me sip that ink you drink
Dine from the flowery plate you ascend
With glib he said, the drink is to think
Outside of a realm we transcend
The ink is verve that the heart kindly lends
To our inspired souls speaking
To minds boundless pen
I blink and he vanished
A note left to me holds words I brandish
“Calm eagles yield more then the busiest wren.”
Cut out of black paper
Japanese
Thrown before a sky
Of night milk
Janitress of a
Lower house
One toothed,
Point hatted,
Flying in front of a
Victorian curtain
Two thirds storm,
One third dark.
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