Country mouse’s unrestrained giggles drew the attention
of city mouse, too sophisticated to mention
that his cousin’s hee-hawing had city mouse
whipsawing between guffawing and prissy pretension
Hemming and hawing this feeling keeps gnawing at my mind
Why look to Freud his own advice was void he couldn’t pick a side
I have aces and a joker, he had a tarot card hand
With all the mysticism all you grasp at is sand
The hummingbird hums because he doesn’t know what to sing [a]
And if you don’t stand for something, you’ll fall for anything [b]
So says Freud that it’s the pursuit of happiness, (that unstable quest)
(And Freud being dead) Jesus said it’s the pursuit of holiness, that's best [c]
She eats her lunch while precariously balancing herself on a line
None of us clearly know why, but she tells us it keeps her feeling fine.
Several ebony crows come by cawing, hemming, tooting and hawing.
But does she fall off? Not ever, she’s a professional, Witch G. Bawing.
rising and falling
hemming and hawing
fifty-two pickup
jokers included
Trust is an oak tree with shallow roots.
so very treacherous in windy weather.
I feel as though I'm glued to the floor;
pinned like a moth to an insect display.
I wish to leave this horrible evil place,
run far away into the cold, dark night.
In the flickering shadows of mankind
sympathetic words are a honeycomb,
sweet to the soul; healing to the heart.
Dreams rise and fall like lunar tides;
engrossing thoughts flood the brain;
as blood through old varicose veins.
Flotsam strewn about dying fields as
jetsam falls from darker, foggy skies.
Face rises to the sun, a sallow pallor.
Vultures perched, perversely hawing;
a flag is folded in presentation style;
roses tossed onto a shiny new casket.
The eve of one's quietus has arrived.
Portraits can take many shapes and forms
Unlike in Rembrandt, a Rubens, or even a Dali
Modern artists will often eschew the norms
Portraits of myself do not look much like me.
Unlike in Rembrandt, a Rubens, or even a Dali
A portrait may be merely a fine-line drawing
Portraits of myself may not look much like me,
Asked why, the artist will do some hem-hawing.
A portrait may be merely a fine-line drawing
Having none of the subject’s facial features,
Asked why, the artist will do some hem-hawing
Artists must see subjects as mythical creatures.
Having none of the subject’s facial features,
I find it impossible to know who I’m looking at
Artists must see subjects as mythical creatures,
But I take umbrage when I am drawn as a cat!
I find it impossible to know who I’m looking at
Modern artists will often eschew the norms
But I take umbrage when I am drawn as a cat,
Portraits can take many shapes and forms.
Written November 28, 2022
I’d rather that my message was encapsulated in poetry
Instead of the hemming and hawing of the world
Seems a curse held under the breath, malodorous
You know what they’re thinking, as if they were pure
But the cauldron is bubbling with maleficent baubles
Just waiting to spit in your eye, which was dry…
10/29/2020
The donkey was kicking up a ruckus all right
Hee hawing and making all kinds of a mess
We told him to hang on to the barn oh so tight
There was a bucket stuck on his head.
We ran for the doctor who came right away.
We told him to have patience or he might be dead.
My sister patted the donkey, and I helped Doc Boff.
It was touch and go with lots of kicking.
But at last we finally got that bucket off.
Doc Boff tried to reason with the donkey letting him know
He should not do it again,
But unfortunately, that donkey was unbelievably slow.
It was the second time that week I said with a cough.
The doctor picked up the bucket and hid it in the corner.
If he cannot reach it, you won’t have to take it off.
But that’s how we feed him I argued my case.
Doc Boff gave me a forgiving smile.
Get a bigger bucket, and you will save face.
During Sermon No One Seemed Inspired
During sermon no one seemed inspired,
Were almost sleeping while being tired;
Hemming and hawing;
Pawing and clawing,
And up congregation finally was fired.
Jim Horn
Evil smirks are on the agenda
For you tonight my Dear
Ever so fortunate my beautiful face dims
The hatred burning across the dinner table
You're as dense as your guests
They look at me through your eyes
I am the luscious
Silver spoon men like you relentlessly
Pursue until you capture and kill us slowly
I concede, by marriage I'm your wife
So when these friends of yours inquire
About our consecration before God
After too much brandy and not enough tact
A blush rises and you feign modesty
Hemming and hawing
You out wait the women
So you can give them a detailed account of my very being
At night I turn my back to you
And imagine you are one of the men you betrayed me to
WITNESS OF CHRISTMAS
A long road, a long ride for pondering.
A burst of occasional hee-hawing.
Bumping along, did they sing, did they talk,
this man who dreams dreams, with Mary he walks.
Did the star follow them to Bethlehem,
encircling with golden diadem
the unborn Son of God, who turns with joy
within the virgin’s womb, this tiny boy.
A cold Winter’s opus breathes Mary’s psalm.
Her intended spouse smiles, uplifting palms.
Celestial beings keep watch of night,
alert to the impending birth of light.
Most moms would cringe to lay their babe in hay,
but the Holy Spirit gives His okay,
and this mother, of great faith, swaddles Him
as the stable animals wing a hymn.
Perhaps some alone time with their savior,
before the trail of wise men, create stir,
with gifts of gold, frankincense and myrrh
and the meek shepherds arrive with their herd.
Angels all around — history’s witness,
taking turns “Hallelujah”ing a kiss.
Her holy infant son, warm in her arms,
Mary’s unique hold to all heaven’s charms.
12/24/2017
Sounds of the Day Contest
Sponsor: Nayda Ivette Negron
Accentuated by nature the hushed willow gently weeps,
Beneath the sun the sparrow cries as he gently sleeps,
Above the clouds the eagle flies to catch his helpless prey,
For these are the sounds I long for during the beautiful day.
The tweaking of the baby doe nestled in his mother’s arms,
The gentle hawing that follows from the colt inside the barn,
The breath of breezes whispered from gramma’s ol’ maple tree,
All create the sounds I love to hear full of exceptional majesty.
Sweet calling of the mother goose to feed her baby ducklings,
The tender swaying of the pigeons as they nest in coupling,
Whispers of the yellow sunflower seedlings fertilizing the field,
Captivating sweet tunes of nature, oh how it does appeal.
Articulating southern twang of a sweet newborn baby giraffe,
The accents of mooing and milking of a sweet newborn baby calf,
The resounding howling of my dogs while with the ball they play,
For these are the sounds I long for during the beautiful day.
Date Written: June 19, 2016
Would you just spit out what you're trying to say!
Stop sounding like a jackass, hee hawing a bray.
Sugar coating words won't make them sound sweeter,
and don't even try to recite them in rhyme and meter.
You keep babbling words. It's foolish procrastination.
Stuttering "B b b b...but B b b b...Baby" in hesitation.
Minced words are stumbling and fumbling from you.
Hinting with utter nonsense is what you always do.
I don't have the time or the patience to wait around
while you stammer in the most annoying sounds.
Tongue tied and afraid you'll say something wrong?
I'm not mincing words in telling you goodbye, so long.
6/17/16
TOM THE TATTERS MAN
The sidewalk creaked the old-ship-creak, cracking away a gorge at last;
asphalt split like wood, split-fast and bastions and toilets ------
overflowing fast; flooding through the deep dark cracks:
the Drunken Dance
Tom the Tatters Man, Tom and Ned ------- drowned whiskey white
wreaking around where harlequins astound; with wine and clowns
and nothing but buzzards around ------ they shot them all down,
they drank while death danced in their hands, heaving and hawing
til their heads swam
Alleys here and there strewn with vagabond boxes, boxed like shoes
too tight to make the fit ------ they'd all given up on the fix of life
every last one; the eldest and the young,
beggars all
Skyscraper shadows make a house of steely-steel thatched roofs
steely rust upon the alleyway proofs, the back is cold and stiff upon
morning whiffs....
of molten garbage
Defeat
Tom the Tatters Man did not despair, while here and there
molten garbage everywhere ------ in his socks and shoes,
molten in his mouth despite a tune, as he rose up and flinched
his morning love; a shot of whiskey at nine o'clock
Withdrawing
What's with all of this him and hawing?
From whole world is everyone withdrawing?
And sad has become their favorite word
Which to me really is totally absurd.
Is this what God does want you to do?
Say life is over, done and now through
And into a corner shall creep and hide;
Forget about all the pain so deep inside.
Dear God again to You I will pray;
With Your will please show me the way,
To avoid clusters of very bad thoughts
And my heart being tied up in many knots.
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