my grandpa is not one of your regular Joes
he travels around where a surf blows
he has been riding boards since sixty-two
he will never come home to Kalamazoo
Sometimes I bump into him on a beach
He always has facial hair like a baby peach
He does not know me, but I am like him a bit
Single, annoying, a lone wolf, a chit
move on back I say to my gray dendrite jar
It is in the closet, over there, not very far
It wants me to be a country music star
I laugh at the audacity, give a har har har
ambitions? Not really. I don’t want to think.
Since my retirement I’ve been in the pink.
Not wanting to take on monotonous jobs
staying away from Joes, Billies and Bobs.
I have no dreams or goals to fulfill.
Just loving my daily walk up a hill.
Enjoying the weather, mild like this.
Not jumping for snakes, not giving a hiss.
My brain can stay on that closet shelf.
I don’t need it to pen poems about elf.
Imagination must be lodged in my heart.
I do nothing extra, you can’t make me start.
Sorrow has a tenuous power
to make faces beautiful,
especially women,
men are a little better or worse
at shapeshifting,
of course it is their eyes, and lids,
the subtle exhaustion of lips.
As we rush through the hours
perhaps we may speak to
a Traders Joes helper,
or half-listening
to the spiel of a salesman,
we may glimpse a veiled sorrow
that surfaces through an un-tinted light,
perhaps we may silently hope
that such a loss,
will not enter our eyes
anytime soon,
or maybe it has already.
As we metamorphose
away from mumbo-jumbo,
we cleave to poetry, abandon prose.
Science is the only one that knows.
I saw it on “Colombo”.
A laptop’s far more useful than a rose.
Remember Walden Pond, and when it froze?
Or when Aunt Bernadette prepared that gumbo?
You won’t forget the north wind when it blows!
America’s best movie? If it chose,
the Number One would probably be ‘Dumbo’.
And ‘Tik Tak Toe’ would be the Show of Shows.
We all have sadness, live through woes,
but strong folk are not looking for macumba.
Rain falls – that’s all we need suppose.
Just check your seams are straight: adjust your hose,
and get out there and trip a raunchy rumba.
You know the tune real well. It’s one of those.
You think that milk and honey are what flows?
I’d like to see you tell Patrice Lumumba!
It’s been that way for many other Joes.
Art long, life short? The poem has to close.
But maybe, from the shadow of the tumba,
some vestige will remain for you to gloze.
This is to the humble barbers, humble farmers,
average Joannas & Joes
who give their all, day in day out,
but who most will never know
You all deserve recognition,
whether people know you by name or not
Thank you for everything you do,
It really means a lot
My name is Jack but who am I... really
I'm not a famous personality
I haven't made any outstanding contribution to science
I hope I've been a loving human being
Like so many other average joes
But will I be remembered after I meet my maker
Or will I be forgotten as I pass into history
So many famous people who leave us
Are remembered for a while
But then fade from our consciousness
I'm sure I'll be remembered for a little while
But dear life goes on
And soon I will only be a distant memory
Only those close to me will carry me in their hearts
That's all I wish for, all I would expect
My name is Jack but who am I... really
young and old we eat
smokin joes bbq
nice quiet luncheon
I have a unique talent everyone knows
I can balance cheerios on my middle toes
On both feet, and sometimes off of my nose
If I dunk them in chocolate and one of them glows.
Thousands want this secret from the Eskimos
Does it start with butterfly kisses, do you suppose?
The rumors run in circles tight like my garden hose
Here is the first part, you have to wear orange clothes
Secondly, you have to know two cousins, both Joes.
I cannot tell you the next two parts, said my Uncle Mose.
I rolled my eyes at his silliness, he wears pantyhose.
His stories are crazy, and blow as the wind blows.
Joes Deems Taylor
wrote music by the score
With a record at the 'Met'
his career was well set
My name is Jack but who am I... really
I'm not a famous personality
Haven't made any outstanding contribution to science
I hope I've been a loving human being
Like so many other average joes
But will I be remembered after I meet my maker
Or will I be forgotten as I pass into history
So many famous people who leave us
Are remembered for a while
But then fade from our consciousness
I'm sure I'll be remembered for a little while
But dear life goes on
And soon I will only be a distant memory
Only those close to me will carry me in their hearts
That's all I can wish for, all I would expect
My name is Jack but who am I... really
My guest said “I’ll throw this into the freezer for you”.
“No you won’t,” I replied.
“Why not?”
“Open the freezer.”
She did so and laughed.
“That’s Joe’s territory. Let him take care of it.
Yesterday I could not find my ice cream bars.
I told Joe we were out.
He began rummaging through the freezer
And brought out five boxes of them.
Whereas I could not find one box.”
“Honestly?” My friend asked.
“Who would lie about that?”
The word graffiti conjures up
Negative destructive images
But graffiti can be quite imaginative
Quite artistic in nature
Created in a lot of cases
By talented joes with images in mind
Only they can envision
They have their own patterns to follow
Original from beginning to completion
For those that can appreciate
The originality and basic creativity
Can't be matched except in the minds
OF THE ARTISTS
Born back in good ol 1982. I had no siblings, I had no friends and a girlfriend was a lifetime away. I had my grandparents who were preacher folk next door to me til the day/s they died. I'm somehow about to turn 40, proof I guess that my grandfolk and my elders prayers didn't fall on deaf ears. After 2 years of living with a global pandemic. Living in poverty, scratching to get by. I give thanks for the family, friends, loved ones, healthcare workers and workers of all kinds for that matter. I was born to respect my elders, look up to the veteran GI Joes. Through all our country has been through, the hardships all my family and friends have endured. I'm still proud to be an American Boy & rather I live here when I die, or somewhere abroad. I'll die an American, with a grateful heart , with a grateful soul. American.
The more I learn the less I know
global warming closing Eskimo Joes
Rivers run down but the Nile runs up
first taste of beer from a tippy cup
Dead birds pile high at a windmill farm
going green what's the harm
Lets say we will when we won't
Lets say we did than don't
Take the jab against your will
when all you needed was a cheap pill
Praying for rain in a flood
soon we will all be living in huts of mud
No more baths save water instead
some days best to stay in bed
Little boys now are little girls vice versa
gender confusing children makes it worsa
The Big Lie now Stop the Steal
fake media governs with the unreal
Essentials gone shelves are empty
Let's Go Brandon, where's our Horn of Plenty
Crime wave swells to floods
life was better funding the Fuzz
Feeling red while forced by blue
Big Orange Monster we miss you
A big-headed dreamer, pockets full of hope
Say, that and five bucks gets you a cup of joe
Worn out Army boots and my Goodwill coat
Sky's overcast and it feels like snow
Rolling on good time, guitar by my side
I'm gone to East Jesus on a westbound ride
Left Mississippi, too many ghosts back home
So I headed out west chasing my next song
Got hassled in Houston by some local Joes
San Antonio's cool, I saw the Alamo
Rolling on good time, guitar by my side
I'm gone to East Jesus on a westbound ride
California's crazy, Sugarcane Sadie
Showed me a good time
That desert moon and those Dylan tunes
Still playing in my mind
In the middle of nowhere where the wind blows free
I think a while in Slab City might be good for me
Salvation Mountain like a beacon shown
The Word of God painted stone on stone
Rolling on good time, guitar by my side
I'm gone to East Jesus on a westbound ride
Rolling on good time, guitar by my side
I'm gone to East Jesus on a westbound ride
A big-headed dreamer, pockets full of hope
Say, that and five bucks gets you a pack of smokes
Worn out Army boots and my Goodwill coat
Sky's overcast and it feels like snow
©2018
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