Cold and warm faces, ancient and modern people wear
Curious of everyone's weakness they swear
Not for the immortal goddess Aphrodite
Impenetrable even by the so called "kryptonite"
Her power lies on her undergarment
nobody ever knew... it's her underwear!
By the power and authority given unto me
if I read my genetic code rightfully, my ancestral tree I do climb.
It is there amongst the fruit I find the divine
Intervention that only by stopping time
Can I unwind the spiraling chain of events
Of this grande design called Man.
So, by unleashing the gravity of it all,
It’s my time to intervene, blow my horn.
“Earth will Not be a living hell!”
I summon Thee, Arch Angel GABRIEL.
The parklane at dusk
can be quite enticing when trails
of streetlamps begin to set ;
a lustrous hour could bring one
right through glimmers of pearled orbs--
every leaf roller-coasting with winds
as orioles join the soft rhythm
swiveling on a lattice of tranquility:
And stillness heaves like zen- flare
iridescent lights lulling the breeze ...
a dazzle , a quiver on painted grass
quieting night's breaths without unease:
This park...life's harbinger of calm,
adorns flowers curling on kneaded arms
till sun-moon greets duskfall
with an intent wish-- dear one--
a balm for surrender ...and tranquil hours
If someone loves you... Care about you
While you do not look at him
He's not bothering you and forcing you
It does not mean he is sticking but rather it's mean.... That person does not want to bring anyone other than you into life
He truly loves you
junk is a hunk
weighs me down, while I clunk
all over the house
trying to manage the thing
while lost in a dithering funk.
alas, worthless junk
piled up and further up!
where to begin! what a laborious lump!
am I, wasting time
sorting through this
huge, hopeless hump?
I falter, I bump
into a fellow, flighty frump
aimlessly sorting
through her own jangly junk!
together, we commiserate
and conclude that our junk
is just adding up
to a barreling barrage of bunk!
Pity the poor syllable in the phrase that pops these days
It's stretched and bent until it's rent in oh so many ways
It's hard to see the melody in the score that's tortured so
It's an attack that hails from way back in days of yesteryear
If opera is what led to this, I guess that's why we're here
But Chuck was full of word play in his day and yet instructed
Improvisation shouldn't lead to the point where melody's obstructed
Vocal coaches in the ballpark should leave us thus reminded
Warm-ups are for stretching… lest technique's lost to the wind-up
A dapper squirrel in a top hat sat
upon a throne of porcelain white,
amber leaves descending around him
with all the ceremony of autumn.
In his small paws rested
a roll of toilet paper~
an object so ordinary
most creatures would never pause
to consider it.
Yet there he sat,
moonless-eyed and thoughtful,
turning it slightly,
pondering its mysteries.
Perhaps he wondered
why do humans create such things.
Perhaps he mistook it
for an oversized pale winter acorn
that had somehow forgotten
how to become a tree.
Or perhaps,
being wiser than most squirrels,
he had discovered
what humans often overlook:
that every object,
no matter how common,
contains a story.
The leaves understood.
They drifted downward
through shades of russet and gold,
surrendering themselves
to another season.
The squirrel nodded gravely.
The toilet paper remained unexplained.
The leaves continued falling.
And somewhere in the gathering dusk,
it seemed entirely possible
that wisdom begins
when one pauses long enough
to become curious
about the absurd.
What is philosophy,
after all,
but staring at an ordinary thing
until it becomes extraordinary.
Let no light get unshone.
Let know voice get unheard.
Let no soul get unmoved.
Let no heart not see the silly genius
Of Bob Newhart.
Let all good organic being find a way
To our own joined great truth.
Like finding it funny to hear two
Daryls introduced one after another.
There's a giant sunflower
Growing on top of my head
And crows are pecking at my skull
Full of black oily seeds
I asked my muse softly,
"What words do you have today?"
She winked from the margins
and whispered, “Start this way…”
Written by: Vaquero Waddie
----------------------------------------------
Don't look a gift horse in the mouth
when you're chomping at the bit
the Withers of a horse is used
to measure height
Straight from the horse's mouth
believe what he say's
don't fail to wear your Halter
in your certain disipline
find yourself a true lover
one you call your freind
Backing the wrong horse
will have ya'll airing out ya'll's lungs
I could have told you she didn't
want all that kissy stuff
tire of you before
it was over
cause she plumb had enough
a great relationship
has it all
walk trot and cantar
slow when you need it slow
fast when it needs ah-cantar
you'll know when it's right
a smooth steady pace
I reckon all things like this
it the same all over the place
A curled pink nail,
tap on navy blue,
garment I wore,
benchmark blazer,
and matching pants,
whilst idly gazing,
at top shelf luxuries,
with lavish design,
a tinctured twang,
“beyond my grasp,”
that felicitous plead,
from ethereal elder,
whose finger points,
to green leaf motif,
breakfast tea box,
tucked between,
medley of brands,
behind shelf label,
“your lofty stature,”
“towering boon,”
her citrine whisper,
my wobbly lurch,
I self adjust now,
before the setting,
of caffeine boost,
in basket mesh,
hug swops usher,
vanishing in lane
An armadillo leaned on a fence,
too wilted to muster a proper defense.
His cowboy hat slouched
like a biscuit overbrowned,
his dignity having long since left town.
The relentless sun blazed down with cheer,
roasting the pasture for the fifteenth month this year.
Grasshoppers staggered.
Mesquite trees panted.
Even the buzzards looked disenchanted.
The dillo squinted west and sighed,
I reckon I'm medium-well inside.
One more degree
and y'all will see
roadside jerky where I used to be."
A bead of sweat rolled down his snout.
He watched it fall. He watched it sizzle.
"Autumn," he grumbled,
"has missed her exit.
She's probably lost near Abilene."
The fence post offered little aid.
The shade was merely shade-adjacent.
He tipped one claw
to his hat and said,
"If anybody spots October,
tell it I'm awaitin'."
at dawn, Chef Armadillo opens his sun-scorched café.
jalapeños jump on the counter like tiny green fireworks.
tortillas twirl as he flips them into sky-high desert specials.
coyotes queue up for his legendary inferno tacos.
Just another average day in the desert....
I pause at last~
a rare celestial event,
like a comet or a clean inbox.
My files stare back,
feral little gremlins
named things like finalFINAL2
and use_this_one_maybe.
I take a breath.
The universe holds still.
Even my husband is impressed.
Then~
a miracle:
I drag one folder
into another folder
and nothing explodes.
Suddenly I’m unstoppable.
A digital filing phoenix.
A desktop deity.
A sorter of chaos.
And all it took
was pausing long enough
to remember
I’m actually in charge
of this digital zoo.
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