Long Dumpy Poems
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I used to be able to run full steam all day with little sleep
Now I can barely walk unless I have a little cat nap
because I still am a fitful sleeper at night, up and down
I once ran around my yard with my dogs
Now arthritis in my ankles has me ambling, slowly
I dream of walking fast, which I also did once upon a time
My vision used to be better than twenty-twenty
Now I cannot read books or magazines unless they are big print
or I keep a magnifying glass close by my easy chair
Sitting around watching TV was the last thing I would do
until ten years ago when I tore my meniscus
Now I spend a lot of time eating potato chips in front of the boob tube
I used to be clever and funny and fun
I do not feel that way anymore
I feel dumpy and frumpy
Do what you can while you are young
Fifty five is a lot younger than seventy-three.
You might as well know it now.
I long for the end of perverse MAGA malice
Led by the immoral, they are cold and callous
They have caused such disdain
Since Trump's menacing reign
While he sits inside his Mar A Lago palace
How daft the man to assume he owns everything
Documents and White House dishes he chose to sling
Ketchup thrown against the wall,
Trumpty is ready to fall
Shot down by his arrogance. Ow, how that must sting
He's such a libertine, and wickedly corrupt
When not getting his way, his temper will erupt
But now he's gone too far
According to Bill Barr
But Dumpy Trumpty will never ever fess up
I hope he won't have need to don that damned red tie
An orange suit he may not wear, and I'll decry
He should be an inmate
Enemy of each state
And more loathsome than the insect, we call 'fruit fly'
Some of you make fun of Biden's slips due to age
I prefer that man to an ogre filled with rage
One who defies the law
has a deep-seated flaw...
The Republican elephant on a rampage
Oh say, people, please tell me why you cannot see
how politician's lies have become so beastly
Don't bite Trump's baited hook
Stop believing that crook
He's the cause of conflicts on a family tree
I keep feeding her pastries, sugars and salts.
Anything animal – cow, pig, chicken, fish.
She is getting dumpier and lumpier.
We are waddling now. It’s a struggle to walk.
Stairs? You have to be kidding.
I gladly walk sixteen thousand steps to the elevator
Until the arthritis in my ankles kick in
A result of me not being careful when I stepped back
And stood on the top of a chair instead of the seat of it.
When I landed I was in shock, and knew I had done some damage.
Her foot was parked in the weirdest angle.
A brainless nurse tried to straighten us out.
My other leg kicked her hands away.
This body of mine probably hates me.
As we put on pound after pound of ugly fleshy fat.
I am sure my major organs are crying daily.
I do not apologize to her or give her any empathy.
Angry that she is getting older and frumpier, dumpy even.
I am sure she hates me now. I would.
The Deplorables
Because there was hilly billy running around all willy nilly. flipping and flopping his fishy filet, now he's sloppin the mopin today. Out walikin' n chillin', n stalkin road killin', for black pot fillin', the kettle's the villain. Can't quite get it right, fight though he might, his light not bight by a right sight. Yet never has he ever, on any endeavor, goten it together to weather the whatever. Whether he's hootin' n hollerin' or rockin' n rollin', he's stumbling n bumbling, "dem cookie be crumblin." A pathetic excuse this obtuse red recluse, this mighty white wighty n righty up tighty should never reproduce. These cringey, whingey, power stingy, fumblin', grumblin', crumblin', mumbling, creatures' main feature's are backwards preachers, thruth bleachers, no teachers, and NASCAR skreechers. Hee-haw, southern draw, drug withdrawal, slack jaw, Maw n Uncle Papaw. Trumpy dumpy little stumpy, frumpy clumpy always grumpy, no last straw. Vile and bile, world reviled, can't reconcile such a defiled lifestyles, and all the while, siege heil siege heil.
Too many questions, way too few answers
Why would an egg wear blue pants, sir? And
Wherefore his fall? Perchance he was struck with a lance, sir
Or could it be he keeled over from cancer?
But these answers are foolish, silly as can be
Let us seek precision, yea clarity -- just you and me
First let us consider Humpty's engimatic egghood
Whence he came, his origins, his neighborhood.
Humpty hailed, sure, from the finest of breeding's nests
His pedigree indubitably the crest of the West
Why else would "King's Men" strive to aid him so?
Inconceivable then, that he be hatched not from Royal Dough
And yet, and yet -- that last name strikes hard at this theory
The name "Dumpty" denoting 'dumpy,' connoting 'weary'
The overall effect on eyes perspicacious, quite bleary
A name bestowing tidings negative -- never cheery
So where does that leave us, O intrepid fellow-seeker?
Let us push past the thorns and the thistles, those sticklers
That wreak havoc on curiosity so fragile as it peeks
Back into the matter of Humpty's breeches, heretofore piqued
Observing their color oft rendered blue
Though on occasion brown or purple, and even striped too
--Why, friend, I think I've got it, by Jove!
The answer to Humpty's mystery, for which we mightily strove
Brown is an outlier, not worthy of consideration
Purple represents Royalty, the Crown's Coronation
But Blue, validly, veritably, and verifiably, is a color so True
The King's Man who wears it can fend off every attempt at a coup!
July 01, 2018
Ricky Ricardo,
handsome talent of the Tropicana show.
serious, he cracks the whip, practices -
his bongos distract us.
Lucy,
his fiery red-headed wife - we
follow her madcap schemes,
her showbiz dreams.
Fred,
dumpy, grumpy, nearly dead
except he comes alive with dance -
far-fetched romance.
Ethel,
the love of his life? Well…
a partner in dance. Lucy’s sometimes friend.
They always make up in the end.
Little Ricky,
bongo player — itty bitty
show stealer. Not a natural son,
Keith’s not credited but the golden ticket, he won!
I Love Lucy
gets along famously,
handles the trite matters
of life. Laughter on a silver platter.
9/5/2021
too young for Woodstock
too old for Barbie dolls
I wore blue denim bell-bottoms
sometimes flowers in my hair
she arrived with summer wind
my friend Squeek
wild one exuding sensuality
as easy as breathing
making testosterone go crazy
she ran with bad boys
let me tag-a-long
one brief friendship then
she was gone
vanished like summer sun
what did she see in me
the dumpy ugly fat girl
maybe she was dream
maybe she was lesson
maybe it doesn't matter
fifty years later I'm still groovy
damned near perfect
I think about her and wonder
she was tattooed, yet still beautiful
her green eyes were the eyes of a queen
she was not arrogant; she was regal
wearing bracelets bangles and spangles
others avoided her table at the psychic fair
I sauntered directly to her
when I got closer, I noted that she was classy
and more gorgeous than I had originally thought
If men attended psychic fairs, there would have been a line
these old, dumpy corpulent middle-aged women went other places
this was a queen with flowers in her hair
wearing pearls and gemstones
I felt I was in the presence of greatness
there was nothing arrogant or inflated about her
she had a soft voice and kind ways
I was enthralled, captured, and enchanted
yes, she certainly could do a reading for me
it was a fabulous thirty minutes
she is a woman I have never forgotten
When I think about where my love of rhymes comes from…the best I can deduce
is it all stems from my childhood…and a love of Mother Goose.
It’s as if my parents weren’t reading…but singing the stories of Humpty Dumpty,
Little Miss Muffet and that old woman who lived in a shoe.
The older I’ve grown I have discovered…time after time after time
beauty, love and nature were created for the rhyme.
How a rhyme can take something as simple as a breeze…
and show how it waves to us…or how it whispers through the trees?
We might think the ocean is just a huge expanse of water…nothing more
until a rhyme shows us how she sparkles as we walk along the shore.
We might not think about how the sky rhymes…but then again… we might
as we watch birds soar through her in the day…and her stars come out at night.
And there’s no doubt from the moment we’re born…until we reach the end of our time
how our heart is always beating with the rhythm of the rhyme.
When someone we love is dying…is there anyone in this time and space
who doesn’t pray with all their heart for one more day in their embrace?
When I think back to my childhood days…I know this to be true
my world has changed a lot since Humpty Dumpy, Little Miss Muffet
and that old woman who lived in a shoe.
It is much more complicated world today than when I read Nursery Rhymes in my bed.
It’s a little more frightening than I remember…filled with more sadness, dismay and dread.
But I also know that beauty, love and nature still exist…
which is why from time to time
When I cannot find a reason for the way things are…
you’ll find me looking for the rhyme.
Damselflies are dainty, they are wisest of the wise.
Dragonflies a bit dumpy, much bigger than you and I.
I am a three-tailed Mayfly, so I am an expert in flies.
You can call me a Stonefly, but only if your name is Sigh.
We fly in swarms, but you may not see us for a while
For we are less than a finger-tip length long, and we do not smile.
We have not mouths or tummies, for we do not survive too long.
The longest we could survive is a week, and that is way too long.
Our job is to mate and die, the happy motto of the Mayfly.
Mate in flight. Mate in sight. Mate and die. Mate and sigh.
That is the fate of the true Mayfly. Some of us last merely minutes.
Then fall back into the water to feed the fish that are in it.
Mate and die. Mate and sigh. This is the song of the happy Mayfly.
We cannot sing for we have no mouth, but we can hum if we try.
Mate and die, Mate and sigh. We mate so light, and we mate in flight.
Spy a delicate winged fly with three tails? She is a Mayfly all right.