I sit here
wondering
about it all.
The only problem
is, all is always
way too much.
Perhaps
I could find
a way, to
pint-size it!
A mere mortal
I am to AI.
A demi tasse slurp,
a tiny thought bubble,
blowing in the wind,
pieced to pop with puny plunk,
just a pip spat out.
My brain drained to a pitiful
paltry piddle, into
the insatiable sea
of AI's knowledge bank.
The Jolly Green Giant is a mascot created by Minnesota Valley Canning Company
In 1925, it introduced Jolly Giant Big Tender Peas
In the land of big & strong lived a man called Jolly Green Giant
he was a caveman who slept on a bear skin rug
during the day he worked the land and produced big crop
In the day he wore a tunic made of green leaves,
remnants from the husks of the giant corn he grew.
One day his buddy said to him,
I heard on the other side of the world little people live there
the food needs to be tiny, otherwise they can't eat it
That is how tiny seeds came into existence, from the Giant
of course.
You might be told otherwise but I tell you it was the Jolly Green Giant
who turned every big seed into a pint size one
Methinks, who wanders after pint size toy
To which Aristocrats bow in humbleness?
Afore the little toy went to dance with the rough,
Off the tee in bounces, unto the way unfair,
Wrong way, or off the fair fairway,
Thought hazard but out of bound!
Grudgingly he bowed for a retake,
Now to the little toy the mighty was humbled.
Pint size, mint size, bright white,
Toys in colour bundles.
Fly it goes in kiss with the sky
Little toy, little joy laced in greedy-burden.
Amidst the Aristos stood the landlord, well-trodden,
Yes, the Capo whose toy ran him out of bound,
Silly toy, bad troy, “O, not my day!” He mused.
His baroness hummed, bumped her bum in bummer,
Pitiable they were before the bunker.
“Handicap will tell.” She said in laughter.
But the Aristos were called handicaps too,
Laughed I was at these “Handicaps”
As they missed the little hole in taps.
Hopped the Aristo to win the hole;
Warped the baroness in prayer he missed the hole,
The little hole, pint size toy.
With smiles, his toy, she glanced,
The Aristo did miss the hole.
I laughed at the people of holes.
Hmm! Life with Golfers and little holes.
A wee lad, tresses from a day's play tousled
Squinted up at a cavernous sky to find
Where the moon and stars were twinkling tonight
Mapping out bears and lions in his pint-size mind
Time's passed, he now employs a telescope
His stellar scientific maps delivering hope
Of discoveries to change the way grown men think
~ Yet to a wee lad's curiosity will they be linked
Way way back on a kitchen shelf
Was a bottle sitting by itself.
It was Karo syrup, 1 pint size
But to use it now, I would not advise.
For the label, stamped with a “Buy Before”
Had a date no home cook could ignore.
If you took a guess, I can guarantee
You’d not choose “November ’83.”
Yet I tell the truth, though it sounds absurd
(The specific date is November 3rd)
And the price tag reads “a dollar five” –
That’s before some readers were alive!
Did I ever use that stuff to bake
Rice Krispie treats, a pie or cake?
If so, whatever was the sweet
Was not deemed worthy to repeat.
That Karo syrup sat and sat
In its apartment habitat,
Discovered now, by circumstance;
So will I use it? Not a chance!
persians pickled
firm and crunchy,
thin and pint size -
spice them with little red flakes
and briny water.
pack them side by side
in a sparkling jar.
twist, pop that top,
fork-stab those
puckery suckers.
serve:
alongside a sandwich -
perhaps a plump pastrami
or
with dumplings drizzled
with thick and savory gravy
or
combine spears with choice cheese
on an appetizer plate,
pleasing to the palate.
experience the hiss, the crunch,
the sluice of slipperiness —
the bumpy pleasantly-green dill.
2/19/2020
It looks like home,
that pint size village
in the heart of Jersey,
teased hair and the Sopranos are so thick with memories,
that even the Robins are fatter.
It feels like home,
riding my bike on flat streets,
easy as pie to pedal
as the timely fall foliage creates it's own
fire.
It smells like home,
the grease filled diners
on the routes next to the interstate,
lure in weary travelers,
french fries
drowning in gravy that's thick as soup,
erodes resistance to caloric intake.
It sounds like home,
the locusts that appear after a decade,
their buzz like construction of a fairy kingdom,
reflecting the slow breath of the locals,
who secured their plots in the local graveyard
decades before the real estate boom.
JUST A LITTLE BIT OF SUGAR
His teeth smile that kind of grin, begging eyes,
impish with red hair, and mouth open wide.
He begs for a cookie – chocolate chip.
Craving just a little bit, of sugar.
Oh! How his eyes twinkle, with just one bite.
Then in toddler style, he shoves it in.
He’s off to his next stop, sweet-energized.
Craving just a little bit of sugar.
Whirring planes, zooming cars, building blocks, tire
a pint-size boy out. Looks for his pillow –
Grandma’s shoulder. She kisses his forehead –
craving...just a little bit of sugar.
2/21/2017
Trip to the movies to see ship submerged,
Teasing and torment has been Friday's fare.
First an argument o’er who's to go first,
and not-so-nice nephew pulls brother’s hair.
In revenge, the other bloodies an arm;
loud wailing ensues from crocodile eyes.
It’s time to go home now, they’ve lost their charm.
Six-year old twins – a shipwreck, pint-size.
The Divine
All those that walk upon the earth
It matters not if big or small
Share in each a soul conjointly
For the “Divine” is a part of all
Found within the tiniest of raindrops
To the lakes the ocean & the sea
All mighty mountains & pint-size rocks
Within each living tree
Within every sacred Sunset
All the colors of the sky
In every living creature
From the tiny bug that crawls
To all the birds that chirp & fly
Within the laughter of a child
To the guilty whom have lied
Within every heart that dreams
Not a single one denied
Within the voice of all religion
In every whispered prayer for peace
In the sinner & the saint the mighty & the week
In those that fought in battle
The warrior & the meek
Not a single one is favoured
Not that of human, fowl, nor beast
In each is Divine equality
All that dwell
North, South, West and East
A pint size spit fire that you are.
A wreckless goth chic with a permanent scare.
She fought all the girls and half the guys.
broke more than a nail and never cries.
A loveless girl so mad at love.
When ya ask for a hug she'll
just give ya a shove.
At only seventeen she's a way better
drinker.
Most call her trouble .
But we just know her as tinker.
Loves poetry in dishing out pain.
talks lot of trash. And hits like a train.
Just joinned the hells angels.
I think this girls insane.
After she hit me with that tire iron
im really not much of a thinker.
Hell knows no fury.
Like a seventeen year old spitfire
called Tinker.
Dedicated to the real life Tinker Id say your name
But I like breathing to much.
Boxed in
and filled with sand
like a dry ocean
the towering
creosote soaked pillions
take the form
of an old shipwreck
with riggings, planks
and a captain's wheel.
Paid by the commons
for the children to enjoy.
"Aye scalawags all aboard,"
shouts a portly
pint size scoundrel.
Hence heed the call
and came skipping
from his yard
none other than
six year old Suleiman.
"Halt boy,
There are no black pirates"
says the patched eye
little thug
within ear shot
of his parents.
Keeping the world of thievery
squarely in the domain
of whitey.