art is my haven
my sanctuary
my mood saver
my joy
my love for it cannot be conveyed in words
the right ones have not been invented
I adore creating something out of my imagination
there is such joy in playing!
I like making swirls, curves, hearts and stars
drawing pixies, gnomes, pirates, witches and more
I pooh pooh rulers and straight lines
I measure nothing
art speaks to me
adding color is the ice cream on this pie
orange, red, turquoise
silver, yellow, blue, green
art is my haven
my sanctuary
my mood saver
my joy
Words are fun, they give me a kick
Vomit, pooh pooh, manure, ick!
Some bounce like a grasshopper’s pogo stick
Others are greasy, grimy, slimy, sticky, sick
Z words are rare, as are words that being with Q.
Name words make me enthusiastic, that’s what they do.
Zing, Zany, Zig, Zippy, Ziggy zag zoo, delight me so.
You can never go wrong with words any direction you go.
there once was a skunk named Pepé Le Pew
when he came near, well, everyone knew
Penelope, his chérie
to her, he was smelly
odorous advances met pooh pooh!
Doctor to hail for my not being down,
Close to thirty years for my breakdown:
My biggest catch through a brother mate,
Whose only word for him is first rate...
Now exchanging blows with Prostrate Gland:
A cancer of the treatable brand.
He says he'll live - Doctor Retired:
Wages unpaid had got him tired...
Great hopes New Government will this do.
I dared try to this notion pooh-pooh
Should this not be a race against time?
If my voice should sag now real big crime.
For him in Medicine would stick out neck
And this step translate into no wreck!
I’ve somehow become a curmudgeon.
Before you pooh-pooh and go judgin,’
Just wait ‘til your age
Hits the outmoded stage
Yet from all you believe you’re not budgin.’
I take note of the way people act
And don’t think that I overreact
When all manners have fled
Leaving, sadly, instead
Those who barrel through life without tact.
All the truths that I’ve harbored for years
Have gone rusty or somehow switched gears
But curmudgeons can growl,
Grumble, bellow or howl
Which feels better than sorrow or tears.
I’ve never tasted Spam before
And don’t intend to do it,
Although, unless I try, I know
That I should not pooh-pooh it.
I wouldn’t even think of Spam,
The food that I am scorning,
If not for getting, on my phone,
A daily “Spam Risk” warning.
Some days it happens several times
From unfamiliar places,
Where spammers sit and make the calls
Behind their unseen faces.
I never answer if I see
That “Spam Risk” message blinking,
But just that word, you understand,
Provokes me into thinking.
Imagine on the other end,
A scammer with his planned pitch
Making calls all day while chomping
On his favorite canned Spam sandwich!
Donald Trump was counting his toes
(Which never once smelled like a rose)
The Devil appeared
And just as he feared
Nothing grew as fast as Trump's nose!
Hey, Scott Pruitt!*
We all knew it
Soon would come to this.
Rumors flew; it
Seemed you blew it.
Truth you would dismiss.
Anger’d brew; it
Looked like, “Screw it!”
Were the words you’d hiss.
You’d pooh-pooh it
As on view it
Seemed you were amiss.
How’d you do it?
Breeze right through it,
Seemingly in bliss?
Well, Scott Pruitt,
Now boo-hoo it!
You we will not miss!
*Trump’s head of the EPA
Ripples ladened with slow songs
are the blinks of your sleepy eyelashes
lashing me for sold innocence
and for feeding dreams with the putrid meat of wrongs.
The past is beautiful in your eyes child
when tears wasn't ink to seal hate
and all these dainty pooh-pooh of pride
Was nothing, if it wasn't chocolate.
How you sought magic leaving my room cluttered
while you chuckled at the sight of it with puerile lens.
I regret all your unicorns I butchered
when I filled your head with realism and science.
As you sleep after bedtime tale
I will kiss your bruised temple
and oil your hair with the vial of alabaster
broken from a guilty heart.
I'll cut the awe of you into letters
to weave a vast verse
studded with adventure and magic
and new lullabies cherubic.
Somedays it takes great intestinal fortitude
Just remember, you're the one in control of your mood
Chose to be happy each day
And happy all day you will stay
Have a Giggle Degree from MIT so don't pooh pooh!!!
Miniature beginnings are the scaffolding to mightiness
Just a pinch of yeast puffs up the dough
And little stars still light up big skies
No matter where you are "on the totem poll",
whether you are midway, quarter way or bottom last
don't pooh-pooh small beginnings
The little leagues is your boot camp to the Big leagues
One word doesn't make a novel, but one word begins it
And from that lone scribble, everything else flows
A single rose stem doesn't make a bouquet, but from a seed
can bloom a rose garden
If every snowflake’s different,
Which is what I’ve always heard,
Then their patterns, if you counted,
Would have numbers quite absurd.
So it wouldn’t be impossible,
In theory, if we say
That, like twins or triplets, some of them
Have matching DNA.
There is just no way to prove it
But I’ve always been a skeptic
Of that snowflake speculation
And I pooh-pooh the acceptic.
You can never fool this mangy old dude
A wise old owl you should never pooh pooh
Can recite the alphabet
Backwards no sweat
While standing in line at MacDonald's quite nude
The nit-wit and the nincompoop
cordially bowed on the concert hall stoop.
Greeting the doorman, quite gaily
who nodded back, though more grayly.
And nobody dared to complain or bemoan
that fools were ruling the cobblestone
streets, where urchins peddled faux-wares
beneath the stoop, out in the square.
And the nit-wit offered a hearty wave,
but clearly knew not how to behave
While the nincompoop seemed a tad more at ease,
his pants were quite low and his crack in the breeze.
And nobody wanted to ask or inquire
whether they should pooh-pooh or if they should admire
buffoons, so clueless, off-putting and addled
for climbing the stairs in their outfits all raddled.
Yet, there they stood with their tickets in hand
eager to root for the symphonic band
as though it were some highfalutin sport
of which they knew nothing, but they would not abort
the notion that they have a place 'bove the masses
or anywhere other than out on their...well, you know.
10/27/16
You can never fool this mangy old dude
A wise old owl you should never pooh pooh
Can recite the alphabet
Backwards no sweat
While standing in line at MacDonald's totally nude
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