.
and rumps
hm
cowboy
cowgirl
cut'n through thuh
sun glister'n
prairie
imagine that
cowboy
cowgirl
sun saddlez
soak'd
blaze'n
I see that winter has now broken,
steam fills each word, as they are spoken.
Cold air seems to fill the room,
as the stuck in side, brings on its doom.
The land is now covered with snow, and ice,
to go outside, we better think twice.
Slipping and sliding, as we bite the dust,
landing so hard, our rumps we bust.
I haven’t built a snow man, or ridden a sled, in years,
I haven’t had a snow ball fight, being in good cheer.
Now I am old, but I still remember the good times you see,
they will always have their part with me.
Be careful of the snow thats yellow,
cause it belongs to another fellow.
I can still make snow angels,
while I’m flopping around,
might as well do something, instead of laying on the ground.
When I finally, get back up to my feet,
I take two steps, and myself I repeat.
I sure do make a lot of snow angels you see,
once I fall down, the rest is all left to me.
"I walk this lonely and gray maze absence of noise for days,
till only my name be known." Quote by poet
Beagle, my small, sweet, faithful, warmhearted,
Regal, Harrier hunting hound girl puppy,
Loves to sleep on my armchair.
Fifth of her litter. She stares, with sun sparkling hazel eagle eyes,
Short, soft white, with patches of brown and black hair.
Her brown ears down like pendulums in the air
That swing back and forth when she runs.
Stands proudly with her head straight up and alert.
Her black nose never fails her;
It wiggles at the scent of quail.
She rumps inside and outside
With bumblebee boundless, curious, playful energy.
Tail high, cheerful and outgoing,
Happy and very yappy at times.
She’s humorous when her toy is her tail
An affair she chases over and over again
In a circle, having fun when she is excited.
Her bed is my bed in quiet, hush puppy, snuggly comfort.
I recall by chance the astuteness of rain
When the thin smoke from charged pulses of cold haze
Befriended the weeded way . . .
Leering further into the viscera of the village,
Clouds of old beginnings heaved potent sighs,
Loud, frenetic and full of powder.
I revelled in the warmth of acid lightning,
Quick to mirror the village in its own image.
The grey breath was intense,
Fusing teethed mirth with grim spheres.
Then came the vitrined harmony of fleeing spectres!
Tricks were revealed.
Tenebrous paths came to light.
And the rumps of sensuous fowls stood stark
Before the reality of weaned souls.
I recall lighting up a cigarette.
Adding to the atmospheric smoke,
I held on to the banter of coyness, flat,
Resolute, and with rummaged blessedness of initial stages
Blending well with the greed of May.
Donald Trump
jumping hundreds of humps
chowing quite a bit of rumps, red faced
wonder if he suffered mumps, imagine him laced …
The moon, a charcoal smudge, hangs low and dim,
while stars, like pinpricks, pierce the black night.
Clicking crickets creates a raucous hymn,
and katydids whir on new wings to take flight.
A yellow bulb's honeyed glow makes a homey sheen
until a timer flicks a switch turning off the light
and letting darkness rush into the tranquil scene,
making baby goats bleat from fright.
In the corner lays a lumpy carpet of fur
made by mamma goats cuddling nice and tight;
making the entire goat herd an entangled blur
of white rumps and necks entwined in the night.
Except for little Gideon, who stands in the barn door;
a castrated pygmy goat turned into a withered grazer,
stares at the house below without a snort or a snore,
as he chews his cud, thinking about some tormentor.
Why else stand guard?
she was purple and black with silver streaks of anger
we saw her rising above the crowd and felt her wrath
a cantankerous balloon, she is, she cannot be satisfied
This was stated by more than one person
I could not help but wonder if it was my Aunt Ann reincarnated
She was the grouchiest, meanest being I have ever met
And I have met several grumps and rumps in my day
I watched the balloon rise above the crowd
As she traveled over the woods, the timbers turned black
the crowd began to cheer, for we were all lighter now
optimism and joy returned the minute she lifted up over the trees
i be 'thee man' that can...
save
you and all your money...
relax
vote for me and all you...
women
will never have to vote...
again
and we will take over the...
world
so that the rich will get...
richer
(then pondering he thought...
yes
and i be their powerful voice...
but
suddenly the audience screamed...
puppet-clown)
stan sand
Have you ever seen a duck come in to land… on land
It’s an eventuality that nature never planned
For ducks that land on water such a graceful splashdown make
But should they land on terra firma… it sure ain’t Swan Lake
Each one does a belly flop, a cartwheel and a stagger
They get up and compose themselves, but ducks weren’t made to swagger
They have no shame so simply waddle with ungainly gait
Toward the back door of my house where they all stand and wait
This morning there were six of them, I watched them all crash down
“They’ll need a pint or two of seed,” I muttered with a frown
Their heads were first to hit the deck, their rumps stuck in the air
I went out with a jug of seed to find them gathered there
As I stepped outside I felt like Moses on the shore
The ducks made space for me to walk and not a hair’s breadth more
Two partridges were standing by and I also fed those
And when the pecking finished, well, I almost checked my toes.
Bird seed by the quarter-gallon gobbled up each time
I wouldn’t mind but it ain’t half a kilo for a dime
But it gives me pleasure and as I stood there this morn
Two more kamikaze ducks crash landed on my lawn.
I had heard of down in the dumps
But down in the dogs?
Her jowls matched her rumps
Her face was a log
She’s an old lady
Leave her be someone said
But she was loony tunes too
Hilarious inside her head
all gym op Ill chumps free caw’s paces.
ball brim bop dill thumps see jaw’s maces.
call crim cop grill pumps knee saw’s cases.
nonsensical word play is the aces!
doll dim drop shrill humps plea yaw’s places.
fall flim flop frill rumps tree slaw’s glaces.
hall him hop jill lumps dee flaw’s races.
sing song rhythm leaves graces.
enthrall limb lop bill dumps knee straw's laces
mall mim mop cill grumps lee vaw's faces
paul prim pop hill stumps wee heehaw's praces
melody keeps me jumping glaces
saul stem stop zill mumps jee gnaw’s braces
tall grim plop thrill plumps zee draw’s vasesp
wall whim whop pill frumps kee shaw’s daces
loving this poem and her traces.
FLICK PROPHETIC FINGER
Knocking hard on a massive ancient gate,
Step out of a gaunt, granite building,
Leave behind its austere contents,
With wood-panelled box-seats,
Pinching sardine-tight orthodoxy's rumps,
Say farewell to enforced isolation,
Corralled within a pulpit-facing pew,
Flick prophetic finger
At sanctimonious conformity,
As I cross the widening threshold
Into a welcome world of
Confusing discovery.
Give place in me to an individual,
Questioning all from A to Z,
Finding the new pathway, opened out
To an approaching horizon. It holds
My curious gaze beyond
Present knowledge.
I know with some deeper weight of understanding,
Unhinged from the enclosed
Constriction in which I have been
A prisoner of my own choice.
Now the chains sheared off, scales
Fallen from once-blindfolded eyes,
I, flying as the uncaged bird,
Lift suddenly into free flight
On instinctive weaving
Of supple strength.
Gazing at the ditch,
It's not a switch!
Sending rumps into the air,
They've spotted something over there!
Ready to pounce,
Tails twitching in the air.
He does not want to change
And it is very strange:
Ted a few understand
Like one does one’s left hand:
Ted who would queerly stand,
As though it is more grand
Than taking up Sofa
That makes rumps less suffer …
Ted with his own notion
Of an Ideal Nation:
“What she can do for you
Starting with Things to Chew!”
Ted won’t think of a change
With all things out of range.
Into each other they bump
And their grievances dump
The Marked and The With-A-Stump
Sticking together: a clump?
Really, something of magic
Able to challenge logic,
Their wine-filled mouth, mumps
While the marked money pumps…
A resurrection of kicks of their rumps
And mimicry of cows with humps!
One heaven of a reconciliation,
No third-party mediation.
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