Short Store Bought Poems

empty dairy barn
long grasses hide memories
store bought milk tastes sad...

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Give me a taste of yellow butter please.
Not that crummy oleo or margarine.
I want homemade rolls not that store bought stuff.
And beef and noodles made by my mother.
Nothing else....

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succulent citrus
fruity and wet
dripping down my chin
I know I am in Georgia
When I can pick my own peach
Off of a tree in grandma's yard
heavenly nectar, loving the taste
nothing like store-bought...

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My mother was a perfectionist.
A seamstress who made all of our clothes
She would look at a dress in a window
Run home and make it but prettier.

I did not have a store-bought dress until I married.
It cost $19.99 and I was askance!
How dare they ask that much!
My husband had to send me back to buy it....

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Store bought happiness.
A new dress
when you are young 
and feel sexy.

Store bought happiness.
A hat and shoes
When you are older and do not.

Store bought happiness
To fill you up
to lift your spirits
Temporarily and never completely.

Store bought happiness
Fades rapidly
when the bills come in....

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On planet earth 
Wasting resources
Spending too much money 
Thinking too much about themselves

Not caring enough about saving the earth
Not caring enough about stopping global warming 

Playing too many video games 
Buying store bought water
Not using both sides of a sheet paper

Humans can be pretty silly from my perspective 
Although I too am a human...

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Professional Poet…
  to cringe at the term

A lonely consensus,
  so much to learn

Days writing couplets,
  nights dreamed in verse

Feelings when gifted,
  mine to rehearse

Professional Poet…
  to run but not hide

Resisting the accolades,
   cousin of lies

The Muse calls my marker,
  chits payout in thought

Each line spoken freely
  —no longer store bought

(Villanova Pennsylvania: November, 2016)...

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Professional Poet,
  I cringe at the term

A lonely consensus,
  so much to learn

Days writing couplets,
  nights dreamed in verse

Feelings when gifted,
  not mine to rehearse

Professional Poet,
  to run and then hide

Resisting the accolade,
   cousin of lies

The Muse calls my marker,
  chits payout in thought

Each line spoken freely,
—no longer store bought

(Villanova Pennsylvania: November, 2016)...

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I'm a poet cowboy, and I write the west
When it comes to a contest, I show them who's best
I call my horse Kipling, what do you know !
And my dog's a dachshund named, Longfellow
When bad authors write into Poetry Town
I draw out my pen, and I rhyme them down
I alway get the girl, in her store bought bonnet
And you can read us write away, into 
Into the far distant Sonnet 


Hee-yah !   This is enough exercise for a Sunday !...

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No store bought jump starts
Cool creamy dough kneaded by hand
Baked until golden then cooled so slightly
Carefully sliced and slathered in butter
Because margarine would never do
Sun ripened berries diced and stemmed
Tossed gently with sugar forming the glaze
Fresh heavy cream beaten in a chilled bowl
Using a wire whisk until stiff peaks stand
Placing the layers one on top of the next
Then garnish with diamond wedges of fruit...

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Listen to poem:

*Image of Comet Kohoutek by Wilkie.

Celestial Christmas Eve '73

'Twas day of Christmas eve, seventy-three,
Comet Kohoutek, badminton like sleeve,
Play-daytime Santa, store-bought gifts wrap-free,
'Twas day of Christmas eve, seventy-three,
Comet tail swells, Kohoutek shoot o'er sea,
Party with friends we all saw Christmas eve,
'Twas day of Christmas eve, seventy-three,
Comet Kohoutek, badminton like sleeve!

2022 January 30...

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Words can be bought for $2.50,
                                          in any bookstore.
                                     And can be used for less---

                                     It's not what you say,
                                          but how you say it.

                                      Need you speak,
                                        when you can show me
                                                     well enough....

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So many mushrooms have sprung up
I’ve never seen before.
My yard is filled with fungi
In varieties galore.

The bright red flat ones you can’t miss,
The tall ones, creamy white;
The brownish kind with puffy tops,
The beige of little height.

Some tiny yellows try to hide
Near coppers like a penny.
In prior years with not much rain,
I don’t remember any.

I wonder if they’re poisonous.
If so, I’ll never know it,
For only store-bought fungi
Will be eaten by this poet....

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The wind on top of the mountain
Is just right for flying my kite.
No, it’s not a store bought item
I made it from old newspapers,
Elmer’s glue and old balsa wood
Spine and spar sticks from last years kite.
Now here I am again ready
To launch it on its maiden flight.
I hope the tail isn’t too long;
The bridle string is sufficient.
Well, here goes! Come on baby fly!
That’s it! You want more string? Up! Up!
Easy does it! Straighten out babe!
That’s it! That’s it! You’re on your own....

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I remember when the bitter weed did bloom
We'd sit outside by the light of the moon
Catch fireflies and place in a jar
I remember just who you are

On these nights watermelon sliced
Ice cream entombed in store bought ice
With rock salt bought from the store
To make the ice freeze and us want more


Janet Frame New Zealand famed writer
stated in her novel "Toward Another 
Summer" that her mother said the best
poems are written on scraps of paper, 
old envelopes, and paper napkins....

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