Written By: D. Collins 2/3/26
Nixon's goons got caught by taking chances.
Now the wealth has spread to all the branches.
The judicial, executive, and legislative wimps.
Are sworn foot soldiers of "Big Daddy Pimp".
They fall in line like taking cattle to feed.
The Constitution is a thing they do not need.
Our public figures have become goonerized.
Snorting a drug that has them mesmerized.
Fooled by the marble and gold-flaked trim.
They've sold out the country we're living in.
November elections can't get here soon enough.
When we show we're sick and tired of this stuff.
Lose antennae? I’m a beetle!
Not one bug in Aleghenny
(at least, none you’ll ever meet’ll)
lose antennae.
Luck with chicks? I won’t have any!
Directionless, centripetal,
wireless wimps are ten a penny!
What now? Curl up? Adopt the foetal
position? Move to Kilkenny?
No proud pest in any street’ll
lose antennae.
On the skids with no brakes,
thankfully, a memory;
that began with falling,
falling over and over again,
with bruises that healed;
such is childhood.
I tried to attack the slippery slope,
challenged by youtube videos
that I could wisely imbibe;
teenager at heart was I…
to fall flat, flatter than a pancake.
As this was a few years back,
still a Big-Mac Grandmother;
a smucker-grape hugger.
Bigger than life;
life was bigger than me.
Who was I to inspire?
I lit my bum on fire.
Who am I to think
that each one was like the other?
Those grand-girls flew past me, in blurs.
The youngest boy, now ten,
screamed until I relinquished,
took off those skates
then circled the rink
as I chased him down.
His elder brother, held on for dear life,
just wouldn’t let go
of the skate mate;
but I am old,
or so I am told.
I grew up when no helmet
was required, where
seat belts were optional;
free to choose, “I will survive.”
So, do I think today’s kids
are wimps? I’ve joined
the ranks of wimpiness;
it is the key to living longer.
By the way, the kid
won’t climb a tree.
He sees each and every bug.
Were they there when I was young?
my husband rushes to warn me about the storm coming
I already know! The dogs and I have run outside.
My arms are outspread. I am dancing; they are jumping, excited.
drops of cold rain are coming down into my eyes,
because my head is raised, my mouth is open.
a storm! I scream to my husband! A real storm!
I begin to twirl; arms outstretched.
My dogs are wimps; they run to the porch.
Hiding behind Daddy as I dance and swirl myself.
“You will get hit by lightning!” he warns me.
I do not care. I love a storm; I defy lightning to get me.
There is always a fresh feeling in the air after a true storm.
I cannot wait for God to replenish us with his wrath.
What Girl Apes wear for Formals
Gibbons’
ribbons
Favorite Fruit at Ape Buffet
Great apes
ate grapes
A Chimp’s Seafood Diet
Pete’s chimp
eats shrimp
Out of Control Chimpanze
Spaz Chimp
has limp
Raised for Courage
No chimps
grow wimps!
At the Great Apes Buffet
Eight apes
ate crepes
When Ape Heroes for Justice Arrive
Fair apes
wear capes
Jan. 25, 2023
for Brian Strand's No 1175 Poetry Contest
I am young, a tough nut,
hard to crack.
Thick mud splashes half-blind me.
Bones are jostled, pushed into aching flesh.
I am spun around and dumped,
lifted up shoved back in.
A pummeled nose bleeds into my mouth,
stagger, run, beaten down by panting hulks,
heave myself to my knees. arms thrashing, finding
bodies to bruise. Chasing through cold air
stunned, brained, swapping pain thud for thud,
ear bashing clubs, yell for more, hack
and flay one sprained ankle dragging behind
a black and blue knee, plod on through the mire.
Limp away damaged and done.
Rugby is not for wimps.
Collaboration with Marcello Eans
Take that, you silly people; rain, sleet, wind, and snow.
Two to three feet, knee high, thirty below.
Funny creatures with warm blood can’t handle the cold.
Three years, fifteen, even forty years old.
What do you do; stay shut in, run, bundle up, or pout?
C’mon you wimps, put on your coats; I’m callin’ you out.
It’s only water, partially frozen; what’s there to fear:
You’d come out in shorts and t-shirts if it was ice cold beer.
Called my friend, Mr. Spring; told him, “Stay on vacation.
Mr. Winter’s clockin’ in, so relax and be patient.”
Ms. Summer’s got no desire to even get out of bed.
Fall would rather stay in his room and play instead.
However, Ms. Summer’s so stubborn, she’ll be up by noon.
Mr. Spring won’t come back, so she’ll be here soon.
So, now you people see clearly that you’re not in control.
I’ll get you next year, but, for now, it’s home to the North Pole.
His cinnamon-tanned chests are bagels to taste.
He knows to pop little cherries and put gals into place.
His shredded-flexed arms are as mighty as the Ancient Greek God.
The winsome wimps wistfully hope; they are awed.
His lips are quite scheming; they call for a feast.
As they start to act not humanlike, they turn into beasts.
Only your eyes can describe how good-chiseled he is.
A single drool from your mouth can never give you bliss.
“Oh, you can look but you can’t touch!”
But you’re just one of those hundreds under Charlie’s clutch.
Better read history of WW ll!
Racism, plus fear of a bug were
quite effective then, too.
Malaria was created, and placed
in mosquitos.
Hoping to wipe out populations in toto.
Heinrich Himmler used Catholic priests?
On which mosquitoes did so happily feast.
Who, then, brought COVID to many nations?
I think you know the answer.
A nation of beasts!
Like the Nazis, they used a biblical
method. (Plague of Locusts)
To have you live in fear,with your
happiness out of focus.
It has cost nations, much loss,hysteria,
And lockdowns are a sensation.
Politicins holding the key to grotesque relationships.
Turning us into a social distancing nation.
Having fearful people walk this earth, wearing
Petri dishes, called masks?
Inhaling their own bugs,till their very till their
very last, precious, breath!
A grievous, lied about infamous task.
Dare you not live in fear, to elected wimps.
Nor their laughing co- leading wimp-o-lets!
Filling your coffee mug daily
Telling you untruths!
Saying, "this is as good as it gets."
7/1/2021
6:30am
Edited
No soupmail, please. Mine is
dysfunctional. Pangie
guys~
get a grip
don’t be wimps
it’s not like
you’re being asked
to suit up for war
stay indoors and let this pass
stay out of the way of
brave people doing their work
AP: Honorable Mention 2020
I ride through my memory
Through the past, each and every
Along the bumpy tracks
And my little lacks
Of the yesterday done
I stop at every crossroad
Lightening the heavy load
Letting go of the bygone that ceased me
And clutching on to the one that appeased me free
Of the yesterday done
The positive vibes run along my wits
Perceiving a thought that fits
Recalling all my wimps and wishes
And savouring all those moments, delicious
Of the yesterday done
But I have lived through the time immemorial
Perceiving that my thoughts must conceal
Confessing I belong to time
And conceding I’m through with my crime
Of the yesterday done
In this world of fake things
Where nothing is real
Nothing is authentic
And the market rules us all
There is no room
For real friendship
We are all using each other
To get ahead
So we pretend to be friends
All the time
Plotting against our so called friends
To get ahead
The market rewards the most vicious
Sociopathic values rule the market
Friendship is for wimps
And losers
Those winners end up
Alone all alone
For they have no real friends
But boy do they have real enemies
For in this fake world of ours
Perhaps hate is the one real emotion
That has survived
Remember when we 'matured' and went off to college
And they classified all us guys as wimps or as jocks
The latter got the girls, the press and the glory
While the former were ridiculed, scorned and mocked
And though we took courses to become
Lawyers, accountants or docs
Half of us wound up on Wall Street
Trading bonds, options or stocks
A few of us joined the Army
For campaigns like "Awe and Shock"
Many more became computer specialists
Who liked to think outside the box
Yes, there were those who found cures
For diseases like hepatitis and chicken pox
Others who delved into eternal mysteries
Like Saturn's rings or the vernal equinox
But now we're on the brink of retirement
We've had our fair share of hard knocks
We've decided it's finally time to relax---
To enjoy eating creamcheese on bagels with lox
Conclusion
So, there it is. We’ve had a little glimpse
into the human life of one straight street,
where wants and wishes wash and clash and meet
(should fans of Wimpole Street be known as “wimps”?)
We’ll leave it now. New stories have begun,
no doubt: new posturings and new charades:
will future poets pierce those flat facades,
so lightly touched by timid London sun?
Are bricks and mortar stolid, sullen, blind?
Low, soulless things, without an inner life?
Or do they share our feelings? Are they rife
with energy that lovers left behind?
Do they sustain some subtle souvenir
of all our comedies, enacted here?
She wimps Willow when crying out like raindrops and throw trantrums like lightening storms as she storms out the house when rain clouds start to form which will be a hell of a mess and she is always blue with no clue. Her painful cries leaves Willow grumpy sadness cries that stain her facial with no cause as she sits with blank stares and cries a great lakes but never cries through honest mistakes. But seems to lack faith and gain sadness with passion and sad & low with no rescue from her cries as she stares in her deep blue Atlantic ocean eyes that overflood such continous cries. But as she cries out for attention with a emotion thats so clear like clear eyes when she wimp Willow sadly and cries rapidly that shows impressions and dramatize by sadness cries that all cried out without a tear left.
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