Clown butter flies,

and hearts that hate listeners wait for answers.
I dream to fly. I study. I learn.
You might imagine this is your life path,
but the roads which make up our minds
are wrapped up in ancient luxury--objects,
photographs of objects created by the artist.
I never finish, and no paint blobs fill the sky.
Clown butter flies home.
I dream to dance, to dance, to dance.

This Poem Is Password Protected

Dear Richard,

Someone told me God made yellow flowers first
and that every human has an urge
to keep a record of a life.
Obama's had a couple, I guess.
After all, he's just a man,
no more a god than you or I.
He can't walk on water, change
it into wine, or raise the dead.
Lotus don't spring from his anus.
Richard, I know alot is not
a word, and allot is no place to buy cars,
but who is this Raymond Bianchi?
Maybe he never read Ecclesiastes.
Please tell him the world hasn't changed.
Cigarette is still a French word.
Tell him I looked up "fascileness"
(Try it sometime) and if he needs me
I'll be stalking the Liberal Poets' circle
with my head stuck so far in my navel
all they'll see is ass. Harvest moon.
Tell him I accept his gifts of Gizzi
and Gudding (rhymes with pudding),
but I don't like Chicago. Oprah talks too much.

I felt that one coming

You Are Boggle

You are an incredibly creative and resourceful person. You're able to dig deep and think outside the box to get things done. You are a non linear thinker. You don't like following directions You draw your inspiration from the strangest places sometimes. You're constantly inspired.

What Board Game Are You?

On With The Show

I could write a thousand poems,
waste a lot of time focused on the show,
never utter things kept secret.
See the tree?
Ordinary meanings are vague and squishy
like boiled cabbage.
Mustard seeds, dark sparrows,
madmen rolling naked in ashes--
their shadows curse me.
Resist not evil, even the gates of Hell.
Shooting stars, dying suns,
words don't belong to anyone.
Whirling leaves, strings of beads,
foolish fantasies and savage dreams--
patterns that repeat in time
spawn sestinas and pantoums.
Have you seen the elephant?
You wake up in the morning,
the self you made,
and you are still you,
watching and reacting to nothing real.

Zazen

The polls are closed.
The vote is in:
I'm sick of politics,
it takes a village statists,
home-grown socialists,
big government, agendas.
I've got a plan.
I'd like to share the wealth--
shove the Buddha up
a Democrat's ass.
Don't get me wrong.
The elephant is past its prime
and staggers under the weight
of self-righteousness.
Neither animal can read
the Constitution that lines
the floor of its pen
where We the People
lies covered in excrement.
The polls are closed.
The vote is in.
Devotees dance and cheer,
shed tears--red, white and blue,
and chant the victor's name.
I'd like to join the party,
drop my pants
and moon Lady Liberty,
but first Shikantaza.

S.P.E.L.L.I.N.G. B.E.E.

Yesterday I found this spelling bee via Fritinancy.

The highest I got was 530 with a streak of nine. I think that was the first nine words. I tell ya, when they start tossing out those 50-cent words, my brain goes numb. What can I say. My ignorance is enormous. I think I'll go play some more. I mean it's not like I'm busy writing poetry or anything.

Bah! Black sheep...

Baa baa black sheep, have you any wool?

Yes sir, yes sir, three bags full!

One for the master, one for the dame,

And one for the little boy who lives down the lane.

Trinity

Rock of Ages, cleft for me,
Let me hide myself in Thee; ~Augustus M. Toplady, Rock Of Ages

Dear Dave,

Today I went flippin' rocks,
the same gray rocks, familiar rocks,
rocks I've flipped day after day
every day for days on end.
Today I went flippin' rocks,
and there you were--a little white stone
pressed into soft black soil, captive,
waiting. I think I'll keep you.

~~~

The poor King looked puzzled and unhappy, and struggled with the pencil for some time without saying anything; but Alice was too strong for him, and at last he panted out, 'My dear! I really MUST get a thinner pencil. I can't manage this one a bit; it writes all manner of things that I don't intend--' ~Lewis Carroll, Through The Looking-Glass

The White King said to the little Black Prince:
You can dance, but you've never done this.
Fire on my wings, I fell from the sky.
I landed on a mirror. I thought I would die.
I sank into the earth, swallowed yellow flame,
then I rose from the ashes and did it all again.

The Black Prince said to the old White King:
No I never did any of those things.
Magna cum laude, I'm Ivy League.
I've never suffered combat fatigue.
I know how to lecture. I can coo and woo.
I'm smooth as butter, and I look good, too.

~~~

Gentlemen may cry, Peace, Peace-- but there is no peace. ~Patrick Henry

Turn, turn, turn,
and turn again.
Spin yourselves pencil-thin
like icicles, cold and pale.
Sproutarians, grammarians,
spinsters wearing cats
like pearls, leftists, rightists,
guardians of Jesus,
feminists, futurists,
elitist poets, purists,
patriots and pundits
and all activists,
spin, spin, spin,
and spin again.
Unfold your spindly limbs,
wave your bony fists,
flash your sharp teeth
and silver tongues--
let's talk about love.

~~~


[Today's piece was inspired by the words echolalia and controversial, Dave Bonta's rock-flipping day and letter poems, and the number three.]

So many prompts, so little time...

Did you know October is Sarcastic month?
It's also Eat Country Ham month.
I thought Hee Haw's Lulu Roman was dead,
but I was mistaken.
She's just Christian.
Today, October 22nd, is National Nut Day.

Shut up.

Poemiatrics

more animals

Shhhh...

Feel that? Goose bumps.

We are me is you are us

I'm working on a poem. Really. I swear.




Isn't he adorable?

My muse is drunk

ugly potato's ugly potato

quickly i have never stir, quickly beyond
any ostrich, your box have their ugly:
in your most ugly pot are things which kill me,
or which i cannot ponder because they are too quickly

your soft look too will unpry me
though i have goad myself as soil,
you reach always parrot by parrot myself as candle stretch
(bounceing always, ever) her smooth fire

or if your carrot be to unravel me, i and
my broth will sleep very always, most,
as when the sand of this ostrich pull
the star least everywhere clasping;

nothing which we are to hold in this wind whisper
the margarine of your fresh barn: whose oyster
turn me with the stone of its rock,
calling hand and chest with each revealing

(i do not hide what it is about you that remember
and trade; only something in me paint
the fist of your box is crisp than all candle)
cloud, not even the pebble, has such white turnip

- Agnes & e.e. cummings

Create Your Own Madlib on LanguageIsAVirus.com

What are you doing?

This cracks me up

Try JibJab Sendables® eCards today!

Are you kidding me?

This could shock me into writing a political poem. Maybe not. I'm actually at a loss for words. Picture a gape-mouthed fish. That's me. What's wrong with people?

Procrastination?

Guilty.

At risk of being eaten by a bear,
I'd like to share
this quiz I found somewhere.
Oy.

I know I should be telling you that I'm A rubai - but perhaps some other time. It sounds like work, and anyway, it's late - Unless I sleep, I'll be too tired to rhyme. Besides, there's plates to clear and cups to clink, And when that's done I have to sit and think, Since then it won't be long before I need To sleep again and eat again and drink. What Poetry Form Are You?

Alternatively, my form is blank verse. We won't go there today. Lucky you.

In Spired (A Found Poem)

Welcome.

I hope we see your critiques.
The other would like three.

We aren't actually counting.

As to this poem,
free verse is playing rings of life.
For this piece to stand on its own,
think of it as just itself
written as such.
Overlapping the voices,
It appears. There are elements
of the absurd here.

You may wish to explore.

When I have more time
to consider this piece,

I may return.