Write About Things You Know

Wafting odors on the air,
Hitting me from everywhere,
From the pig farm down the road
From the baby's rear end load.

Christopher

Once upon a time,
I was spending time with my nephew.
We were hangin', as it were.
And there was this little girl who walked up,
Demurely,
And grabbed my wallet!
She ran away with all haste.
Given my advanced age,
I cried out for my nephew's help.
"Chris, stop her!!

Andrew

My nephew is a boarder
He rides around on wheels.
And when he does a trick on it
The little chiquas squeal.
Then he blushes reddish
And falls flat on his face.
Better not to skate for girls
If y' wanna keep some grace.

The Dark Side of the Lawn

When squirrels run rampant
All over the lawn,
Those gray mafiosi
All under the don
Who tells them to kneecap
The chipmunks and birds,
Directs them to fill up
Their nests with cow turds;
Then goodness is dormant
And sunshine is gone,
Cursed by the greed
Of the mafia don,
That nasty old squirrel
Who rules over the lawn.

On the Nature of Attaining to Poetic Excellence

To write a good poem is magic.

To craft a fine verse is a joy.

Well chosen rhymes in a meter that flows

Are... dagnabbit... like low fat soy?

I'll always be glad for my wisdom

In setting the bar on the ground.

For very poor poems 'bout nuthin' at all

Are the only ones, bless 'em, I've found.

After Dinner Poetry (an idea whose time has come)

I cooked you dinner.
It won't make you thinner.
I think it's a winner.
Give me props or I'll kick you in the shinner.

writer and cook: Tiger Lily
last line written by WBP

Curtains

There's a curtain of rough, tan fabric,
Just beyond the screen, shielding the sun,
Shot through with darker thread for texture,
Two pieces, but drawn together as one.
No one could ever make a dress
Of such a thing as this.  Too rough,
No delicacy. No floral print. 
Just rugged, brown, sun-cutting stuff.

Classics of Poetry

I think that it would be nice to feature some classic poems here every once in awhile.  It should help all us appreciate some of the finer aspects of verse to which I just can't attain.  We'll start with a modern classic by my wife.  It is a snappy couplet, strong on brevity and unvarnished honesty.

Holy crap.

I need a nap.

Join us next time on Classics of Poetry when we will savor the beauty of Wordsworth.

Upon Reflection

I was going through old CDs and they sure can bring back memories.  The one that I'm listening to right now (and which inspires this poem) is Green Day's American Idiot.  One of the things that I remember is how much I identified with it all, thinking it authentic, if not exactly wise.  I think you'll find it terrible.  The  poem, the lifestyle, the worldview.  Just utter crap.  (The music is still enticing, though.)

A thumping drum,

A sucking thumb,

A coke and rum.

There.  You're a bum.

Noodlings on Sight and Necessity

What a foolish bird it is
Who flies into the window pane!
He breaks his neck for want of care
He ends his life for lack of brain.

Or is really quite so neat?
Is 'foolish' really 'lack of sight'?
The thing that killed him wasn't there
Until the bruise brought on the night.

He was winging as his wont
Bound to fly within his ease
Hurtling t'wards an end of ends
As surely's from a dread disease.

Thoughts on a Funeral Day

In the grave we lay her down
Beside her husband and her child;
It's been so many years since last
This earth was turned for welcoming.

The child went first at just one day,
A boy who knew not dad nor mom.
His dad came first and now today
His mother comes at last to say,
"I've missed you all these years and cry
Never having seen your smile.
But tears today are full of joy
For finally I meet my child."

Just a Thought

I wanna have a baby
Wanna name her Jack,
Take that baby all around
Both yonder and back,
Dress her up in pigtails
And a pair of bibs,
Teach her all 'bout honor,
Not to tell no fibs.
We'll both shoot some squirrels
With our BB gun
And then we'll eat fried chicken
Til we weigh a ton.

Jungle Wine

The fruit of the vine is the grape.
The beast of the jungle, the ape.
Thus, jungle wine
Is served in a stein
And throws you about by the nape.

The Graveyard Next Door

Just east there's a bunch of the dead

Quietly lying in bed.

The dirt is quite firm,

With complimentary worm,

A veritable graveyard Club Med.

The Coffee Cup

A coffee cup
With a stained interior
And dribbles down the side,
With some advertisement or image
Stamped on the side like a tattoo,
This is the substance of the morning hours.
Well, that and the coffee itself, of course.

Elegance never seems a part of it,
Would seem out of place somehow.
The graceful curve of a china cup
Would meet too many clumsy bulls
In those morning hours.
Chips and cracks wouldn't delay.
The fog of it all would cause an accident.

A Tractor

As a little boy

I had a tractor. 

I "thppppppddd" that tractor

'Round the floor

And planted the carpet with seed.

Now in my thirties

I rode in a tractor.

It churned along

And lo and behold

The field was planted with seed.

One day, maybe,

I'll drive a tractor.

I'll steer it with both arms

And keep to the middle of the field

Strewing seed hither and yon
(And not crashing!)

Supper for the Babe and by the Babe

Take a carrot, cut 'er up
Add an apple, "Hey wassup?"
Add some celery and see
You've made dinner handsomely!

Ceilings

Why are ceilings textured?

Who is it that cares?

I'd like to see a smooth one

If anybody dares.

Smooth and painted orange

With yellow polka dots.

Or royal blue with pinstripes?

Depends who calls the shots.

Just the Facts, Ma'am

Bin Laden is dead.
To Allah he's fled.
I'm going to bed.