A Poem About Food (starring the letter W)

When waffles kill and maim and steal
The whole world wonders what to do.
Whether better just to wail
Or whack the waffles into goo?
While wayward food will often test,
By forcing on us witch's brew,
We needn't roll to its request,
Lest we make choices we will rue.

The Low Jump

I do have standards,
Though they're low.
Somewhere south
Of Mexico.
Verses made
That smell like toe.
Smelly bad!
I know, I know.

The Honey Badger

We had friends who came to visit us the other weekend and they shared with us a Youtube video about the Honey Badger (as narrated by a fellow named Randall.)  The language was foul, but we laughed because the Honey Badger was such a character.  And so here is an ode based on the video.

Honey Badger, you're so soft,
Warm and cuddly all around.
When you see a snake aloft
You climb up and throw him down.
Then you eat him for your lunch,
Though he bite and make you nap.
Lovingly (well, that's my hunch)
You don't really give a crap.

A Fatherhood Limerick

There is a young baby named B
Who's always lookin' at me.
"Dad, can we play?
Or read stories today?"
If you said that I'm blessed, I'd agree!

The Changing Color

The color of the rolling hills
Is changing as the seasons pass.
The stalks of corn which once were green
Are joined by gold;
Emerging tassels all throughout
Are dappling vistas with their hue.
With wonder giv'n by God above
I soak it in.
What wondrous love it is to give
Such beauty to his sons below.
How glorious to make such art
Provision's field.
A glorious yield.

4 Verses on UGs

If I had a cattle prod
I would leave cattle alone
And go after bugs.

If I had a jar of salt
I would flavor my eggs
And go after slugs.

If I were a dirty hippie
I'd laugh nervously
And go back to my drugs.

But, better than these,
I'll wait for my wife to return
And give her hugs.

The Dodge Stratus

The Strat is flying low these days
Caught up in rusty, cracked malaise,
Stumbling blindly through a haze
And all the while I'm hoping,...

Hoping that the tires hold,
Looking past the carpet mold
Praying, "Please, I know its old,
But maybe it's a phase?"

Debit cards and dollar bills
Can cure the aches and fix the ills.
"Pay up Bub, for auto pills."
Alas, alack, oh heck.

"Here's the money, take it all
While you fix it I'll just crawl.
I should buy an auto pall!
Alas, alack, oh heck."

Alvin

On hearing the news

That his death was upon him

The man grinned a grin

And his eyes told a tale.

"This life's gotten hard,

In its myriad facets

I find myself fumbling

And ready to fail.

I love my wife dearly;

I'm happy to visit; 

My Lord is a-comin';

I hope you don't mind

But soon I'll be boarding

The train bound for glory.

Thanks much for your visits

You've really been kind."

Next week he was napping

And soon after sleeping

And then he was lying;

The twinkle was gone.

And so was dear Alvin;

His lifetime was ended.

His future beginning,

Eternity won.

Beware the Cat (A Fake Tale of Feline Brutality)

I saw a sleeping cat once
Back when I was a child.
My limbs all started tremblin'
For kitty cat was wild.
When given the occasion
He'd grab his pound of flesh
In slashy little increments
And make my skin like mesh.
It paid to show some caution
And tread with feather care
Or better yet, to stay quite still
In hopes that I'd be spared.

Sleeping Dogs

When doggies lie,
Their eyelids closed,
It's best to keep
Yourself composed
And treading lightly
Lest you cause
The waking dog
To use his claws!

The Two Paintings

Over my bed at home there are two paintings,
Both of churches in the old country.

One sits on a bluff, guarded by a wall
It has an onion top and one belfry.
Obviously Orthodox, maybe monastic.
The subject tugs at me, but is no expert's pick
For it is rudely done.  In a hurry?
For sale in new Russia, after the fall?

The other is all whimsy and fun,
Lovers kissing by the Seine.
Pont de Neuf stands guard nearby,
With Notre Dame back by the sky.

I love them both; they stir my mind,
Framed dreaming of a different time.

Just Outside My Window

Have you ever heard an ill wind blow?
Or seen a field of firefly glow?
Last night I did, those very two
The latter glowed, the first then blew.
I count it good that in between
The glowing insects went to bed
And while the bluster raged and stormed
Were sleeping quietly instead.

For Want of Breakfast

Hopping birds
Diving beaks
Tater soup
With tasty leeks
Battered eggs
Oh so meek
These are things
That creatures seek

Wonder

In the wee and small hour,
Lights more or less dampened,
I sit and I wonder
On all that has happened.
Crescendos and codas
And turning of pages,
Rebuking of demons,
And chit chat with sages;
A whirlwind of meaning
Surpassing all wonder
In lover and baby
And lightning and thunder,
Two churches with people
With hopes for the 'morrow,
Weddings and funerals,
Joy... and sorrow.
Good God, you're amazing
I'd never have dreamed this
The things you've accomplished
Beyond all my wishes.

Explicit Unpoem #1

Lousy poets take thoughts and hit the "enter" key at opportune moments to create the illusion of a poem where no poem exists.  It's actually just rambling thought with neither rhyme nor discernible structure, nor even words chosen to complement each other and express something further than the sum of them.  It's just a cheap imitation that deserves your scorn!  And so I give you an Unpoem:

In the wee hours
I find the time
To let my mind wander
Over things that have passed,
Things that I've spurned
And put in their places!

But they don't threaten
Like they used to do.
They seem rather silly
And toothless.

I don't know that we should allow ourselves foolishness
As some kind of birthright.
After all, foolishness maims, kills and destroys.
But some of us survive.
And as the carnage recedes
It all seems such a spectacle.

Shine On...

The Crazy Diamond fell down dead,
Acid got him, though he fled.
No one's shining in his stead.
What a wretched waste.

Poetic noodling, siren songs
Selling meaning to the throngs,
Skewing right things into wrongs.
What a wretched waste.

Happy 4th of July

I am an Iowawegian poet,
Iowegian poet do or die.
A real life rhymer from the state of corn,
Lousy(!) I'm not gonna lie.
I like to hear disapprobation,
Helps me know the world is sane.
Lousy poets step right up and pen a verse for freedom
"Hey y'all, Happy 4th of July!"

A verse for freedom?  What kind of cockamamie thing is that?  And why would "Happy 4th of July" qualify?  Well, you're not going to get an essay out of me either, so I'll just say, "Here's to our founding ideals, may God help us pursue them, and may we show a bit of mercy to each other as we go along.

Gettin' Bossy with the Garden

In the garden, dry and dusty,

Weed infested, blown by gusty

Winds from western prairie state,

There I stepped, demeanor: "crusty."

"Take this hose to change your fate;

Drink the water.  Thirst, abate!

Never mind if it be rusty.

Drink!  You dirt field.  Drink!  Don't wait.