I
The Bachelor Pad
I ate a plum from that there tree.
They’ve asked me since to leave.
If every soul just took a plum
There’d be no plumb for Eve.
I’m early to the garden, then.
I’ve still a rib to spare.
There hops a silly animal—
I think I’ll call her Hare.
There flies by one I gave a name…
That name I can’t recall.
I’ll have to give another name,
For now, I’ll call it Gall.
But no, the first that I forgot
Was better, twice as grand.
What was that name I gave that bird
That squawks and flaps and lands?
That name, it flies right back to me
As bare feet rub the moss.
That was the name I gave to it!
It was the Albatross.
A Man Who Hears A Ticking Sound
A second’s all I got—you bird.
So let your song be slim.
It takes too long to smell you—rose.
Your scent is far too dim.
By morning, I go west—dear sun.
I’d see you if I could.
So meet me in the east at dusk?
Catch up then, we should!
And brunch would waste two sides of morn.
Mimosas ain’t my bag.
That café is some rocks at sea.
Forgive me—I can’t lag.
And if I met that girl I like
in serendipity.
I’d snatch my groceries from the clerk,
Then home for Jeopardy.
Just tell me how it ends, my friend.
I haven’t time to watch.
And while you’re at it, here’s your hat!
My schedule you’ll botch.
I wear my god upon my wrist.
It ticks on like a whip.
So long it shines upon my face
It guides me not to slip.
And if I would recall a day—
In poesy or in prose.
I’d smash the glass upon my wrist
And wonder of the rose.
To Stick A Pearl On Swine
My stickers lie inside the drawer,
The film I’m yet to peel.
For in every spot I chose to stick
Uncertainty I feel.
I hold the sticker in my hand:
To be or not to be
A flair upon my notebook, or
In drawer to shuffle free.
Suppose that once I chose to stick
I’d find a better place.
Then wasted would that sticker be.
I’m taunted by its face.
I hold my sticker down and ask
“What is it then you want?”
“For you to rip this back off me
It’s you who is the taunt.”
Two Clowns Break Up
The end—it won’t be pretty, eh?
And it will end today.
It could—at least—be silly, eh?
For I must go away.
Your nose. It stuck there like a rose
Upon your painted face.
I was smitten by your big foot,
Which bore an orange lace.
When I kissed you in the clown car
I didn’t have a choice.
I learned your squished lips could do more
Then play a goofy voice.
You met me in the tent out back
Where elephants retire.
You taught this clown to love, you clown,
And lit my pants on fire.
It was a routine bit—that fire—
The greasy children chuckled
When I dove into the barrel
As my hot knees buckled.
We’ve spent a summer happily
In both love and jest.
But now the circus leaves this town
And this clown’s heart must rest.
II
Mail-Order Poet Returned To Sender
“I am the Bard of Leigh,” said he.
“For iambs are my drum.
And if you said my meter’s off,
I’d say go shove your thumb!”
“I bear the voice of God,” said he.
“My words appreciate.
And those who take the chair you warm
Will call me Laureate.”
“You give us sins we lack,” said Leigh,
“For prophets we all love.
But if you are an asshole, then
We’ll show you what to shove.”
Opening Bars Of A Rap Battle With Satan
Sincere? My Dear! It’s what I fear.
It hurts me like a pin.
For if I were to cut the shit
You’d tack me to a sin.
For if I were the devil, then
It’d hurt me not to lie.
And prose is too revealing, so
In poesy my words fly.
For rhyme and meter is my smoke,
While ember’s all you hear.
So lose yourself in euphony
And take me as sincere.
Half-Baked
This poem would be longer, but
I have not time to write.
I had not time for even this,
These lines I wrote in spite.
Dad, Can I Rob The Bank?
There is a bag of gold in there
That nobody would miss.
It hides there like a drop of dew
Out in the field’s abyss.
This is true of that old vault—
Yet one thing I implore:
There may be too much gold to count
but still, there is one door!
Suppose I’d meet the guard at night
And cut him to my ruse?
For he has few to feed his kin
And what would he to lose?
No silver tongue have you, dear son,
And what then if you’d fail?
For if he were to shake your bribe
Would pistols then avail?
If such a deal fell to the floor—
I couldn’t tell you why—
I’d fear that man a fool would be
And fools are known to die.
Then woe would prey on me, dear son,
And age would trouble more.
For if you brought me gold turned red
I would then still be poor.
Dear Father, you have tilled this land,
Yet only you would know.
For seeds drink only from your sweat.
The sun has failed to show.
For he who meets the gold in dirt
Knows nothing of the vault.
And if he knew that he had lack
Then would he be at fault?
Don’t tell me of this world, dear son,
Don’t think on what is just!
You’ll find the lust of what is fair
Will spread you like the dust.
There will be no end to running
And it will be in vain.
In every town you dare to step
You’ll bear the mark of Cain.
III
Such Songs Are Other’s Ends
←
I would say, tween grin and grin,
And what I’d say be true:
That if I were the mountain grass,
Then wouldn’t you be dew?
→
And if I were that valley’s stream,
I’d run from cheek to cheek.
And if you were a heron—then
I’d let you run your beak.
←
Tween smirk and smile—I’ll keep this pace
And ask you—if I could—
To think of what you’d say to me
If I were made of wood.
→
If you were made of wood, my dear,
I’d lose you to love’s flame.
Put ashes in a golden urn
And think of you the same.
←
If I were in an urn, Yvette,
In anger, I would rust.
If on that gilded-glowing box
You would neglect to dust.
→
If so, I’d say my love was vain:
If specks of dust could bug.
For here you lie in dirt and grass,
Yet still you bear my hug.
←
Keep singing me this song of rhyme,
This song of times yet wrote.
And let me be a violin,
I’ll hold the stringy note.
→
Some ends are best unwrote, my dear,
Let’s lie in days gone long.
Sing me those tales of Solomon:
I’ll hear a mirthful song.
←
Such songs are other’s ends, dear Vette,
And to such ends we’re lured.
So lay between this tree and I
And just hear that there bird.
←*→
We would say tween grin and grin
And what we’d say be true:
That if I were I and you, you,
We’d lay till night was new.