There was a small frog
Splayed out on a zoo log
Its name was something-dog
I think it was dead
It didn't move its head
Nor blink its eyes instead
It was kinda cute
Though in death it was mute
So a picture of it I did shoot
A girl my age shoved past
Looked into the foggy zoo glass
To see the amphibious class
She called it lazy
Said the frog was butt ugly
Then left to see cuter things
Dead or simply asleep
Cute or a slimy creep
Who thought about frogs so deep?
A poem, a poem I've got to write.
But nothing seems to come tonight.
I guess I'm just not very bright
When it comes to writing poems.
I crumple paper sheet on sheet.
I think of deadlines I'm to meet.
I haven't time to sleep or eat;
I've GOT to write a poem!
The time ticks on --it's two o'clock
Our light's the last one on the block.
Perhaps if I could take walk
I could better write a poem.
Then suddenly I get a thought--
I put it down to the very last dot…
And then I think, "It's not so hot."
Why CAN'T I write a poem?
But then I say, "'Twil have to do."
The morn is come; the night is through.
I'm tired but proud, I can tell you,
'Cause I just wrote a poem.
Hands in my pea coat pockets I shuffle down 8th avenue looking down. Whenever a pair of shoes that have seem to be worn in adventure passes I lift my head to stop them.
Excuse me, Excuse me. I ask the intriguing shoes.
I’m either met with a puzzled look, an impatience look , or a sympathetic look. Sometimes there is a look of all three
Looking at the owner of said shoes I boldly ask,Do you have a story?
Here, I can usually guess their response based on one of the three looks they gave me.
A look of puzzled usually leads to more confusion on their face expressed in lines created in their face by a furrowed brow and scrunched nose.
A look of impatience usually leads to a middle finger, and a cold shoulder met with an even faster pace, or a phrase along the lines of Weirdo, Freak and more vulgar phrases that I’m sure you can guess. (My favorite so far has been Asshat, now that’s a story)
With a look of sympathy I’m sometimes given a quick sorry followed by a cold shoulder (see example 2), sometimes a Sorry, what? Due to their actual interest in what I have to say. These looks lead to the best stories.
One rainy day I was met with lady bug rain boots scuffed around the bottom, yet still shining a bright red that I guess wasn’t even that beautiful on the store shelf, and my guess a size 2. Looking up I find wide green eyes staring right back.
Now this was no look of the three I’ve experienced, it was a whole new look.
A look of curiosity, but not puzzled.
A look of eagerness, not impatient.
A look of care, not sympathy.
And so many more looks hidden in those big green eyes that seem to hold the world.
Though I was aware of the tiny feet, I was mildly surprise when I was met with those green eyes at an almost 2 foot level.
Excuse me, excuse me, Do you have a story?
The ladybug boots with green eyes smiled at me.
Everyone has a story, but I have neither the time nor the crayons to explain this to you.
Sexy Middle-Aged Dad at the Water Park,
this is an ode to you.
Sexy Middle-Aged Dad at the Water Park
the kids sprawling out of the entrance
like baby spiders spilling
out of the crushed mother’s abdomen.
Sexy Middle-Aged Dad at the Waterpark
flip-flops his way to the lazy river,
shies his black Harley Davidson tanktop
to reveal his sunburnt
flopping over his camo swim trunks.
He shakes off his flip-flops
and awkwardly wades in,
his hulking mass shifting with
each foot and tree trunk
of a leg smashing into
the shallow water,
sending shockwaves towards
in his wake.
Finding a vacant tube,
he turns his body around
and heaves himself
into the neon green donut
Mother at the pavilion
opens an eye from the lawn chair
and chuckles to herself,
applying another layer of sunscreen
over ruddy cancer-sensitive skin.
Sporting oblong racecar sunglasses
atop flushed puffy cheeks,
Sexy Middle-Aged Dad at the Waterpark
basks in the baking mid-summer sun
and the cool piss-ridden waters
he sinks his hands and feet into.
What is on his mind?
I imagine it is as close
as he aims to get,
free from responsibility
like a wiry youth
from long ago.
The piercing screams of laughter
from ambulant children
splashing about him
He coasts about this way
for an eternity,
his red leather hide
burning in the hot sun
enwreathing his glasses.
under the cool shade
of the pavilion,
the kids tumble down
slides and splash gleefully,
and life lingers on a moment
for a necessary
Sexy Middle-Aged Dad
awakens from his sun-cooked daze,
approaches the exit
and prepares himself
for his departure.
Waddling left and right,
he flops starboard
like a cannonball rolling off the deck
into the ocean.
His sunglasses leave him in the ruckus,
he gropes blindly
with chlorine-infested eyes,
til he grasps the visage
and stands up in the water.
His great body surges
from the waters,
fading tattoos gleam
along with a bald spot
in the sunlight.
He ambles through the waters—
water spilling out of rolls of fat
undulating in the motion—
and sensuously runs a baseball glove of a hand
through thinning hair.
His trunks bunch up around
firm, beefy buttocks
and a tired old penis,
thick tree trunk thighs,
ending its constriction just above
the wrinkled knot
Mother snapshots a photo
of the visage,
his fruits spilling about him
in perpetual glee,
his stolid look of authority,
the ambulant youths
on the cusp of adulthood
leaf through old photo albums
suddenly eyeing the Father piously
in a newfound awe,
aware of his gargantuan countenance
that shielded their efflorescence.
He was their sun,
he was their shade,
and their sky—
for he knew
when to plant,
and when to water,
and when to wait.
Running a thumb over
the diaphanous visage
an analog adolescence,
they jeer each other
over the Father,
an amassing reverence
for the great figure,
the Sexy Middle-Aged Dad at the Water Park.
Bear with me on this please
I've been craving creativity rather absently
Dismally, there's nothing to guide me
No blissful excitement
No helping hand of inspiration
Not even a half beaten idea
Just a need to reclaim
What I feel like I've lost
(Or what's been stolen from me)
These are just some words within lines
Forming a confession to relieve the aimless craving inside
At the bookstore I found a guide
Inside was a simple instruction.
A funny looking diagram.
I tried everything imaginable but still couldn't figure it out.
Flipping page after page, Telling you what I've found.
The way the instruction was wrote was shoddy.
Continuing to follow the diagram.
Attempting what I read all you did was laugh, none of it worked.
It didn't hit me until I threw the paperwork that I might have been reading it
Finding a different way to love you.
Upon further reading I followed the instruction verbatim.
If anything it pushed me further away from you,
A strange look that continued with the raise of a eyebrow.
I looked online and read the reviews, found the publisher of the book.
I wrote them stating that the guide was entertaining but still had problems
applying what I read.
I looked again at the strange stick figures wondering if figure one really was
Reading the publishers reply,
They really should print these things better as all they did was laugh.
It wasn't until I reached the end of the book and read in fine print.
For entertainment purposes only
So Hesiod looked around on an ancient Grecian day
He looked at all the rowdy youth doung things their way
With their sundials and writing
And their chariots like lightning
He concluded that youth were going the wrong way
Your presence is benign,
On this planet,
Unto Mars your scent reaches.
Finish the pending job,
Articulation is the work,
Reaching far is your scent,
Tackling this humourously,
Ending this ode I will be,
Doomsday seems to descend.
A rainbow of blood,
Not visible to humans,
Deathly is the scent.
I mean it for real,
Wasps from hell seem to sting,
As needles of repugnancy prick,
Sadness descends for forever.
Himalayas seem to be an escape,
On the change of atmosphere,
Rows of roses are required,
Right now and right here,
In an attempt to save us,
Breathing became hard,
Lost was the will to live,
Early was fresh air needed.
A dark & seriously funny poem.
Another secondary acrostic poem.
My HP Poem #1381
There were certain things he couldn't hide from
like the fact that the ocean only loves him when he's drowning
like the fact that rope fit best on his neck
and the fact that razors sing louder than his crush whom he heard as he walked by the rest room
He didn't know that
There were certain things she couldn't hide from
like the fact that she gets closer to her mother when her veins leak
like the fact that alcohol tastes better when it's fighting to go down
and the fact that the ground wants her more than her crush does when she's five stories high
It's Saturday morning and he cuts his wrists over the ocean and ties the rope tight on the dock and jumps.
It's Saturday morning and she cuts her wrists on top of her five story apartment building, breathes in two bottles of tequila and jumps.
They found each other as their souls headed forward.
Funny, they thought as they told their stories.
"I didn't have to jump"