Whispers that morph into screeches
Disturb the strands that tenuously hold
The ragged edges of reality aloft
In storms of self recrimination and regret.

Slender stalks of rationality bend down
Beneath the weight of foolishness
Grown fat and heavy in indulgence
That is justified by cobwebs of desire.

The music in the background plays
On bagpipes and a penny-whistle band
While the conductor tries to turn them in
To violins and harpsichords, and fails.

A river jumps it’s muddy banks
And floods the playing field with muck
As strands and stalks give up their load
And it all falls to nothingness.
ljm

I’m told real poems always rhyme-
Anything else is drivel.
If we abide by that stern rule
Then real music can only be opera.

Real dance can only be ballet
And real paintings photographic.
Why is there so much latitude
In all the other art forms

And no acceptance for blank verse,
Even with fantastic formats,
Even if it makes you cry...
If there is no rhyme, it’s junk.

Everyone who does not rhyme
Quite probably can do it,
But they can write blank verse sublime
If you only leave them to it.
ljm

Gloom 10/17/97
Doom
The Boom of a gun
Haven’t got one
Couldn’t use it if I did.

Sadness
Madness
The Badness of life
How I’ve blown it
And I’ll never have another one.

Crying
Dying
My Trying isn’t working
I can’t make it good
And wouldn’t see it if it was.

Sinking
Blinking
Always Thinking of a way
To stop the tears
But none of them will ever work.

Dreaming
Screaming
Endless Scheming in the night
Only uses up the hours
And another day rears up.

Graying
Praying
Never Straying from the hope
That maybe there’s a better day
If only I can live til then.
ljm

As I begin another desultory day
In what will be the rest of my life
I search for a metaphoric nail
On which to hang my tattered hat of hope.

Some pile of needs disguised as leaves
That need for me to rake them up
And leave the yard a little better
Than it would have been before.

I look around and hope to see
Something more than yesterday
Reflected in the nimbus clouds
That hoard our badly needed rain.

No one has urgent need of me
Though I live to know I’m needed.
I couldn’t devise a shining goal
That would point me at tomorrow.

With eighteen years now looming large
I have to come up with a purpose
That’s gonna make it worth the trip
To reach my final destination.
                 ljm

When  I was a small child in a little town up in Washington State, there was a kid’s radio show that came on every day at 3:30 PM starting each December first.  It was called “The Cinnamon Bear” and was the fantasy story of two children trying to get back the star for the top of their Christmas tree that had been stolen by a bad character. Each show was only 15 min. long, and half of that was taken up reviewing what happened the day before.  There were endless twists and turns to the plot and the kids showed their plucky spirit  in order to overcame all sorts of little obstacles and finally get the star back on Dec. 24.  The show ended with them putting it atop the tree.
We neighborhood kids always raced home from school to hear the program and we let nothing get in our way. It played every year from a radio station in the nearest big city, which was Portland OR.  By the time we were too old for the story, we practically knew it by heart. In all my years I’ve never encountered anyone outside of South-west Washington who ever heard of it.  But “The Cinnamon Bear” was magical to us kids.  I searched for years and finally found a cassette tape of the entire show.  It’s one of my treasures.
                           ljm

Too sad to cry
Too weary to care
Too worn-out to try again

Too stubborn to quit
Too stupid to fall
To give up and call it a day

Too needy to give
Too loath to receive
Too desolate to have any hope

Too angry to smile
Too bashful to sing
Too depleted to ever recover

Too hungry for notice
Too often passed over
Too much like the papered wall

Too late to the party
Too far back in line for the prizes
Too early to be forced to leave.
                      ljm

None of this will really matter
Building castles on the tide line
Lacing up the running shoes
Going through the motions of a life
Knowing it won’t mean a thing
In the final tally of the universe

Scratching marks on paper
Too stiff for use as **** wipes
And unwanted in any other place
Killing trees in order to not die alone
Wrapped in grief and
Sitting 3 feet from despair

The reach is just a bit too short
To push the final button.
       ljm

I’ve stayed
I didn’t want to but I didn’t leave
I trudge on as the years unfold

Why, you ask
Because you came
You left it all at painful cost and came

Even though
You brought me copper, never gold
Still, it was genuine, too pure to cast aside
In hopes of finding richer ore

So I’m still here
In places I don’t want to be
Doing things not what I want to do
For reasons I’m not privy to

I try
But find my arms too short
To reach the blossoms I should plck
To decorate the gift I cannot give

I dress in guilt
And hope nobody notices
That the empress is naked
And everyone can see but you

I’ve cried
Because the both of us are robbed
Of what might have been a symphony
Except there are no violins,
No cellos or violas

And the drums play only heavy metal
The concertmaster called in sick
And the woodwinds are all drunk
There’s only karaoke now

Yet here we are
In places we don’t like, doing things we do not like
Looking for some meaning hidden in the wind and sun
To be the reason that we stay.

ljm

One more hour in the job I love
Then they ****** it all away
Too many letters in my last name
And I won’t join the games they play

One more hour in my office home
Before it becomes not mine
They took away the reason why
I need a space to spend my time

I’m sitting in a dunking booth
My chair held by a pin
The ***** are going to come my way
Which one will tip me in

Which lame excuse will be the one
They hand me on a plate
Which evil lie will be pronounced
To seal my future fate

Fifty minutes left to carve
The end of my career
Until they push me out to starve
And turn a deafened ear

Or maybe only cut my time
To watch me slowly bleed
And later do the coupe de grace
As they eliminate my need

The time is slowly racing by
My calm is wearing thin
I’ve tried so hard to handle this
To walk out with a grin

But jitterbugs have made their home
In all my quiet places
My throat is learning to seize up
And spoil my placid faces

My mind has owned the coming doom
But my belly missed the memo
I vowed to not succumb to gloom
And ride out in a limo

The hour is up - the hatchet *****
Has done her thing and gone
It hurts much more than I had guessed
I’m not sure I can carry on

What goes around will come around
A saying tried and true
I grab the courage I just found
And know I’ll make it through

ONE HUNDRED HOURS LATER

I’ve found a way to stay afloat
I’ve given it much thought
Perhaps the Gods will smile on me
And I’ll end up on a yacht.

The people I’ve dealt fairly with
Have rallied round my cause
They’re going to help me find a way
To sidestep hunger’s jaws

There is a path that I’d not seen
That leads to greater riches
And I will now begin that walk
And spite those loathsome *******

Who thought that they could throw me out
Like Sunday morning trash
With never a thought of what I’d use
For weekly grocery cash

What goes around has come around
To me - I’ll be just fine
The people that I’ve served so well
Have helped me cross the line

The storm has finally passed me by
I see an end to sadness
I now know I can carry on
Despite their evil badness.

So now my time has ended here
I’m wistful but not crying
I’ve seen a sunrise just ahead
And I’ve new wings for flying

ljm

Things aren’t where I put them anymore.
I so carefully write down where they belong
And place them neatly in their spot
But when I later reach for them
The spot is gone and so are they.

I stand embarrassed at the desk-
The meeting is next week and not today.
But this morning when I read my notes
It just said One O’clock and don’t be late.
I made an extra trip to get there.

How could I have missed the date.
If I had canceled as I’d planned,
They would have told me not today
And saved me driving across town
To end up crying in the car.

A and B are not connecting lately-
The thoughts that ought to follow on
Stay self contained and singular.
They never meet across the void
To form cohesion and make sense.

My best view is aftersight.
I see too late had I done this
It would have saved me doing that.
Double trips become the norm.
My cheek is sore from slapping it.

The little errors multiply
Until they form an oversite
And grow to a catastrophe
That coping cannot remedy
And there’s no way around it.

The dictionary lists all words
In alphabetic order.
My mental warehouse stacks them up
Behind a bunch of useless facts  
In places I can’t find them.

The names of places and old friends
Are locked up in the topmost cupboards
And everyone will have to wait
Until I climb a sturdy stool
And search around to find them.

One by one these glitches have no meaning.
Two-by-two, it’s just a stressful week
But three or four and every day
Portends a black fog rolling in
And I’m searching for a place to hide.
ljm

Am I to die with you still hating me
For something I never knew I did?
Has nothing I have done for you
In these last thirty-five heartbroken years
Earned me a tiny bit of your forgiveness?

I am old and sick and growing weak,
And life’s a struggle every day.
Your anger is a load almost too
Heavy for me to carry now,
But I can’t put it down because

My love for you has never wavered
And I nurture a small flame of hope
That some day you will realize
That I did the very best I could
With what I knew of parenting.

That I tried with all my heart to be
The television mom you longed for
And to master all the rules attached
That were impossible because
I couldn’t get past being who I am.

I so regret my imperfections
And the moments when I failed.
I’d give the last years of my life
To have a chance to try again
And maybe get it right this time.
          ljm

I’m so sorry, Mrs. Ames.
You saw potential in me that
I didn’t know I had
And found the means to free me
From the cage of my upbringing
And launch me towards
The chance of greatness.  

I apologize, because I could not
Break the shackles of my Mother’s ire.
I set my goal to prove her wrong,
Searching in too many alleys,
Looking for a brighter light.

I know I let you down, Mrs. Ames;
I had a chance to climb a step or two-
But that ended up as not enough
And sideways seemed a better bet.

I was permanently wrong.
I live among the ruins I created,
Grieving for the hearts I  wounded,
Knowing I have no more time
To try to make things right
                 ljm

The Clock Eater loves the taste of fine time
Sauteed in juicy New York minutes and served
With seconds spiced with instants and moments.
He’s a founding member of the Clean Plate Club.

The Clock Eater does not wear a watch.
To him there is only this moment in time,
Like a freshly baked roll it’s aromatic
Impatiently waiting to be devoured.

The clock eater has an evil, hungry soul
And he hides in unexpected corners
Waiting for a precious leisure moment
To stuff into into his greedy face.

The Clock eater doesn’t often share
The banquet that is on his plate,
Perhaps a nibble now and then
To ease the other diner’s wait.
ljm

A hundred and seventeen by day
Cools to ninety overnight
No relief but the shower stall.
Humidity at sixty-five
Mixed with sweat for a nasty soup.
Cold water from the tap is warm.
The shade no cooler than the sun.
Trapped in Air Conditioned caves,
It’s hunker down and find a way
To forge a path though ninety days.

Why does anybody even try
To live in this forsaken place.

Bcause it’s lovely in the Winter.
The gorgeous skies are like no other
With clouds that tumble into billows
Of fantastic size and shape.
The Craggy mountains circle round
In jagged homage to the sky,
And sunrise is excelled by none.
In March wildflowers explode in bloom.
Along the streets and in the fields
Where little bunnies hide in bushes.
And tiny lizards scurry by.
The air is clean and brisk and new
And snowbirds make their yearly trek
Infusing new and different views.

That’s the Yang to scorching Yin
That keeps us here, content to be.
ljm

(BLT challenge: song titles from one singer)

This is the story of THE STRANGEST ROMANCE I ever encountered.
It didn’t involve me because I was then TOO YOUNG TO GO STEADY. I  hadn’t even purchased my FIRST FORMAL GOWN yet.  MOST PEOPLE GET MARRIED, under the ALLEGHENY MOON in this part of the country, but this couple said no to that. I kept telling them to GO ON WITH THE WEDDING, but they insisted it would be ANOTHER TIME, ANOTHER PLACE.  I then suggested OLD CAPE COD, but they said THE WALL has ears, and if anyone found out they were eloping, it would be GOODBYE CHARLIE. I told them to TRUST IN ME and I wasn’t FIBBIN’ when I said it.  They said: REPEAT AFTER ME: “I’LL  REMEMBER TODAY and keep your secret. I swear this on a CROSS OF GOLD”
Swearing on a gold cross made my heart go PIDDLY PATTER PATTER and I now felt like WITH MY EYES WIDE OPEN I’M DREAMING.  They told me to HUSH, HUSH SWEET CHARLOTTE, and to GO ON HOME.  
I had my Walk-man on, so I trudged home with THE SOUND OF MUSIC in my ears, but the walk seemed like TWO THOUSAND, TWO HUNDRED, TWENTY THREE MILES, and as I thought about their rejection of me,  I WISH I’D NEVER BEEN BORN.  Being brushed aside like that left me with A BROKEN HEART AND A PILLOW FILLED WITH TEARS.
EVERY TIME I think about that day, I want to throw MAMA FROM THE TRAIN for not letting me even go to their wedding when it finally happened.  I had kept their secret and told no one.  I’m proud of me.
                              ljm

One two three
Look at silly me
Try with all my might
Never get it right.
         ljm

Do you all know how old I am?
If I tell you, will you run away?
Will you say that I am way too young
Or far too old and gray?

I see myself as middle aged
Some would tell me that’s a lie.
They’d tell me that the truth of age
Is really in the viewer’s eye.

I think it is a state of mind.
I’ve been around a while.
I’m not so young but I’m not old-
I say that with a smile.

I know a lot of useful things.
I know a lot of places.
I know how to make things work
And fill the empty spaces.

I can labor like a mule,
Or act like I’m the Queen.
I can charm the upper-crust
Or those who’s hands aren’t clean.

None of this depends on age,
It all depends on skill;
So don’t ask me how old I am-
I’m not over the hill.
                 ljm

Being ***** is not a sin.
Staying ***** is.

I'm just allowed to read 5 poems. I can't scroll down for  more.
I don't know what mistake I've made for Eliot to close the door.
I know I'm not the only one with no access to the index
Which I consulted constantly from forgetfulness and reflex.
Is there some way to make amends and put things back to right
Or are we all to drop our pens and fade into the night.

Will Eliot do something new and leave us on our own
Or are his plans a secret - totally to us unknown
Will Hello Poetry ever come back and be the way it's been
If we should lose our access it would be the gravest sin
I've offered Elliot a check instead of monthly nicks
But I've not had a word from him - up to his usual tricks.

I'll keep submitting what I write and see if it's displayed
And if it  never does appear, sadly I will be dismayed
If I am not the only one facing this conundrum
Let me have a word or two and tell me who it's from.
Then I won't feel I've crossed a line and there's no hope for me
And all together we will wait to see what we can see.

When words are often things to stumble on
And fly when touched to far away dark caverns
There is no witches broom to sweep
The sentence fragments into something sane.
                        ljm

Gentle susurration of the gathered
Moving aimlessly in patterns of fantastic
Symmetry that no one planned.
Music in the silence between breaths
That energizes inner computations
Of the reasons for assembling.

Unexpected rustling of wings
Fantasizes outlines in the air
Creating something very like a blackboard
Waiting for explosions to appear.
Whereby the peacock fans its tail
And turns it to the flock of doves.

Voicing cries of strident self esteem,
The proud bird struts and preens
Which terrifies the doves who turn away
And skittle into corners
With their feathers all tucked in,
Forming cautious circles in the maelstrom.
ljm

Gaping, sponge-filled well of need
Proboscis longer than eternity
You’ve ****** the plumpness from my soul
And left a wrinkled, withered husk
Yet still you cry you’re thirsty.
                         ljm

Wish in one hand
Spit in the other
See which one
Gets full first.
She was right.
         ljm

Gloom
Doom
The Boom of a gun
Haven’t got one
Couldn’t use it if I did.

Sadness
Madness
The Badness of life
How I’ve blown it
And I’ll never have another one.

Crying
Dying
My Trying isn’t working
I can’t make it good
And wouldn’t see it if it was.

Sinking
Blinking
Always Thinking of a way
To stop the tears
But none of them will ever work.

Dreaming
Screaming
Endless Scheming in the night
Only uses up the hours
And another day rears up.

Graying
Praying
Never Straying from the hope
That maybe there’s a better day
If only I can live til then.
ljm

All my paths are serpentines
That lead around in circles.
My destination is so far
I cannot see it in the haze
That eddies in my vision.

I planted hollyhocks and marigolds
In the garden of my dreams.
I had no way to water them;
They withered in the Summer sun.

I haven’t any more to lose.
I’ve given everything I have.
There’s nothing left but hopelessness
And waiting for the final end.
ljm

I have no use
For the military Boys
Prancing around
With their nuclear toys.

I have no use
For the heads of state
Ignoring the climate
‘Til it’s too late.

I have no use
For Supreme Court Judges
Bending the law
To their personal grudges.

I have no use
For the lovers of Trump
I have a nice lake
Into which they can jump.

I have no use
For the trolls I attract
Attack all you want
I’ve never yet cracked.
             ljm

On a wall at the end of my street
Are cryptic letters that do not make a word
Painted in brilliant, angry colors,
They create a code I cannot read.

Appearing after a peaceful weekend,
Do they portend a maelstrom due
Or do they simply say “Hello’
To those who speak that other language.
           ljm

Built on land stolen from the natives
On the back of blacks who were
stolen from their own land.

Indigenous slaughtered like the buffalo they herded
Rounded up and marched into unwanted corners
There to starve until oil was discovered
And it became time to march them again.

Blacks who were declared to be less than human
Denied the right to do anything but work.
Families that were like grapes in a cluster
Ripe for the picking off of the best ones
And no thought given to those left behind.
Premiums paid for those enceinte,
Harbingers of the two-for-one sale.

Righteous blindness is a national disease
That overlooks the broken teacups
In the mad pursuit of tea.
That cannot see the trampled flowers
In the race to make perfume
That reeks self satisfaction
At the carnage left behind
And waves the flag of liberty
At those the cause enslaved.
                              ljm

Desolate is my middle name
And desolation my address;
Stranded in an empty-minded
Sea of pistol packin’ citizens
There’s no where left for me to turn.

The cooling breeze is chicken-fried
By over-heated rhetoric
And multi-colored stumbling blocks
Become the favored pastime
Of the masses who find comfort here.

I have no transport close at hand
And where I want to go is gone.
I’m all alone in emptiness
And no one hears my cries for help
In finding some way to survive.
                 ljm

DOWNPOUR

The rains came down in
The darkness before dawn.
Great thundering waterfalls
That beat tattoos on metal roofs
And sailed the gutter leaves like boats
In some fantastic competition
To make it to the storm drain first.

In this parched and arid state
It waked up sleepers with a start
Who rushed to roll up windows in the car.
And sent the teenaged paper boy
Rushing after plastic bags.
In thirty minutes it was gone
And you would never know it rained.

So thirsty is Nevada soil
That deluge never is enough.
The Monsoon didn’t come this year,
The floods all happened somewhere else,
And rocky landscape withers in the torrid sun
Trying to recall the **** feel
Of moisture seeping through its stones

And every drop is Holy Water.
ljm

Back when I was in my prime
A hundred thousand years ago
I used to write a lot in rhyme
Like samples that you see below

I’ve always had a love for trees
And also for the ocean
I’m happy in a mountain breeze
It calms me like a potion

Sometimes I write in one-one-two
A little tricky that is true
But the struggle was worthwhile
If what I’d written made me smile

l loved creating funny verse
A lot of it was stupid
I tried and tried but it got worse
I wrote of love and cupid

I never mastered the repeat
Or other fancy forms
I always went down to defeat
And shed my tears in storms

I never mastered the repeat
I struggled on in vain
I always went down to defeat
And couldn’t stand the pain

The ***** ahead I need to climb
Looks like it’s made of glass
And though I try it one more time
I always end up on my ***.
ljm

FALLING SHORT  (10W)

The perfect apple-
Always too high up in the tree.



THE GIFT (10W)

I sent him my heart
He kept only the box.




COMMENTARY    (10W)

On days like today, I know
Chicken Little was right.




POLITICS (10W)

You can’t clean up the nation’s mess
With ***** hands.
           



AWARD  (10W)

Life is one big Daily struggle
To earn that crown.




NUMERALS  (11W)

Why must it be only ten -
Eleven’s a much luckier number
      ljm

What is “stuff” you ask?  What on earth does it mean?
It’s easy to know, but hard to explain.
It’s one of those words with a dozen “faces”
That can be used in so many different places.

When you pull out that one kitchen drawer
And it’s full of everything from a key ring to a flashlight,
To a package of gum, a pencil and a screwdriver,
That drawer is full of miscellaneous “stuff.”  

When you go to the store and then to the bank
next to the florist and then to the barber and
anywhere else you might have on your list,
You are out and about, and just doing “stuff”.

When your shoes are by the VCR and your shirt’s
across the chair, while your jacket’s on the
Sofa, and your clothes are everywhere
Your mother or your room mate may have a word to say
Like “Would you gather up those things and put your “stuff” away.

“Stuff and nonsense” is an old time saying often
Interjected when a speaker runs amok
With nonsense on a foolish theme or topic.
Stuff in this case scolds the speaker
For deluging you with verbal *******.

When someone is showing off and doing it quite well
The skills he shows are called that word
That’s why they say he “struts his stuff.”
Someone with  lot of learning about a special thing
Is told by his admirers that he “really knows his stuff.”

This is the stuff of arguments, I think you might agree
I hope you learned a little, because it all came for free.
ljm

I thought that I had cried enough
But I was sadly wrong.
Full thirty years was way too short
To cure the injuries I caused.

A tear can only heal so much.
It takes a torrent to begin
To wash away the kind of hurt
That flares up on a random day.

It takes the peaceful weeks between
To make the pain more sharply felt
When it comes back, tied to a word,
A song or photograph.

It takes an education
To learn how to make a smile
Across a face that’s etched in sorrow
And convince the world it’s real.

It takes a will to lift the load
And carry it another day,
When there is nothing but more days
And tears that need to fall ahead.

I thought that I had cried enough
But I was so mistaken.
There is no sign that says you’re done
And you are free to go now.
ljm

Desolation
All the should-haves stacked like prison walls
Make it impossible to see the sky
What was big is now too small and
Cannot hold the folly on it’s way to bury us.
Crippled by the scorch, it won’t be possible
To rearrange ourselves out of this crisis.

Desperation
Incapable of letting go the few nice things
That beautified our former lives,
We know the tide is rising and we will sink
Beneath the weight of all the detritus we clutch,
Paying triple for the privilege of watching
As we drown in bad decisions and remorse.

Depression
Midnight tears that vanish in the arid air,
Stifled sobs that can’t repair the breach
Or heal the wounded vision of tomorrow
That inches ever closer, in the waking hours
Once designated as the time for sleep
Now put to dreary use as time for weeping.

Denigration
Too pale for the blazing sun but briefly,
We cower in the no less burning shade
And guard the meagre treasures of our lifetime,
Heaped in unmarked cartons in the corner
Where they wait for designation to the dump
Or hauled off piecemeal to a resale place

Denouement
We could have seen that this would happen
And lanced the hoarder’s boil before it broke.
It would have been so less expensive
In the pocketbook and in the soul
But here we sit at midnight crying
As catastrophe knocks on the door.
                                        ljm

The Lilac trees were bushes then
In the front yard of where I grew up.
Their perfume filled the small front room
Of the tiny little house we lived in.

Across the yard were Holly trees
One for each of us three kids
Who loved to push each other
Laughing, onto their sharp leaves.

Three Lilacs and three Holly trees
All planted by my mother
And all of them were tiny shrubs
Just like her little children.

The kids and bushes grew in sync
As days and years meandered by
Until the kids were grown and gone
And left the bushes growing there

To mark the passing of the days
That added up to childhoods filled
With  perfume in the afternoons
And sometimes thorns into the fingers.
ljm

In trepidation pain and angst
With three hitch-hikers on my back
All making progress difficult
And pushing writing off the track

With orders firmly in my mind
I pick up pen and go to work
I scribble letters on a page
Exactly like some office clerk.

I’ve monumental things to say
But they must only be in rhyme
That’s not my style....so i’ll just say
It will not happen at this time

So I will be the lesson dunce
Atop a stool in pointed cap
Because I couldn’t rhyme this once
And only turned in total crap
ljm

The grass is usually green
The sky is always blue
That’s irrefutable they say.
But then sometimes
The grass turns brown
And the sky is black
With storm clouds.

Deep inside we always know
The grass returns to green.
The sky will soon be blue again.
Identical to Married love
That tends to wax and wane
With the passing of the years
While the basis stays the same.
                         ljm

Hollow days and painful nights
In the itching sweat of illness.
Photos of another life
In sunlit fields of memory
Are glued to scrapbook pages
And the book locked in the cupboard.
Broken teacup on the floor
Dropped or thrown - who knows.
The Ferris Wheel no longer turns
And the Hurdy Gurdy has gone silent.
Effort does not pay the rent
That ratchets ever upward.
Blood and tears are valueless
And the race is almost over.
         ljm

FAILURE

Three stalwart kings and a wannabe queen.
How did she not make it to the throne
Two couldn’t do it and the third refused
So the jeweled seat remained vacant.

An army of lovers professing faith
To a heart looking its own castle
But when she broke down on the 405
Not one came to change her flat tire.

A mountain of effort dampened with sweat
Proved too slippery to climb on
And those with a rope to pull her on up
Were too busy cleaning their crampons.

Three rays of sunlight in a world filled with shade
She tried to step into those circles
But the shadows held invisible fences
And she only got to the edges.

Three strikes is out and third time’s a charm
A trinity rules in the heavens
Don Quixote tilted three windmills
And all Genies grant only three wishes

Life turned as cold as a three dog night
And the mountain in surmountable.
Time to pack life into three shiny pods
And move them to Laughlin, Nevada.
ljm

On a front-row-center throne
The Would-be King relaxes.
             Besides him rests his Lady-Queen
             In tsunamis of green satin.

He’s enjoying all the accolades
In the Hallowed Halls of drama
Surrounding their appearance,
                         Where the monkey trio entertains
    And fashion marches to and fro
    Clutching heavy bits of tinsel.

All is merriment and joy
Until the Jester makes a jape
   That earns a queenly frown
   Which stirs the King to wipe his smile
And stalk onto the dais
         Where he
                         slaps
   the Jester on his cheek,
  And wearing traces of a smirk
Marches back down to his throne.

The Jester lofts a lame response
Into a sea of stunning silence
      Then the air turns shades of Royal blue
                              And American TVs go deaf
                                               For thirty-seven                                                 ­                                     seconds
While across the seas the
  Audience enjoys the
    Braying of a *******.

Believing he’s impervious
Or maybe he is Sampson
         The King pulls down the ancient walls
                   Of cherished film tradition
Reducing what was dignified
           To a rank back alley rumble
Then later makes a fake obeisance
Awash with phony tears and snot.

                   All hail the King of Hollywood
   They should take back his golden prize
        To penalize his hubris -
                And let him know rules still apply.
And cause some real tears in his eyes.
           ljm

The drums of doom are echoing
Across the barren hillsides.
  Heavy carts on wheels of hatred
   Loaded high with steaming tubs of vitriol
    And the ugly trolls who brewed it,
     Are rolling down the twisted roads,
      Toward a city newly named Perdition,
       There to dance the Sarabande
        While flocks of screaming Peregrines
         Circle through the storm black clouds
          And all the shutters are nailed tight
           Against the wind that that rattles doors
            And augurs the millennium.
ljm

Be my courage
I’ll be your strength

Be my solace
I’ll be your haven

Be my inspiration
I’ll be your fruition

Be my love
I’ll be your forever.
ljm