I like to spend my summertime
Making cheerful summer rhymes
I take a clever word and double it.
Then, that’s the start of a couplet.
I do my best at language bending
Looking for cohesive endings
For every line that crosses my mind.
That is why works the best, I find.
I just roll right on with the beat
I depend the result will be sweet.
I find if I think about it too hard
I will miss the rhythm by a yard.

My hope is the spoken word
Will make you feel what you heard
As if it were a voice in your head
That speaks for you in its stead
And moves to you to higher plane;
Makes you feel a bit more sane.
I have been rescued just that way
By understanding words that say
The things my heart truly needed
When my own voice never heeded.
I now trust that loving behavior
I know words can be a savior.

I like to parse in cold times too.
It’s such a warming thing to do
And I get to place myself inside;
I grant myself permission to hide
In my room where it’s warm
And poeticize any awful storms
Turning sentence parts to sounds
And let the harmonics surround
My head that thinks in four-four time
Writing every season’s cozy rhymes.
Then, in hopes I help more than myself
I send the poems off to everyone else.

Some people say I’m crazy,
They call me a total nut.
They say I’ve lost my mind
That I don’t know what’s what.
That I am beyond cuckoo.
They say I’ve gone insane,
That I am in a very bad way,
That I’ve got you on the brain.

I’m just in love
It’s a kind of lovely madness.
It is insanity
In a very lovely kind of dress.
It affects everything
Makes me lose my train of thought.
And I do it gladly
Whether or not I really ought.

Other people don’t see
That I hear you in every sound.
Those people have their rules
On the feeling I have found.
They are understanding
If it’s a round of golf or a car,
But this is how I really feel
No matter what their feelings are.

Some love their money,
The massive expensive houses
And some like to cheat on
Their unsuspecting loving spouses.
Some like to belong to
The most exclusive memberships.
I must prefer to listen
To the sound from your lips.

I’m just in love
It’s a kind of lovely madness.
It is insanity
In a very lovely kind of dress.
I affects everything
Makes me lose my train of thought.
And I do it gladly
Whether or not I really ought.

Here’s my question:
Don’t daughters lope their mules?
However non-existent
They too surely must bend the rules.
Surely it’s not only guys
Who secretly, daily slap their laps.
If so, would you bluenoses
Quickly and firmly shut your yaps?

There are so many things
Boys are not supposed to ever do
Like farting and belching
And all kinds of gods to apologize to.
We have to fold napkins
And keep our elbows off the table.
The list seems to grow.
I’m not sure I will ever really be able.

Adhering to what it takes
In life to keep myself perfectly decent
Seems to involve rules
Both ancient, ecclesiastical and recent.
I must put the lid down
Because, it seems, women can’t do it.
Hold the door open for them
Because, alone, they can’t go through it.

Give your seat up on a bus
Because even if they are younger than I
Women are the weaker ***
And I must be much stronger, I’m a guy.
And there literally hundreds
Of words I can’t say and shouldn’t think.
Now if only the women of the world
Would outlaw me getting near the kitchen sink.

We learned that freedom of speech is
Is a privilege granted by some
For seeing the abasement of millions
And remaining politically mum.
The violations of human rights today
Are too numerous to record
And the rich perpetrators of the crimes
Grant each other the rewards.

We learned that rich people only care
About the money they make
And the rest of us can congregate
And please go jump in a lake.
If the forests are all sawed down and gone
They don’t give a stinking ****.
If they bees are all dead and we all die
They lie and say ecology is a sham.

We saw that fossil fuels are the biggest game
And they’ll **** to win and get rich
And anyone that gets in their billion dollar way
Will be a sad and sorry *******.
We know that our country is run into a ruin
By the greedy whims of a stinking few
And they care not all that much among them
For the outcome for me or you.

I told him often and
I couldn’t have made it clearer.
He needs to stop looking
At himself in funhouse mirrors.
His nose is too wide
His body is just too skinny.
Good looking body parts
He believes he hasn’t any.

He seldom smiles
Even when a comic falls down.
He doesn’t like comedy.
Not even good circus clowns.
He doesn’t read poetry
Unless it is written about him
And his taste in music
Is all based on a passing whim.

He’s thirty years old
But he acts like an adolescent,
Playing the same games
From childhood to the present.
He still dresses like he did
When he was ten years old
And doesn’t clean his room
Not ever, unless he is told.

He plays on the computer
And keeps dead-end employment,
Then gripes about his life
And his total lack of enjoyment.
His ambition level wrecked
Because his family still pays his bills
And lets him hide in his room
That’s the kind of situation that kills.

He has no ups or downs
And takes pills to keep his mood.
He buys toys and gadgets
And lives on his mother’s food.
But, nothing in life calls him
To achieve or excel or to win
In the halfhearted game of life
That he finds himself stuck in.

She sprays her hair a lot
Doesn’t care about the climate
She says it keeps her looking hot
And she doesn’t even need to diet.
She drives to school driving
Her daddy’s fancy gift car.
She goes happily because
That’s where cute boys are.

She’s the Great American Co-ed
And intelligence is not important.
Someone saying ‘no’ to her are
Words she finds most discordant.
She only likes to hear ‘yes dear’
For her life to being going fine.
Everyone just has to understand
And then they must toe the line.

She’s a grade C student
Because she doesn’t like books.
But, she has no trouble
With boys because of her looks.
She is a willing target as well;
She likes any guy in pants.
Maybe even a rich guy who
Will buy her expensive implants.

She knows she will be
The most popular girl around
If she can just get her blog
Going strong and off the ground.
She has lots of cool photos
Of her in her bikini bathing suit.
She also has her phone number
And her measurements to boot.

She’s the Great American Co-ed
And daddy has paid for University.
She is afraid she might not get in
Due to the law about racial diversity
But she is sure her daddy will
Call in some markers owed by friends.
He’s done it before and she bets
He’ll gladly do it one more time again.

Scary Larry,
The Margarita Fairy
Could drink anything,
As long as it wasn’t dairy.
Bollocky Pollack
Hung up his smock
Covered with paint
Put it on the auction block.

Seven eight nine
Friends of mine
Are really just fine
Without toeing a line.
Five six seven
It is rather like heaven
To be gladly given
A life worth living.

And Yeaster Bunny
Thinking he was funny
Baked bread dildoes
That sold for bags of money.
Scott Tissue
Said “We’re gonna miss you.
Your bread will sell quicker
If don’t make it an issue.”

Seven eight nine
Friends of mine
Are really just fine
Without toeing a line.
Five six seven
It is rather like heaven
To be gladly given
A life worth living.

Phony Joanie
Wishes for alimony
But refuses to divorce
Her husband Tony.
Decided she plans
To keep him instead.
Good for ready money
Though he's lousy in bed.

Seven eight nine
Friends of mine
Are really just fine
Without toeing a line.
Five six seven
It is rather like heaven
To be gladly given
A life worth living.

**** Poncho,
Everybody seems to
Dig his Mayan body
If only for a day or two.
Then he's off to play
With somebody new
Maybe some other day
He'll make it back to you.

Seven eight nine
Friends of mine
Are really just fine
Without toeing a line.
Five six seven
It is rather like heaven
To be gladly given
A life worth living.

The rich never starve
So they don’t understand
When others do.
They have no earthly idea
What the starving folks
Are going through.

They are being taught
By those that have cash
That poor are lazy trash
And it’s fine to ignore
When they suffer.

If the poor were wise
They would choose another
Better way of living.
They’d surely not starve
But would rather carve
Out some way of  life
That brought wealth to
Their kids and their wife.

It’s got to be something
That the poor has done
To make them into
The neediest ones.
They should even work
For some fast food place
Because being poor is
A huge, social disgrace.

And the women should stay
At home with their kids
The same way our mothers
Of yesterday all did.
It’s shameful the way
The poor make their spouses
Work at jobs all the time
Outside of their houses.

The rich never starve
So they don’t understand
When others suffer.
They fail to accept that
We are their sisters
And their brothers.

I’m just trying to get through the day
Trying to find the right words to say
To keep my luck from going south
To keep my feet out of my mouth
To find the right games to play.
Nobody to play with anyway.
Hoping for a brighter day,
Just trying to get through today.

Some of the people around me
Sometimes seem to surround me
Even when I don’t call them to me
It can make me a bit gloomy.
It’s not like they’re my college roomy.
So they often even astound me.
I wonder how they found me.
I don’t like them close to me.

I try to keep my nose to the wheel
My **** in my seat, but maybe I feel
A bit under the management’s thumb;
That it’s better to act rather dumb
Than call attention to my non-zeal
And disbelief that this is all real.
I mean, I push the stone uphill daily.
Is it meant that I accomplish it gaily?

After all, I’m not saving lives here.
I’m just packaging a lot of beer,
Or counting busy streams of cases,
Along with others without faces.
Our job is just exactly that kind;
It is meant to be a mindless grind.
It’s not meant to be any fun.
It is just that which must be done.

So tote that barge, lift your weary ****.
I know to keep my big mouth shut.
Don’t compare notes, especially about pay
Or they let you go at the end of the day.
That’s who I am, a regular working slob.
Count my blessings I even have a job.

The hunky lad passed me smiling.
I sat and wondered what he was into.
I spent the next short time whiling.
Did he like the same things I like to do?
Was it possible he’d find me beguiling?
Or was I just a romantic Ford Pinto;
A bit of data barely suitable for filing?
Not worth a kiss let alone a good *****?

Thus run the silent mental maunderings
Of a fool with little else but fanciful wishes
As he went about his chores like laundering
Dusting, vacuuming and washing dishes.
Dreams like those of a damsel in a castle
Drug me away from the drudgery of the day.
And helped me not see life as a hassle;
Instead it made my mind a place to play.

If fortune could send a lucky handyman
To fix something I didn’t know was broken
I could think it was a very dandy plan
And that God was sending me a token.
Almost like a voice was whispering to me
Everything is gonna be okay, my child.
So go ahead and celebrate giddily.
Your life is will soon go from mild to wild.

Oh yes, I would sing and dance in joy
Around my tiny rent-controlled home.
God was going to send a perfect boy
So he would never again need to roam.
He could stop here in his **** travels
And I would make him so glad that he did.
He could stop pounding the gravel;
Just stay with me, almost on the skids.

I’d serve him chicken from the Colonel
I have lots of coupons I’ve set aside.
Maybe he’d like something from McDonalds.
I would set the table with great pride.
And I would make sure there was wine
By the lovely gallon, here for him to drink.
If he wanted a more inexpensive kind
He wouldn’t really even have to blink.

Yes I would make a lower-class heaven
With our modest Rent-a-Center stuff.
I’d do the scutwork twenty-four seven.
I do it all now, it is nothing that tough.
He would only have to love me madly.
Life would be a fairy tale for both of us.
He’d consent to stay forever gladly;
Life would be simply, totally marvelous.

I most certainly did know Joe
He was my friend you know.
I knew him for a decade or so.
I always enjoyed the Joe Show.

Joe was rather different,
Sometimes even diffident.
He got in some predicaments,
But I was his instrument.

I called it the Joe Show because
Joe was sort of like Santa Claus.
When he came into a room
He would disspell all the gloom.

It was hard to outshine Joe;
The coolest guy you could know.
He was the best of friends, so
I should have told you, Joe don’t go
But I was clueless, I didn’t know.

All of the good times we once knew
All of the silliness we went through.
So many memories of me and you.
Who can predict what fate will do?

Joe made me feel special,
Like I was living in a serial.
He was usually amenable.
Sometimes ministerial.

Now I have no more time to go
I never told you I’d miss you so.
I just couldn’t because I didn’t know.
I never got to tell you, Joe don’t go.

I live in a world of intolerant people
Who insist their way is the best.
Many say theirs is the only way;
They totally reject all the rest.
I always have had trouble with that,
Saying their loving god hates;
That their god would choose some to
Leave standing hopeless at the gate.

I read the books that believers claim
Will cleanse me and make me blessed.
They verbally promise heaven to me
If I but bend my knee and request
Acceptance of a human turned into god
For my personal and holy savior.
It has always seemed to me to be
A rather superstitious sort of behavior.

It smacks of me throwing salt around
To promise myself the best of luck.
Or avoiding stepping on any crack.
Mumbo jumbo for which I have no truck.
I read more than the books of religions
To find out where the myth came from.
I am now informed about the eucharist
To know I don’t need a single crumb.

I don’t disparage those who believe
Any more than those who wear copper
To ward of arthritis and rheumatism.
I’ve seen those beliefs come a cropper.
Let others sing songs and nursery rhymes
About golden streets and pie in the sky.
I prefer reality in the here and now.
I’m not a bit superstitious, no not I.

I can clearly state
And easily enumerate
No need to exaggerate
That in the aggregate
Up until the current date
The state of our beloved state
Has chosen to populate
The majority of the electorate
With the dregs of the vulgate.

I’m stating that our congress
Has become a total mess
With the outcome being less
Pleasing than a pool of cess.
With many of ‘no’ and few of ‘yes’
I fear we have to confess
We will be forced to dress
In ***** rags and even less
Too broke for a game of chess.

We are a buckless stag nation
On less than WW2 B rations
Caught in the collaboration
Between rightist indignation
And hyper-religious damnation
Golden calf worship and adoration
Built on the dollar sign adulation
Fostered by the dissembling peroration
By the authors of American privation.

Our representatives sell out constantly
And take in our dollars steadily
Saying yes to bribery readily
Feathering their beds happily
Ignoring their promises fearlessly
Because they proceed quite protectedly
From any repercussions legally
From the almighty powers that be
That coddle and tend them carefully.
It has to be that way necessarily
In this falsely-labeled free country.

When I was just a little kid
Uncle Jeff talked to me
About the things people said
As opposed to what I could see.
He cautioned me to listen
And watch people carefully
He promised me an education,
Just made for little me.

Do they walk their talk
When no one is around?
Do they mean the words they say, or
Is it just a lot of sound?
Do you feel you can trust them
With what you put away
Or do you think they will cheat you
And take it for their rainy day?

There are those who even as children
Prefer what other kids get
They grow up to be criminals
So you must not forget.
Another word for criminals
Is a word called ‘politicians’.
They’re very strong with cheating
But not good at admissions.

Money in their bank account
Is all that’s driving them.
Look for their integrity?
The pickings will be slim.
They look for what they can get
From you in many ways.
The cards are marked, you can depend
And they know all the plays.

Do they walk their talk
When no one is around?
Do they mean the words they say, or
Is it just a lot of sound?
Do you feel you can trust them
With what you put away
Or do you think they will cheat you
And take it for their rainy day?

You and they don’t think alike;
You can’t guess what they think.
But you can bet when they suggest
The idea will highly stink.
Your best protection is to hide
When these creeps are around.
If you have to pack your things
And move to a different town.

I have learned my Uncle Jeff
Was wise beyond his years.
He had a lot of wisdom stored
Securely between his ears.
He shared them with a little child
And I listened to what he said.
I heard his words as clean pure truth
And kept them in my head.

Do they walk their talk
When no one is around?
Do they mean the words they say, or
Is it just a lot of sound?
Do you feel you can trust them
With what you put away?
Or do you think they will cheat you
And take it for their rainy day?

Dead soldiers, lined up in a row,
Short history, how many more to go?
Dead sailors, some of them in an alley
Not sailing anywhere anymore are they?
Dead airmen, and also dead marines.
What if we’d been where they’ve been?
Men and women, fathers and mothers
We are burying our sisters and brothers.

Hut, two, three, four,
What the hell are we fighting for?
Five, six, seven, eight!
I’ll go to heaven if it’s not too late!

Dead soldiers, not just bottles of beer;
More come back home dead every year.
Used people, we let them get thrown away
By listening to what rich crooks had to say
Their empty promises were all about glory
But remember, most of that word spells gory.
Expendables, in the Big Game of profit.
The proceeds, none of them ever got it.

Hut, two, three, four,
What the hell are we fighting for?
Five, six, seven, eight!
I’ll go to heaven if it’s not too late!

Salute and makes parades, of course
And pin the cheap medals on a corpse,
A kid under orders to invade and ****
Hoping leaders wake, but they never will.
The politicians get rich in office when
They sing  patriotic war songs again.
Someday we all can stop all the killing
If love, providence and all gods are willing.

Hut, two, three, four,
What the hell are we fighting for?
Five, six, seven, eight!
I’ll go to heaven if it’s not too late!

I want to wake up when I want
And then slowly get to my feet.
I want to have a breakfast
That is very much like a treat.
I want to dawdle over my coffee
And take lazy, leisurely stock.
And, I want to do all of this
Without waking to a clock.

For I hate that awful buzzing
That it takes to shake me awake.
I find the racket ruins dreams
And is too much for me to take.
I want to sit where late morning
Sends its sweet shine in on me
While I sup and sip and dine
Like a member of royalty.

Oh, I am not so snooty myself
That I don’t prepare this repast
With my own two clever hands
And at that, amazingly fast.
It’s almost like my hands want
To hide from my waking mind
That the meal I am having is not
Not the made by Ritz-Carlton kind.

I want to waken to cognizance
In a particularly decadent way.
I find it totally disgusting to
Rush madly into any given day.
I’d sit in smoking jacket and slippers
If I had such magazine attire.
And if it were chilly upon rising
I would magically manifest a fire.

Of course I don’t have a fireplace
To go right along with plain jammies
So instead of brocade robes and such
I very short of mystical whammies.
I can’t witch up this storybook stuff
Of class A, high-class pomposity.
But that doesn’t mean I wouldn’t wish
To have it all appear before me.

Does anybody know the time?
Thanks, but a.m. or p.m.?
We sent Romer out for beer
Has anybody here seen him?
He’s got our money and my car
Doesn’t it seem like a long time?
Or am I losing track of things here
And all my reason and rhyme?

Put another song on, guys
I am sick of the Grateful Dead.
I’m thinking it’s all the same song
Running right through my head.
Freakin’ Truckin’ making me crazy.
I like the song but jeez, guys
There must be another one
You can find one if you try.

Does anybody know the time?
Thanks, but a.m. or p.m.?
We sent Romer out for beer
Has anybody heard from him?
He’s got our money and my car
Doesn’t it seem like a long time?
Or am I losing track of things here
And all my reason and rhyme?

It seems like a few hours ago
Just hours of Hotel California;
The Eagles singing loud, us too.
Dancing, nearly getting a hernia.
And didn’t someone say something
About some tacos and some guac?
If I don’t get something to eat soon
I’m going to get up and try to walk.

Does anybody know the time?
Thanks, but a.m. or p.m.?
We sent Romer out for beer
Has anybody heard from him?
He’s got our money and my car
Doesn’t it seem like a long time?
Or am I losing track of things here
And all my reason and rhyme?

I gag when those who treat our flag
As nothing more than a rag and tag
Along with the Klanners waving banners
From the war against our country;
Their bad manners somehow a badge
They hold up as a symbolic gesture
As they put equality out to pasture
So they can separate, segregate,
Discriminate, and call for assassination
The leaders of our nation that disagree
Like you and me, if we dare object.

It is them I reject, deflect and yes, object
To in the loudest, most heated terms.
They are  germs that sicken us all
And drive us toward a fall, thinking
That they can rebuild the land
So they have the upper hand
And the rest of us can just whistle
If we think this will never come true.
It is so most dangerous for me and you
If they get their way so you can’t say
The slightest word against them.

This is the gem they want for their crown;
To put anyone down who says otherwise
And to freely point to the other guys
And order their destruction and deaths
With what they believe are sainted breaths
But are really exhalations and perorations
Of the devil on earth here to challenge your birth
If you don’t fit their template of acceptability
And deny their culpability in the holocaust
Their evil machinations will ultimately cost.

You can’t afford to worship here
Our Jesus is not your kind of god.
Don’t bother to kneel or get comfy.
You are not worthy. You’re just odd.

You offend good people to worship here.
We don’t allow your kind in our place.
We have rules about parishioners
Of ****** preference, politics and race.

There are many ways to live decently
But they just apply to a special few.
It doesn’t refer to Middle East bloodlines,
Like Muslims, Arabs and even Jews.

You are too dark for voting here.
Too many of you vote Democrat.
Republican supremacists and bigots
That’s where the real America is at.

After all, God has told us all
To treat each other as brothers.
It doesn’t say anything about
Being nice to those ******* mothers.

We don’t have to appreciate those
Who don’t follow the American way.
They commit a sin if they happen to be
Dark, Democrat, non-Christian or gay.

So, hold up your head Supremacists;
We are here and have your back.
Our new President agrees and understands,
And will take our Caucasian country back.

If I let you be as superstitious as you want
And raise your children with gods that haunt
Will you back the hell off my brothers and me
And content yourselves to just let us be?
You can dress yourself and your children
As two thousand year old men and women.

Happy celebration, to everyone here
To every person, all through the year.
Let’s tell each other all we are glad of,
And share with each other peace and love.

It would be a lovely thing for all people to do.
We could all have holidays, yes, Christmas too.
We could create traditions of good will in men.
Now, where did I hear that phrase again?
We could spread messages of tolerance and love
And you could blame it all on something above.

We could start collecting ornaments and things
Just a bit different than your angels with wings,
And we could light candles and sing some songs
And if you wanted to, you could sing along.
And chant obscure ditties and archaic poems
Just don’t expect us to, even if we know them.

Happy celebration, to everyone here
To every person, all through the year.
Let’s tell each other all we are glad of,
And share with each other peace and love.


Then nobody would scowl and wish you ill
Because we wouldn’t have anything like hell.
There would be no devil dude to make you sad
And plenty of words to say when you’re mad.
We’d just have a place where we could all live
And presents for each other if we wanted to give.

Happy celebration, to everyone here
To every person, all through the year.
Let’s tell each other all we are glad of,
And share with each other peace and love.

You’re a smack down
Kick-around, clueless clown
That tells unfunny jokes
And runs with the blokes
That put up with your antics
And your busted semantics
Because they think someday
Things might swing your way
And they can profit by association
With a human abomination
That enjoys investing atrocities
With scarifying velocity
On the halt and the lame;
Running opportunistic games
On those who cannot defend;
World without end, amen.

But heaven forfend
That you might have a friend
Who seems a holy prophet
But does not seek for profit
And acolytes to their cause;
A bogus Santa Claus
Who leeches from the people
In his church without a steeple,
Just microwave towers
Sprouting like ugly flowers
To spread out the message
So we can read every passage
That boil down to a sermon
To send money to this vermin
Your bund proclaims a messiah
When he is really a pariah
Nobody has yet recognized
He’s so well disguised.

But, be aware, polecat
Some know what your at
And what you are doing
I nothing more than accruing
That which you can bank.
You have nobody to thank
For the outcome you inherit
From the outcome you assume
When your calumnies bloom
Into the realities that appear
When the truth draws near
And tars and feathers you
And when your victims do
What they should have done along
Was reject your ways gone wrong
And found a rail lying around
To ride your **** out of town.

Oh, the joys of the life of a cowboy
Just a few men and horses.
No worry about traffic and crowds
No alimony, no divorces.
Looking around at those strong fellows
In their skin-tight denim pants.
Surely they might look around at them
And ask one of them to dance.

Cowboys seem to like to ride the range
I’d ride the ranger instead;
Show him just how much can be arranged
By two men in a bunk bed.
There’d be an especially nice reward
At the end of a long ride.
The is not a doubt in my mind at all
That he would be satisfied.

After a career of bouncing and bucking
Surely he can take a bit more.
I would do my absolute best to be sure
That he would not end up sore.
Well, at least not in the usual places;
The kind that bows his thighs.
And if he is not that good at it at first
I’ll gladly give him more tries.

Oh the joys of the life of a cowboy
Just a few men and horses.
No worry about traffic and crowds
No alimony, no divorces.
Looking around at those strong fellows
In their skin-tight denim pants.
Surely they might look around at them
And ask one of them to dance.

Those folks who think this is too offensive,
Guys think of cheerleaders instead.
Gals think of watching sport figures at play
And ***** things you do in your head.
There’s not really all that much difference;
It’s all a salacious fantasy.
I don’t begrudge you those hot steamy dreams
I won’t let you deny to of me.

Oh the joys of the life of a cowboy
Just a few men and horses.
No worry about traffic and crowds
No alimony, no divorces.
Looking around at those strong fellows
In their skin-tight denim pants.
Surely they might look around at them
And ask one of them to dance.

Twinkle, star, you are
So high, up in the sky.
And Little Muffett Miss
Has gotten so ******;
Very upset that from
Someone else’s thumb
That was stuck in a pie.
She didn’t know why.

So she cut off tails
Enjoying the wails
Of sightless mice
Though not nice
Not fooling around
She’d blow the house down
Then give a harsh drub
To three men in a tub.

She swiped all the ciggies
Of three little piggies
But she could not see
Why everything was threes.
Narcissistically proud
She was laughing out loud
Then she started to croon
About a cow on the moon.

She looked for a fiddle
She could hey ****** ******
But when she got there
The cupboard was bare
So, she left the dog home
And began to roam.

On the way past Saint Ives
A man beating his wives
Muffet did begin
Beating with rolling pin
And the guy ran away
Not seen since that day.
Miss Muffett turned old
Folk tales into gold.

They listen to the ruses
Use them as excuses
For staying home and getting fat
They ***** because they’re poor
And never open the door
More than to let in the cat.

It’s a quiet existence
If you offer no resistance
When they take your rights away.
The feds commit crimes
But you get to work on time
And limp along with half your pay.

It’s a scary kind of game.
You say you know who to blame
Because you choose to ignore the facts.
You continue half blind;
You have made up your mind
No matter how the one you chose acts.

Regardless how we shout
You vote the other guy out
And leave the crooks to do their worst.
If you actually research
And quit quoting your church
You can make the right choice first.

Instead you and I suffer
And freedom stutters
Because of those who know little.
Then those who study
Get ******* by somebody
Who punishes right left and middle.

Because we are no longer
The wise, the good, the stronger
But the biggest bullies on the block.
We had things headed right
Then, in the middle of the night
You lazies hit liberty in the head with a rock.

Come on Santa Claus,
You’re taking too long.
What’s the holdup?
Is there something wrong?
Is a reindeer sick?
Did the sleigh break down?
Is someone keeping you
In some other town?

This is hard enough,
This waiting all year,
But it’s worse the closer
That Christmas gets near.
We set the cookies out
And a cup of cocoa.
(Munching on it all
Is a definite no-no.)

We hung the stockings
And decorated the tree
So, Santa, what else
Do you want from me?
I’m in bed a bit early
But I can’t get to sleep.
It’s not working when
I try counting sheep.

I know you’re busy, sir,
But this waiting is torture.
I don’t recommend it.
Waiting has no future
As a way to spend time
Before an exciting day.
How is a kid supposed
To get to sleep this way?

I warn you ahead of time,
Mister Claus, dear man,
I’ve got high expectations
And some complicated plans
That involve some bragging
And some envious friends.
So, Santa please get here
And let this agony end!

Did you eve know
A teeny weeny meany;
Who alway carried a grudge?
He let his physique
Turn him away from fun
And so he refused to budge.
It’s like his body
Totally resided in just
That one small patch of his skin.
He sang that tune
To himself, in his own mind,
Words and music, again and again.

Don’t hang around with size queens!
They never have made much sense.
They don’t have your heart in mind.
Their minds need a really good rinse.
People should love you only because
For yourself in and out of bed.
If the important thing is **** size
There’s not much going on in their heads.

There really are people
Who don't care about feelings
Who will only go after one thing.
Flip them some coin
And say them when they mature
They should use the money give you a ring.
If they haven’t learned
To use their minUscule minds
That everybody has some worth.
Then they are the fools,
Probably won’t ever change,
And you are the salt of the earth.

Yankee Doodle used to speak
Of bravery and freedom
But now most of that is gone
And we are sure to miss them.
Once we stood for righteousness
And peace around the clock.
Now that door is all closed up
And no one dares to knock.

Yankee Doodle lost his mind
And took the country with him.
Now the hardest thing to find
Is any D.C. wisdom.

Yankee doodle we begin
To hide our heads in shame.
Certain politicians here
Have sullied our good name.
We’ve become a people who
Invade and conquer other lands,
Leave them dying in their streets
By our American hands.

Yankee Doodle used to speak
Of bravery and freedom
But now most of that is gone
And we are sure to miss them.

Yankee Doodle it takes years
And decades just to clear up
All the damage greed has done
And even more to cheer up.
Oust and jail these awful men,
Bad thoughts in their noodles.
Let them sit in prison cells
With years to yank their doodles.

I’ve run the gamut
From plus to minus
From nearly the worst
To among the finest.
But there was an actor
I’d love to date again.
The incredibly attractive
Richard Chamberlain.

Richard Chamberlain
You magnificent man
I blush to write a poem
But I will do what I can
To get the point across
That you’re one of a kind
To think otherwise one must
Be deaf, mute and blind.

I am just old enough to
Recall young Doctor Kildare.
I am sure with cable now
It always plays somewhere.
But, for a young gay kid
I immediately lost my heart.
I could not convince myself
You were just playing a part.

To me you were the doctor
That could heal where I ailed.
No matter that at this time
What I felt could get me jailed.
I just went on and pined for
This beautiful man on TV.
Every word he said seemed
To be music to young me.

So when I got the chance
To spend an evening with him
Dancing at a nice party
Thrown by a mutual friend
I jumped at the chance
And broke a cardinal rule
I told him of my crush on him
I am sure I looked the fool.

Thus, it really wasn’t a date
More of an amazing evening.
That kind of happy accident
I still have trouble believing.
But it counts as a date to me
When a delightful, classy man
Spends the evening chatting
With an obviously smitten fan.

I am not a number
I am not a cypher.
I am a real live person
Not a hypothetical one.
I am part of a portion
Of the total population
Not an ignorable thing
Only fit for eliminating
If it suits a demographic,
Budgeted body politic;
Something looked upon
As something better gone.
By some venal banker,
Number crunching ******.

I matter.
Please remember I’m real
And the turning of the wheel
Might make you a rich man
But your carefully worded plan
Might crush me underneath.
Is this what you bequeath
To the society that bore you?
Is it the proper thing to do?

I am not a figure, a jot.
A squiggle on a page, not
Some negotiable loss
Decided upon by a boss
Who wants a higher bonus
Jettisoning an onus
Foisted on him by liberals.
My problems are not literal,
They are real and due
To be looked through
For a way to be humane
In matters mundane,
And not as profitable.
Don’t be despicable.

I matter.
Please remember I’m real
And the turning of the wheel
Might make you a rich man
But your carefully worded plan
Might crush me underneath.
Is this what you bequeath
To the society that bore you?
Is it the proper thing to do?

Talk to your accountants
And see what the amount is
To do things for fiscal gain
Without causing people pain.
There has to be a way
We can all have our day;
Our place in the sun
Things good for one
That are also good for all
And don’t cause a fall
In the economy and health
For those without wealth.
If the rich lose big gains
They will still eat again,
But the poor just may not
With what little they’ve got.

I matter.
Please remember I’m real
And the turning of the wheel
Might make you a rich man
But your carefully worded plan
Might crush me underneath.
Is this what you bequeath
To the society that bore you?
Is it the proper thing to do?

Do you see that devil up there
With the carefully arranged hair?
Do you believe he cares about you?
Don’t. Not a word of it is true.
He is selfish and all he cares about
Is what he can get for himself
No matter what his followers shout.

Doesn’t the fact that he chooses
To berate, ridicule and scorn
Serve to set up a huge red flag?
Why doesn’t that  serve to warn
That you are in the presence of
An evil not seen for a lifetime?
Why aren’t you all looking around
For someone to throw you a lifeline?

I am sure Reagan taught you that
Movie stars can be President
And you have revered for years what
Turned out to be a sad precedent.
But now you have doubled your error,
And you have all fallen with certainty,
Under the bewitching spell of a
Creature with nothing but celebrity.

So, wake up children, if you all will
Because this time you go to far.
You have literally hitched your wagon
To what amounts to a falling star.
He lies, he cheats, he molests and swears
And worst of all, none of you cares.
You tells yourself you are a righteous soul
Then bow to the devil with the orange hair.

I wandered the lonely road
Like it was the only road.
I called out to nobody there.
I called out but nobody cared.

The echoes sometimes call
From no memory at all.
Nobody ever felt the pain
That caused this refrain;
A sound that startles me
Somehow it shames me.
Often it blames me.

I don’t understand the reason
There can be time without season,
Leaves fall without any tree.
Voices heard but only by me.
Is this only my imagination
Or some kind of hallucination?

I wandered the lonely road
Like it was the only road.
I called out to nobody there.
I called out but nobody cared.

Is this something the lonely do?
Is this what the solitary go through?
Do all loners dance to a ditty
Dictated and orchestrated by pity?
Is being single a kind of madness
Brought on by descent into sadness
Where one is never told
That they have lost their hold?

The is a kind of sad magic
That makes clowns of the tragic
And paints impressive hues
On the excuses I use
To try to mask the crippling pain;
Of swirling around the drain.
It’s not until the last bubble
That I know I am in trouble.

I wandered the lonely road
Like it was the only road.
I called out to nobody there.
I called out but nobody cared.

Addiction offers so many
Glamorous ways to die.
It’s total wonder to me
Why everyone doesn’t try.
You can get almost all of the
Diseases known to man.
No other kind of dissolution
Gives what addiction can.

There’s diabetes, and then gout
And pancreatitis too.
All these devastating kinds
Of hell are there for you.
You lose your toes and hands
And maybe you go blind
Or maybe your very guts
Begin to commit inner crimes.

You lose all morality
And rob those you love.
You hold the drug you take
About fifty miles above
Any care or real concern
For those you may destroy.
You become a liar and a thief
Just a typical growing boy.

Nobody trusts, they run away
And leave you to suffer alone.
Life then turns itself into
Your personal Twilight Zone.
Suddenly your companions are
Just as ******* as you.
You are the lowlife you ridiculed
Back a just year or two.

So go right on calling it
That drinking game you do;
Partying and social stuff
Until you know you are through.
That may not be until they throw
The dirt over your casket.
For now, have fun on your trip
To hell in a hand basket.

He was sitting on a fencepost
A mouth harp in his hand
He started making music
Like a ghostly rubber band.
He called me a stranger
And, I asked him how he knew.
He raised his head and stared
And seemed to look me through.
He said:
There is nothing down this highway
But heartbreak and a tale
Nobody will friend you here
There’s nothing good for sale
We are here with no way out
So move right on away
You only have your freedom
If you don’t let yourself stay.

Some people think it’s heaven
‘Cause they never had a chance
They never had a friend before
A storybook romance.
They made some stupid choices
Now there’s a piper to pay.
They’re deaf to rhyme or reason
No matter what you say.
Some believe they never had
The character to change,
That they were born without a dream
The hopeless and strange.

But we know lonely backroads
That never reach the bay.
We live in fogs of memory
Here in Futile Quay.
Where once we were children;
Now we never smile.
Our trip down this highway
Is a never-ending mile.
So go on back to comfort
To security and plans.
Stay too long in Futile Quay
You’re out of fortune’s hands.

Profligate pundits and
Philandering plutocrats
Promulgating pusillanimous
Pandering polecats
Put partially putrescent
Punks and pettifoggers
Past pitifully puny pollsters
Pushing the party politics
Of petrified pashas.

Disgusting demagogues
Dealing delayed death
Deeming democracy dying
Deny diplomacy daily
Deftly develop departments
Defending discrimination
Dividing deities from devils
Draining dedicated duties
With disgusting dictatorship.

Sorrowfully sublimated
Citizens of society slide
Swiftly and sequentially into
Sibilant session of silliness
In which similes scintillate
Signifying sensitivities
Of separate sensibilities
Subtly smiting the senseless.
Sauce for the stunningly stupid,
Champagne for the saboteurs.

Dead soldiers can’t march.
They can’t hear your lies.
They can’t hear their buddies
Or their agonizing cries.
The politicians lie so smoothly
Some dreams are so lifelike
And the lies are said so truthfully
That some life seems dreamlike.

Dead soldiers are not the ones,
The ones out looking for war.
They, above everyone else,
Know exactly what war is for.
Congress keep swords sharpened
Year after hypocritical year.
Don’t let it happen again
Don’t let it happen here.

Dead soldiers can’t hear you
When you pray to the crowd.
They can’t hear the platitudes
No matter how florid and loud.
They are beyond your excuses
And they never really mattered.
People in power are safe far away
From where all the blood is splattered.

Dead soldiers can’t hug their kids
Or kiss their wives in the morning.
No more time exists for them
It ended with little warning.
They did what they were told to do
With no mutinous thought in their head.
They were obedient and loyal
And now they are quietly dead.

Congress keep swords sharpened
Year after hypocritical year.
Don’t let it happen again
Don’t let it happen here.

I’d sing to you soft songs
If you walked along with me
By the sea, harmonizing;
Eulogizing each wave before
Ignoring the temptation
For libations and viands.
The sands would demand
Hand and hand we stroll
And roll with the moment,
The foment feet way
At the end of this day.

I’d revel in this with you
New waves making lights
That night tries to hide
While inside we create
The greatest love and joys
Toys for the fates, caress
And dress us as royalty.
Loyalty and gratitude transform
As we form into a pair.
The wind ruffles our hair.

I’d breathe in the sea air
Sharing the breezes with you
Doing nothing but strolling
Unrolling a memory for two
Who both understand this
Is what it is; a beginning
Winning a celestial prize
For eyes that celebrate
This date as only ours;
These hours our dedication,
A presentation to us both
And loth to walk away
We so want to stay.

Jingle Hell, jingle Hell
What we have today
Is country few cam smile;
Goodwill has gone away.

The jingle comes from coins
Taken from the poor
Then to the coffers of the rich
Just like they did before

Education  isn't cool.
Being wise is not allowed.
Be smart today means you're a fool.
Never buck the crowd.

Jingle Hell, an ugly spell
As if we are bewitched
Rich men win, poor men lose
Our places never switch.

So few can celebrate
When Christmas time is here
Prices raised so very high
Than ever were last year.

But nobody that was rich
Will suffer much these days.
Don’t ask them how it’s done.
The rich folks have their ways.

Jingle Hell, Jingle Hell
What we have today
Is country few can smile;
Goodwill has gone away.

There is no home in my home town.
I try not to let it get me down.
There is no train on a homeward track.
There’s nothing there to call me back.
No love ever bid me stay in town.
No block back there is hallowed ground.
Nobody really asked me to go away
But nobody has missed since that day.

Home was just an address
And not something in my heart.
Not something I longed for
When we were many miles apart.

There are few good memories or ghosts
Just a long history of mysteries at most.
It wasn’t that people threw rocks at me
But there were no going away parties.
It was more like, “You’re leaving? Goodbye.”
A zip code full of staunchly dry eyes.
I don’t know what I expected it to be
But, that was not my choice for reality.

Home was never a place
I rushed back to at night
And even as a young kid
I was sure that wasn’t right.

I run through an inventory of events
And I did not betray any friends.
I didn’t steal or tell big lies
But didn't collect pals after may tries.
Something must have happened to me
That made me standoffish naturally
For people to not recall I was there.
So I left and then nobody much cared.

Home was just an address
And not something in my heart.
Not something I longed for
When we were many miles apart.

They had it upside down
The called the sky the ground
And tried to make me believe it.
There was nothing to relieve it.
It was unremitting delusion
And they called it illusion
When as hard as I would try
To agree, it was still a lie
And living a lie can ****
As it too often will.

To whom do you turn to trust
When something inside you is busted,
Something that makes you tick
Keeps you from getting sick
And works better than dope
To help you feel hope
Instead of bleak view
That ends with destruction
Of you.

Sweltering and suffocating
Feeling like I’m smothering
Something is deadly wrong
With this kind of mothering,
Fathering, something awry.
Something that should not be
Turning into something else;
Something that is fatal to me

What do you do when they say
What is wrong is right, up is down,
And nothing is funny, so nobody
Is just kind of joking around.
Instead they are serious
And life is mysterious
But not in a good way;
What can you say?

Fame is a kind of addiction.
It can be a lethal condition
If taken with no restriction
Real life succumbs to fiction.

Elvis took too much stuff.
Janis fell for too much guff.
Jimi didn’t quit soon enough.
Morrison had to act tough.

It was all about being a star
Instead of being what you are.
Life is not a big expensive car
It’s what you have done so far.

Becoming a famous insufferable,
And ordinarily unapproachable,
Can make behavior intolerable
Rendering you reprehensible.

They turned away with a shrug
Went back to a favorite drug
Left a dead body for others to lug;
Their fame swept under a rug.

The pretty face won’t protect you
No matter how often they inject you.
In time your fans will neglect you
But the coroner won’t reject you.

The star insures that his crew,
Let him do what he wants to do.
Refuse him and you’re through
The star has no use for what’s true.

Some of us are older
And we remember a time
When being less than rich
Was not considered a crime
And dealt with Congressionally
By huge measures of stealth
Designed to take away rights
And relieve us of any wealth.

Some of us are older
And owning a home was not
Just a memory, and also
Was not just an empty lot
Where a house once stood
Before the owner got behind
And the bank ignored their pleas
As if they were all blind.

Some of us are older
And remember banks as friends
Who helped us with loans
Where good credit could begin.
We recall the days we could
Send our kids to university
And not saddle them with debt
That condemned them to poverty.

Some of us are older
And we remember the beat cop
Did more toward protection than
Murdering people at traffic stops.
We remember being told as kids
If you are in trouble find a cop
And old enough to have seen
The time that all began to stop.

Some of us are older
And we don’t recall seniors freezing,
Eating dog food alone in flats
And sitting in emergency rooms, wheezing
Because they can’t afford insurance
Because premiums were so high
And the insurance companies
Preferred that they just die.

Some of us are older
And we remember a country here
Where Christianity did not mean
Anti-black, anti-poor and anti-queer.
We remember you had to go
Down south to find hateful Christians
And it living life with dignity
Was not out of the question.

The hippie days were rather hard
For a young guy just starting out.
Off- brand jeans and crew-cut hair
Didn’t carry all that much clout.
I was into show tunes and Elvis,
The Beatles were great and new.
I lucked right into the Troubadour
And fell in love with Elton too.

One of my ladies loved Airplane
The other loved the Monkees
The problem was that only one
Was ever approved by junkies.
But I was so squeaky clean
That I was only into cheap coffee.
I swear I could get high as a kite
On Russel Stover’s fine toffee.

But something changed for me
The day I first heard David Bowie.
It sounds kind of childish now
But he was special and so glowy.
He pointed out some dichotomies
Between what was said and done.
At that time we needed something
And Bowie was obviously the one.

I didn’t stick there with his genie
But his genius opened some doors
And affected my art and my poetry
Way back then and forever more.
So then it was Prince, The Doobies,
Aretha Franklin and Annie DiFranco.
And, of course, the one-hit wonders
About eighteen hundred or so.

It wasn’t always about music
This social code of mine.
But music underscored it all
Made even politics toe the line.
We made changes in civil rights
And even affected an evil war.
There is no reason to doubt it.
Music will continue to change more.

I hope you understand
Why I do not believe in you.
From the evidence at hand;
The many things you choose not to do.
I’d vilify a human friend
Who told me like you did
Of how you were watching
Then ran away and hid.

Children keep dying
The poor and the weak too
And you still seem to find
No cause to see them through;
To put clothes on the backs
Of those who are in need.
Nor do you strike down
Those who worship greed.

Your followers tell lies
And expect us to believe
And demand we ignore
Those who suffer and grieve
If they are different
From those in power.
Their speeches all the same
It’s never our hour.

It’s always time for tithes
The bribes they demand
But paying back so seldom
Is ever quite at hand.
It’s always time for us to
Have sympathy and charity
But not for the rich and strong.
Where is the parity?

So, if you create everything
And see the falling sparrow
Why are you deaf so often
Your vision so **** narrow?
It’s been thousands of years
Since your supposed first night.
When will you fix things
And set your world aright?

Could it be, as I always say
That you really don’t exist?
I see no reason to believe,
Thus I must insist;
There cannot be a loving god
Unless he is one of many.
Either way, I fail to see
The proof that we have any.

To be fair, this superstitious stuff
Goes a helluva long way back.
It was around the time of Babel
That the Israelites lost all track
Of logic and reason in the books
They were peddling as God’s word.
Oh, okay, they were just passing on
Mesopotamian stories they heard
But then to start calling it all
The voice of the spiritual over-mind
Means we are expected to be
Sort of intellectually deaf and blind.
Even if one can accept things like
A snake that talks and wheedles
I think accepting talking bushes
Requires stuff in hypodermic needles.

I think you have confused
Your Jehovah with Santa.
They are not the same thing.
Let me hear you say hallelujah!
Some of your traditions are
Verging on the weird and funny
When you peddle stories
About an egg-laying bunny.
And that basket of fishes
To feed a thousand was dumb.
In prehistoric Israel, just where
Did those freeloaders come from?
That strange ‘water into wine’ thing
Would be banned by law today.
Jesus, as evangelical moonshiner?
The authorities would put him away.

But that’s all fine and good if
One personally deems it to be so,
This claiming to run daily life
By words memorized long ago.
Since some of it makes sense
It may be easier to just ignore
Things like wizards and magic
As something from long before.
Evidence today says nobody lived
For eight hundred years and such.
But things like facts don’t seem
To bother religious people that much.
So, have at it, you spooky folks
With your symbols and mystery
Just save your breath if you think
You’ll get acceptance from me.

He wants to run down hills
But his legs won’t cooperate.
He wants to go all night dancing
But 10p.m. is way too late.
He wants to go to Bar-B-Q parties
And eat until he wants to pop
But after a plate of that food
He know he had better stop.

He wants to read a book a day
By a great American author
But he knows after an hour
He’ll be asleep, so why bother?
He wants to go out drinking beer
On Saturday with his buddies
But that was way back before
He turned into a fuddy-duddy.

He used to be able to tell jokes
And leave the guys in stitches.
Now the only stitches he deals with
Are those letting out house britches.
He used to comb his thick burly hair
Into some becoming hairstyles
And now to beat it into some shape
Always takes quite a little while.

He remembers being able to sleep
All the entire night through.
Now, that is simply not what
His old body is going to do.
He’s going to get up at least twice
If he have a drink after three p.m.
Otherwise, it’s off to the john.
He accept this, says, “It’s who I am.”

He has to remind himself a lot
That he’s been around a while
And should be greatly thankful
That he can be this old and smile.
So he doesn’t ***** all that much
That he is no longer all that hot.
He doesn’t count what he no longer has
He celebrates what he’s still got.

I usually accept things
The way that I find them.
I get some bad hands
But I really don’t mind them.
You loved me yesterday
Bored with me today.
Sometimes I wish we could
Do this affair another way.

Up and down, then in and out;
That’s what you and I are all about.
Here today, gone this afternoon;
That’s the name of your crazy tune.

Love me or hate me
Choose what you want.
This flippy-flooppy love
Is just a wasteful taunt.
I think I must be using
The incorrect terminology.
Love doesn’t fit with
Your current methodology.

Up and down, then in and out;
That’s what you and I are all about.
Here today, gone this afternoon;
That’s the name of your crazy tune.

I think it is me who has
Mistaken lust for affection.
It might be time for me
To go another direction.
I will miss some of your
Intimate bedroom frolic,
But this kind of relationship
Seems very much alcoholic.

Up and down, then in and out;
That’s what you and I are all about.
Here today, gone this afternoon;
That’s the name of your crazy tune.

Where I came from
It was that time in history
White people who loved
Black guys faced misery.
There was a huge batch
Of ugly names we earned.
And sometime more than
Just crosses were burned.

Where I came from
The Bible was used to beat
To abjure and vilify us
And toss us into the street.
We were demonized for
Bedding animals they said.
I just couldn’t stand that
Kind of hatred in my head.

Where I came from
Hypocrisy and bigotry rule.
They go to church Sundays
And the rest of the time
They act the total fool.
They demand the right
To tell me who to choose.
Demand the same of them
And brother, you lose.

Where I came from
They throw around the words
Of someone called Jesus
As if they had really heard.
But talk to them of the book
They claim is the word of god
And they come up with answers
That can only be called odd.

Where I came from
There are beggars on the street
And children without food
Or shoes on their tiny feet.
And yet they sing songs
Of good will to all men.
But they really don’t mean it
And prove it again and again.

Where I came from
Much is called restricted.
The Golden Rule and peace
Are so totally conflicted.
I grew up seeing goodness
Reinterpreted by the white
That practiced prejudice
And hate and called it right.

Christ, religious people are boring,
Just like the nutsos in the street.
Half the time they start me snoring
So I run away in abject defeat,
Because reason can’t get through
A wall of defensive superstition
Which gives us back nothing but
Mumbo jumbo to every question.

If the neighborhood catches fire
It is only but a holy God’s will.
(It would be great we victims had
A place we could send God the bill.)
When innocent children die off
Is that what a loving God wanted?
That "God sees the sparrow" stuff
Gets rather quickly blunted.

What kind of wrathful *******
Lets genocide have a field day
And doesn’t make widespread disasters
Permanently dry up and go away?
If God created all of us people
In his own best saintly image,
He sure must be an ugly sod who
Needs to go back to scrimmage.

If a country had a dictator
As capriciously vicious as him
It would surely trigger worldwide
A call for a God with better whims.
For thousands of years now, it seems
People have been issuing prayers
To some kind of entity at large
That is constantly taking us nowhere.

Maybe it is exactly as possible
That this whole show is erroneous
And the big guy on a cloud is fiction
Made up out of fear and just bogus?
Isn’t this just some cave-dweller dream
To explain what folks found frightening?
Should we be running our world today
By ideas of folks afraid of lightning?

I want to sit and eat ice cream
Until I can’t eat any more.
I want wake up late each day
Until I can’t sleep any more.
I want to take people out to eat
At the most expensive places
And watch the joy spread out
All over each of their faces.

I don’t want to seem greedy
So don’t go off in a huff.
I don’t want an excess of things.
Really, I want just enough.
Just enough to buy presents
For the people I really like.
The rest of the salesmen
Can take a royal hike.

I want to go swimming in
A peaceful hidden lake.
I want to ride the bumper cars
And never hit the brake.
I’ll gladly clean up backstage
At a hit Broadway show.
I want to drive a fast car
As quickly as it will go.

I want to be in a big movie;
Have some speaking lines.
Be invited to the Academy awards;
The name on the card mine.
I want to perform at Carnegie Hall
So they hear me in the back row,
When I sing songs that I wrote
And receive a standing ‘O’.

I want some of my own poetry
To be printed in the NY Times
With plaudits and huzzahs
And a 12 point printed byline.
I want to have to sign autographs
When I got out to eat somewhere.
And, have lots of money in the bank.
And still have plenty to share.

As long as I am wishing here
I may as well tell the truth.
After all it would do no good
To wish for good looks and youth.
It’s not all that much different than
Making a list for Santa Claus.
So saying exactly what I want
Won’t give me a moment’s pause.

But if I get my fondest wishes
Everything I’d like the most
I want something huge and fun
And I am not trying to boast.
I wish everybody could get
At least a few of their list.
So, write your own list out today
And make sure nothing is missed.

In the dark of night
I have seen a wild sight
That made some say
“That’s not really right!”
When visitors go walking
Through walls an such
Reality is far out of touch,
And good common sense
No longer means that much.

A logical person, that is me,
With no love for surreality,
Instead an intense inner drive
For a world of abject sanity.
Until, to my upset and surprise,
A kind of person, before my eyes
Appeared to spiritually enchant me.
Surely a ghost and not a disguise.

On a pleasing evening walk
I spent a while in chatty talk.
The fellow so handsome
I could find no way to balk.
He told me an interesting tale;
A wandering life of freedom and jail
And meeting other vagabonds
Riches and fame both no avail.

We shared about the weather
We talked for hours together
I noticed his suit was three pieces
Wool plaid instead of leather.
I am sure I was quite obvious,
He couldn’t have stayed oblivious
Of the way I was wanting him
My face gave away my wishes.

He said he had to go quite soon
And my heart, a burst balloon
Also showed on my sad face.
Smiling, he pointed to the moon.
From his lapel he took a shiny pin
And fixed to to my collar and then
Smiling, he kissed me warmly
Which set my head into a spin.

Then, his colors began to glimmer,
The ancient clothing started to shimmer
And my lovely suitor began to fade.
My passion for him soon left to simmer.
Because like a camera trick he was gone
And I was left on my own to move on
And face the facts that I was looking at air,
Just me and a memory on the city lawn.

I questioned myself and my sanity too.
What else could any sane person do
When faced with such a visible mystery?
How could any of this have been true?
I looked down to my collar and there
Was that pin this ghost had pinned where
I could not deny his existence was real.
So, perhaps you see why I had to share.

Brent Kincaid
5/16/2019