With water, malt, and yeast, and hops I dare
to craft an odd new ale with full due care
I've aged in hickory and old oak jugs,
and serve a round in handcraft German mugs,
to all the patrons drinking at this pub,
yet most just sniff and snortle up a snub.
Instead they order shots of foam-frothed ****,
imbibe and guzzle to their drunken bliss,
then slur a slew of sloshed-up limericks.
And to my ale they kick against the ******.

I hold myself
in contempt,
or I don't.
Either way
my day is spent
doing what I want,
wanting what I do.

I woke up under a bridge
alone
it's dark under here
my eyes still haven't adjusted
I think I have bed bugs
at least I am dry, well sort of
recalling yesterday
my morning spent packing
rain is clearly taking my home
I feel it in my bones
hurry
no one is going to help
where did all this stuff come from?
I really don't need this or this or this or this
what a day that was
today will be worse
the ground is wet and mud is abound
stinky already, just wait till it settles
homeless has a smell
rain is not my friend
surely it is not the same as before
when the sky was not my ceiling

Becky Jo  Gibson

This man is
Not going to be
A smudge in life
He's out to leave his mark

They poke at him
Trying to get some dirt
But he's a private person
He has private parts

The time is right
The need feels great
He is gnashing at the bit
On the way to fill his plate

He wants some  
Fun and some
Loving company
So don't give him
The once over
With your third degree

You pretend to be this
And pretend to be that
If he doesn't measure up
You're going to leave him flat

I can feel your eyes on him
Like a bright searchlight
You think he will be going down
But you know it won't be with out a fight

Some things they come pretty easy  
Other things they seem so hard
Some times you find your treasure  
Buried in your own back yard

He is no longer walking
With his head in the stars
His feet are on the ground  
Putting an ear to the track
To hear that heavy chunk of metal
with its mournful sound

The book he carries talks of
A great war of the Spirit
Its stress is that it is no game
No politics physical or not can steer it

Then a breeze broke the solid heat
And quelled the sweat and quenched the thirst
You can toast the twisted souls
Or you can have them cursed

You boarded that train
Bound for nowhere
That day at the station
You were looking kind of frail
I warned you that this would happen
When you burned all your bridges
Now you hang your head with shame
The price of the ticket was all you had
Your duffel bag full of canned goods
And a jar of peanut butter
It's hard to call your life a journey
When it feels like you've hit a dead end

This house
Over 100 years old

One and a half stories
On the corner it stands bold

The wind blows the trees
The whole place  creaks

People were born here
Others had died

With in the walls
No secrets to hide

Like the sour
taste in your mouth,
or the canker sore
on the tip of your tongue.

The sweet taste
of mother's milk
stopped up
for formula.

Poor child,
a curse that
leaves him
clutching
for a latex ******.

I bent
and broke
the rules
allowing
my siblings to
get away with
******.

A
good
laugh
can make
all the difference
in the world

a joke is
a joke is
a joke

I can't
take myself
too seriously

laughing
at myself
is good medicine

How many more ******* matches
    'til drowning in waste matter

I stole
the idea

I must confess

I plucked it
from the station

I have
no regrets

It was mine
for the taking

all mine
all mine

if anyone
says it's not

I'll say
they are lying

they're lying