If, whenever out, maybe driving about,
On encountering road-rage, never worry,
Claim that you are, Ronnie Pickering,
They should drive off, as if in a hurry.

Although, if they ask, Ronnie Pickering?
Looking bewildered, unsure who you are,
Do a convincing, Pickering impression,
An apoplectic beetroot escaping its jar.

Start ranting and raving, making threats,
No need to reveal, considered, justification,
Rage like a gargantuan, ignorant, imbecile,
Before storming off, in bitter frustration.

Remember, while out, always take care,
If encountering, squabbling or bickering,
If the people resemble blustering bullies,
One, could possibly be, Ronnie Pickering.

intolerant at--
at words that don't work
and hating these

that cover just enough--
words revealed as shade

I'm coming from afar
I tell the woman
the last time I came
I could walk straight to the river
now monsoon mud has made a mess
can only glimpse the river's face
is there still a way on dry feet?

She raises her eyes
no way she says
it's all shrub and slush
but you can have a look at my garden
pomelo and papaya,
gourd and green banana,

I haggle over price
wouldn't settle for less than a bargain

she smiles all the way
succumbs with ease
for the take a bag too she gives.

As I leave her on the falling day
I feel no loss
not finding the river's way.

To live is to die everyday,
I am in a fight against myself,
To win is to lose everything,
Turn around to not breathe the air I breathe
Take a look into my eyes
And look through
Camouflage in the lies,
And never come true,
My ship crashed into an iceberg when I was at my best
Buried in the shallowest of the ocean- a perfect beginning laid to rest

See the sunken face of nature,
Hear her shrieking, fraught with woe,
At the city's neon hubris,
Giving off its chilling glow.

See the formless mass of people,
Hear the spinning potter's wheel,
Watch the shape of people changing,
As ideas become real.

See them dancing a quick tango,
Hear them whispering sweet lies,
Wearing masks upon their faces,
Wearing mirrors in their eyes

Living life just for survival, and
Pursuit of mindless pleasure,
While amassing status symbols,
Has become the one true measure, of

A culture whose existence,
Works toward its own demise,
Climbing down a burning ladder,
Numb to touch, and deaf to cries.

Irish Immigrants found
when they stepped
Onto the Ground,
Their Pockets full of
Donnegal Potatoes.
The Dirt beneath their Nails
Was a Mark of how they'd Failed
Famine and Starving brought them
But the Slurs of the Dublin Micks
From those who Looked Down on them
Determined them to Show off their Pride
Some, teamsters worked horses and Frieght
Some nimble fingers Stitched Linen and Lace
Some Irish tenors the Rage of the Stage
Some with a Swing were the Sting of the Ring
Bringing down Boxers Seasoned Sparring
Fiddlers fiddled and coleens were maids
And through it all Heads held High
Shined the Gleem of Irish Pride

♠ ♠ ♠

Pseudo-Oriental visions
Haiku, Tanka, exotic terms
Vapid New Age vibe-transmissions
proliferating eastern germs…

Anarchistic thought collages
Existential lacerations
Nihilistic heart-massages
Incoherent lamentations,

Communism on a mission,
grievance-mongering, stewed in hate;
pounding Fascist fusion/fission
chanting harshly “ours the state”,

Hymns to Gods who choked on *****
undertaken in overdose;
rocks that never rose to comet
rolling – but ending comatose,

Hipster ironies, tongue in chic
Metro-wimps who feign the normal,
Redneck rantings up the creek
semaphoric,  semi-formal,

matron’s maudlin observations,
motivational hypnosis,
(sentimental medications
offered prior to diagnosis),

coldly abstract neo-nonsense
read (by dullards) as cutting edge,
letters void of correspondence;
well-trimmed words’ linguistic hedge.

Climate whining (tried untrue)
with eco-prophecies warning doom,
Wiccans and tree-sprites trying to
undo the curse and lift the gloom,

Feministic tribal ranting,
Race-complaining, agitation,
GLBT gallivanting –
all are blights upon our nation.

Boring modernist excess,
(no longer daring  –  formulaic)
confounds –  yet never can address
what’s wrong, and so becomes prosaic.

Lists like this are perhaps  the worst;
another symptom of our times:
we who are woefully unversed
in rhythmic complaining that rhymes.

There once was a poet quite noted
Who's adam's apple was Amply Throated
I'd make a guess, plums hung in that dress
And more then her legs did get shaved

Please feel Free to Rut among my Poetry
Snouts to the Job Curled tail Swings free
Your Ire Plops in small hard Turds
All because you Hate my words.....
When views of life escape your own
Its almost like your Bacon on the Bone
It seems your views Land in your Sty
But all pigs need a Place to lie.....