By this logic,
**** is also beautiful.
A stunning mixture,
Of every color that entered your mouth
Of every food you eventually let out.

But more seriously,

Maybe they thought their eyes were plain,
Because they’re a realist?
Brown eyes are the most common eye color on Earth.
Clocking in at 55%.

“But let’s compare their aesthetic traits,
To something more unique,
In order to give the impression,
That we are deep!”

“Oh!
I know!
Mahogany!
Because wood is brown!”

Uhg.

I get it’s about perspective.
You want to appear to see something in them
That they don’t see in themselves.
To make them feel special.
And I’m sure they’ll like the poem.
And I’m sure other people will too.
And no one will think twice, or criticize you.

But your poem is boring.
And average at best.
Just like this rhyming scheme,
I use for the rest,

of my poem.

But that’s okay.
Practice’ll make perfect.
Maybe next time, write about the person?
And not just their eyes.
The relationship you want to express, is why their eyes are special.
Emphasis on “their.”
And why they make them special.
Emphasis on “they.”
Stop writing generic poems that fit everyone.
Write for the person whose eyes you lose yourself in.

I met a girl in high school.
She had brown eyes, with little specks.
As if genetics graced her with an aesthetic, that befit her the best.
She sailed from topic to topic,
Gracefully.
While I was lost in the islands in her eyes,
that cartographed the geography my mind began to see.

I’m glad her eyes did her justice,
Because her name didn’t.
Two syllables,
the latter a misspelling of coal:
Hands black after holding,
Soot filled lungs after smelling,
Bad kids’ reward for insolence.
She’s nothing close to that since,
She’s herself;
A country woman from a little town no one talks about.

We’d talk for hours.
We always could.
Until that bell rang,
And she stood,
up to leave.

"Is there anyone for stuffing?
Well done George, send us down your plate,
Auntie, if you've finished with the cranberry sauce
Could you please pass it across to Kate?"

"Brian can I interest you in my brussels?
There's nothing quite like a good sprout,
If anyone wants anything passed,
Don’t wait to be asked, just shout."

"Richard, will you please sit and eat,
And just stop irritating Claire,
No, you better wash your hands first,
You're getting gravy in her hair."

"Ted, you wanted more potatoes,
What, you only want one or two?
But the ones left really aren’t that big,
I'd better pile on a few."

"Sarah, you're not looking after your young man,
The poor boy's been left to starve,
Go and get him some more turkey dear,
Your Father will help you to carve."

“Malcolm, not too much in Grandma’s glass,
You know what she gets like,
Open another red for Father,
I’ll stick to the bubbly-white.”

"Well if everybody's had enough,
I think I'd better finish the peas,
Richard, don't cough over the table,
Remember your manners, please."

"Ah, make way for Father and the Christmas pud,
I hope he hasn't overdone the brandy,
Saints preserve us . . . Father’s on fire. . !!
Oh, well smothered dear, three cheers for Mandy,
Hip, hip, hooray,
Hip, hip, hooray,
Hip, hip, hooray."

"No, Louise, you can't pull the crackers yet,
We're saving those for tea,
Richard, take that stupid tinsel off your head,
And put it back on the tree.”

“Everyone go in the other room and play games,
Just leave all the dishes to me,
I’ll do the washing and drying up,
While I’m sorting out something for tea.”

“Richard please don’t tease the dog,
Claire don’t pin that tail on the cats,
Lloyd, play nicely, stop fighting with Louise,
You’re ruckling up all of the mats.”

“Hmmmnn … not quite enough sherry in this trifle,
Hick … I think there’s probably more in me,
I’m sure I’ve been working far too hard,
Hick … I’m feeling quite dizzy.”

“They say that Christmas comes but once a year
And aren’t I just glad that’s so,
It’s nice to see all of them for a while,
But it’s even better to see them go …”

The road led down to the edge of a bay,
with waters of blue, on the other side of which lay
what seemed to be a camp with buildings long and low,
and surrounded by fences over which no man could go,
and figures in orange exercising in the yard,
and other figures in khaki who were probably their guards.
“There must be an entrance to this camp of theirs,”
said George to his team with a serious air,
“Let’s drive on up to the top of the bay,
and to the camp’s entrance find out the way,
that we may know just who these people are
and why they have all been put behind bars.”
Eventually they came to a barrier of steel,
intended to stop any entry and to seal
the camp off from the rest of the land,
and patrolled by soldiers with rifles in hand.
George asked them who the prisoners were,
and the soldiers replied “They are terrorists, sir.
captured by our army in Afghanistan,
and our job is to guard them the best way we can.”

from The Adventures of George
©Blair Gowrie (Roderick Macdonald)

Suddenly the eastern cook grew quite excited,
he had spotted a shop with Chinese characters,
and chickens and ducks hanging behind a glass
to stimulate the hunger of those who might pass,
and a red and gold signboard with letters that said,
“Welcome -  enter this place and be fed”.
The eastern cook cried, “Why not go in,
it’s time for lunch, let’s eat something.”
“Yes,” said George, “it’s a good idea,
and safe - they don't make hamburgers here!”
This restaurant was a noisy place,
with tables crowded and not much space
for waiters to carry their trays well laden
with assorted dim-sums and bowls of ramen,
and the clatter of people busily eating
with friends with whom they had a meeting
and chopsticks clicking and glasses clinking,
and background music and singers singing.
They all sat down at a table for ten,
and ordered lunch for their party of men,
and just one woman who said that she
didn’t eat much but that she would be
happy to try any stir-fried dish
as she was partial to greens and to fish.

from The Adventures of George
©Blair Gowrie (Roderick Macdonald)

Today I eschew all matters political
and examine a subject I consider quite critical.
The greatest invention in man’s history
is, IMHO, the apostrophe.
You must admit it’s quite impressive
even if sometimes it’s a tad possessive.
Suppose, if you will, you need to drop one small letter
(because somehow shorter is always better)
’tis the thing that shows any gal or feller
That you’re not just a miserable, terrible speller.
So go on, drop your letters with wild abandon
and know the apostrophe will be there to stand in.

Just one other thing before I call it quits–
concerning the fuss about its and it’s.
It’s an issue for some that is really quite raw
Because they think that possession’s nine tenths of the law.
But I tell you now without any deceptions
In life there will always be some small exceptions.
“It” owns an apostrophe, I hear some of you cry,
But its apostrophe’s useless unless it loses an I.

Tomorrow should be getting closer.
But is it? I must answer no, sir.
Whatever speed we walk or run
We’re no closer than when we’d first begun.
Like the carrot dangled in front of the ***
(I apologize if this sounds crass -
I refer to the animal here of course
A second cousin to the horse)
We chase the carrot till our days are through,
And then we die. I am afraid it’s true -
Without getting the carrot, ain’t that a *****?
We might die poor or we might die rich,
But our tomorrow’s the same no matter what we do,
So I offer up this thought to you–
Let’s stop and share glass of Claret
And let other ***** chase the carrot.

Many a human being is smitten
When they come face to face with small furry kitten.
And theys hardly need much -
Just some cat food and such.
Oh yes, don't forget a small box they can **** in.

People call me ugly,
And other hurtful names,
I'm often ostri-sized,
My feathers used for games.

They say the Ugly-Duckling
Grew up to be a swan,
And though I'm still but very young,
They ask me What went wrong?
I'm left here on my own-some;
And feel so sad and blue,
Well, you would feel the same
If you were an ... emu.