"hospitable" poems
Manila,
Manila,
Your bustling streets vibrate with the rumbling of the jeepneys
and the hollers of the drivers as they say,
“Pasahero diyan, kasya pa, kasya pa!”; (Any passenger there, some seats are still free!)
Your nights twinkle with the Christmas lights
that surround every tree around the Meralco building
when September begins;
Your endless traffic jams keep McDonald’s and KFC alive
twenty-four by seven
where traffic enforcers dodge cars
and vans
trucks and tricycles
and jeepneys and bicycles
while dancing to the rhythm beating in their own ears
with a smile and a salute to all the drivers
from dawn to dusk;
The noise awakens the outskirts of your city
filled with people who never fails to smile
even when the storm pirouettes like a tempestuous ballerina,
where children watch the roads
transform into this ocean of black water
and small wooden boats become the means of transportation;
paddling in between houses
as the adults try to go to work;
where chickens waddling upon roofs
and cats chasing rats
become the best forms of entertainment
but Manila,
your lingering smell of cancer
comes with the dark blue starless sky
telling people to grip their bags until it merges with their bodies.
Manila, say good night
while they hold it tight
protecting it from the dark humid air
where thieves come out to
thumb down unscrutinised objects
from shallow pockets
by the flickering lamps
across the blazing red and emerald green lights
you see less
and less
and less
faces
as the Sun sinks and says good bye.
Stop
and try to tranquilise yourself.
Your city is now lead
by a blood-thirsty leader.
Apologies from gunshots overpower the cries of help from your people.
Manila,
ignore them
and sleep well.
Let the truth decay
while lives burn and vanish.
Prayers cannot save your mutinous ignominy.
Halcyon days are over
but
Manila,
you are still a beautiful city.
Your resilient people
overflows with hospitable hearts.
Their faces plastered with big smiles
as they welcome us for you
and say, “Mabuhay!” (Long live!)
proud and mighty.
Offering their minds on banana leaf plates to everyone who visits,
Giving away their hearts in small loot bags to everyone who leaves,
The Pearl of the Orient Seas
was my hood.
Manila,
despite your lack of snow
and intense weather swings,
You are
and will always be
my home.
Apr 7, 2017
Apr 7, 2017 at 4:54 PM UTC
Sundays, too, she got up early and let her feet lead her through the dusty alleys of that small town
It was a luxury to have this kind of time alone, silence was vital food for her soul
Enduring the weekday demands to relish a few hours of nothingness, rare meditation,
An escape from a world of momentary necessity
The sweet morning air that kissed one’s skin now turned heavy and stagnant
Back down again through the same storied streets that,
Had become unbearably hot by the noon-day sun, the pace of life slowed accordingly
A weight came over her, the sort of fatigue where every exhaustible cell in your body yearns for rest
She would wander all day if she could, meandering over ground hallowed by history
By now the shadows of the afternoon had casted their long, lanky bodies behind the old chalk buildings
The pulse of life reached a complete pause, as if away on vacation in a more hospitable place
Everything bent, decaying, surrendering to the heat, and everything marked in contrast by the sun’s glare
Here, she stands straight and strong, gazing into the burning face of the oppressor and giver of life
And deny it the desire to win this vague war of attrition
When rung out on the floor she’d smell of autumn and satisfaction
Speaking to me she’ll tell of the faith in self, strength in solitude, and love of something greater than we dare to know.
May 10, 2014
May 10, 2014 at 11:59 AM UTC
What is here so fine!
What does Nigeria define?
True democracy?
Mere literacy?
Good old days we praise
Today's faith we raise
Happiest beings on earth
Survivors, yes from birth
The world's awaited invention
Four Hundred and Nineteen(419) injections
Immune is the world, oh corruption!
Awareness a skin deep innovation
Rich geographical virtues
Hospitable family values
Wealth, milk and honey
Our destiny how sunny
Our hope the pride we know
Fulfilments the future we show
I applaud greatness oh!!
I hate Nigeria, No!!!
(c) obukov
Feb 26, 2014
Feb 26, 2014 at 7:01 AM UTC
No matter how religiously
you bleached your skin
You remain
Daughetrs of the Sun
Your sun kissed skin
The beauty exotic to others
Perfectly baked by the Gods
Shining like gold.
They have taught us to use skin whiteners
To wear sun glasses even inside a scaffolds
When our skin are made to be protected
From the rays of the sun
Our eyes, black and brown
Beautiful as the fruit of the duhat tree
Our hair, our skin
Choco like from the cacao tree.
Fit for our climate's concoction.
We were born in the land
where the sun is abundant,
hospitable and magnanimous.
Flaunt thy color
Savor its malt flavored goodness
Embrace the complexion you were endowed with
Embrace your own spirit
Hail thy Motherland
The sacred space you were gifted.
Aug 24, 2016
Aug 24, 2016 at 9:50 PM UTC
This is A Faithful saying; If A Man Desire the Position of A Bishop, He Desire A Good Work. A Bishop then must be Blameless, the Husband Of One Wife, Temperate, Sober-Minded, of Good Behavior, Hospitable, Able to Teach: no given to Wine, no Violent, not Greedy for Money, bu Gentle, not Quarrelsome, not Covetous; One who Rules His Own House well, having His Children in Submission with all Reverence. For if a Man does not know how to Rule His Own House, how will He take Care of the Church Of GOD?; Not A Novice, lest Being Puffed-Up with Pride He Fall into the same Condemnation as the Devil. Moreover He must have A Good Testimony among those who are Outside, lest He Fall into Reproach and Snare of the devil. Likewise Deacons must be Reverent, no Double-Tongued, not given to much Wine, not Greedy for Money, Holding the Mystery of the Faith with Pure Conscience. But let these also First be Tested; then let them Serve as Deacons, Being Found Blameless. Likewise, their Wives mus be Reverent, not Slanderers, Temperate, Faithful in All Things. Let Deacons be the Husbands of One Wife, Ruling their Children and their Own House-Well. For those who have Served well as Deacons Obtain for Themselves A Good Standing and Great Boldness in the Faith which is in Chris Jesus. These things I write to You, though I Hope to Come to You shortly; But if I Am Delayed, I write so that You may know how You Ought to Conduct Thyself in the House Of GOD, which is the Church Of the Living GOD, he Pillar and Ground Of the Truth. And without Controversy Great is the Mystery Of Godliness: GOD was Manifested in the Flesh, Justified in thy Spirit, Seen by Angels, Preached among the Gentiles, Believed on in the World, Receieved Up In Glory.!!!
Jun 9, 2015
Jun 9, 2015 at 2:20 AM UTC
We are Manchester. The City, The place, we’re hospitable people with a smile on our face. You can beat us, mistreat us, and blow us to hell. We have had it all before and we don’t dwell. We’re the northern powerhouse of the northwestern elite, Where the Geordie's, The Scousers, The Yorkshire’s retreat. The premier League, The Roses Cricket, The Heineken Cup Is a one way ticket. United and City two football teams with stadiums full, bursting at the seams.
We are Mancunians Of this fair City, The People, The Love, The old nitty gritty The worker, The Shirker, The Homeless, The immigrants, each one of these they are all itinerants. The Steel, The Cotton, long since forgotten the old smokey chimneys blew out smoke that was rotten. The Massacre at Peterloo. Local politicians just don’t have a clue. With all the sights this city has on show here’s something that people don’t really know. Manchester is where New Zealand Born Ernest Rutherford split the Atom.
We Are Manchester, The City, the Place, where Sir Humphrey Chetham has his musical grace a school of music with musical taste. And where a man with a paintbrush painted streets on boxes. I don’t think Lowry ever painted foxes. And A comedian from Collyhurst who was absolutely awesome, a real funny guy by the name of Les Dawson, and where a man from Chorlton on Medlock became Prime Minister back in the day. David Lloyd-George had a hell of a lot to say.
We Are Manchester and it's the place for me. And a proud Mancunian I’m glad to be. I’ll sit in a cafe watching people pass by. They are all in a hurry and I wonder why. I see a business man in a three piece suit, and the homeless guy that is counting his loot. There's the girl on the street giving out free papers she is smoking those ciggies that give off those vapours. It's pouring with rain and she’s getting wet she’s worried about money to pay off her debt.
We Are Manchester and this is our City don’t waste your time we don’t want no pity. We are Manchester we are steeped in tradition we leave other cities standing. There’s no competition. Where A man from Moss Side a Vicar not a Dean called Rev George Garrett invented the submarine. And where the great Anthony Wilson was a journalist & impresario and a man named John Nichols invented the great drink called Vimto. and so When he wrote “This Is the Place” I’m sure he did so with a smile on his face. We Are Manchester and I’ll state our case because we are Manchester and we are ace.
Mar 30, 2018
Mar 30, 2018 at 9:45 PM UTC
679
Conscious am I in my Chamber,
Of a shapeless friend—
He doth not attest by Posture—
Nor Confirm—by Word—
Neither Place—need I present Him—
Fitter Courtesy
Hospitable intuition
Of His Company—
Presence—is His furthest license—
Neither He to Me
Nor Myself to Him—by Accent—
Forfeit Probity—
Weariness of Him, were quainter
Than Monotony
Knew a Particle—of Space’s
Vast Society
Neither if He visit Other—
Do He dwell—or Nay—know I—
But Instinct esteem Him
Immortality—
2.3k
623
It was too late for Man—
But early, yet, for God—
Creation—impotent to help—
But Prayer—remained—Our Side—
How excellent the Heaven—
When Earth—cannot be had—
How hospitable—then—the face
Of our Old Neighbor—God—
2.2k
i'll admit i found him humorous upon first sighting.
he was
obese,
with one leg,
in a motorized wheel chair,
wearing large sunglasses,
a volunteer firefighter cap,
and awkward headphones, circa '79.
"hello there, sir!"
he shouted as his wheel chair and body
shifted, slanted, bounced with each crack in the pavement.
"hey, how's it goin'?"
i called back, with a warm and hospitable tone.
i've been trying to be more social.
"i am blessed, but sir, would you be so kind
as to help me get some food?"
"yeah sure. where's the food?"
good deed for the day.
"i don't know, i guess around this here corner. i'm lookin' for that pizza place."
"oh okay, i think it's just over here past the bookstore."
"alright. what's your name, boy?
"josh. and yours, sir?"
"james. josh it is a pleasure to meet you. and i thank you.
you see i'm homeless, mr. josh. and you wouldn't believe
how often people turn away from me, josh."
"that's awful."
"yes it is. but i pray for them.
they need it.
may the lord forgive them. may the lord forgive me."
"here's that pizza place."
"excellent. would you go in and get me some food?"
oh. i'm buying him food.
that's what "help me get some food" means.
"of course. what would you like?"
i returned ten minutes later with a gyro, a pepsi, and some chips.
"thank you mr. josh," he said with a bright smile, "this will be a fine meal.
now, josh, you have done a good thing. look at my eyes."
he removed his sunglasses.
his eyes seemed normal enough.
"i ain't no druggy or dope fiend. i'm just james w. green. mr. green.
i was a bass player that just fell on some bad luck. now josh, i'm asking
you as a friend to just give me a little more, so i can eat tonight."
this made me uncomfortable.
i hate to admit it, but i began to suspect this uni-legged, bass player, of ripping me off.
i gave him a 5-dollar bill. that's a weeks worth of suppers at taco bell.
he said a prayer for me.
then he asked me on behalf of jesus,
"can you look into your heart and give generously? just one big donation and who knows what could happen!?"
i gave him another ten.
"thank you mr. josh. i appreciate it. remember me? and do me a favor?"
"sure."
"tell the world about mr.green!"
you're welcome, james.
May 3, 2010
May 3, 2010 at 1:41 PM UTC
Trust is like the clear waterfall
Flowing down difficult terrains
To make them hospitable and fertile
Its origin is from the heart
That is tranquil and full of love
Filling every crevice
Of the parched grounds
With conviction to soften more hearts
Touch the magic waters
Bathe yourself in the flowing beauty
And trust shall have you transformed
Love to trust
And trust to Love
Hold the magic water in the crucible
Dec 15, 2014
Dec 15, 2014 at 11:19 PM UTC
***perhaps if you are
one of the few
multiyear variates,
still here, still seeking
solutions
to the
equations of
human formulation,
one of the veterans of the
early word wars,
when the line between fellow poet
and human being was full of
invitational openings,
tween those dots and dashes,
we all eagerly entered those places,
crossing over into
those human openings,
making poets into friends***^
yes,
we were social for the humanity
patented in the very word
social
we encouraged,
we critiqued wearing a flag
made from the fine fabric of fellowship,
crossing global borders and time zones,
even planets,
with only a hand-made
poetry passport
constructed from the
tissues of our hearts
each one of us,
A Little Prince,
lost
from other worlds,
but all
found
ourselves together in a
hospitable desert
so strange,
we found companionship,
genuine in ways that
make me weep when I recall it,
so many aviators,
flying low, neath the radar screen,
speaking one language of a thousand dialects
the networking was spontaneous,
friendships formulated,
real hugs exchanged,
no ulterior purpose, no quantity of glory sought,
no favors traded,
there were friends,
not followers,
just sharers
we valued the first amendment of our lives,
the right to speak freely in poetry
***I wish you had been there,
here,
back then***
Jul 16, 2015
Jul 16, 2015 at 8:21 AM UTC
I’m Oxfam clothed and head full of henna,
he’s Age Concern dressed for less than a tenner.
Does this make us rivals or more compatible?
Anything’s possible now I’m out of hospital,
picking his path oblivious to obstacles,
catching him in an unguarded interval;
he’s too hospitable to swerve my tentacles
and I too intent on the prey.
“What’s with the titfer?” I bubble up giggly,
kissing his cheek and trying his trilby,
holding his eyes – why should I feel guilty?
If he’ll play Jesus lurking in Gethsemane
then I’ll be Judas flirting with the enemy.
Don’t say betrayal and the double agent,
I’m just a female at my play station.
He used to be nurse and I the patient,
now we negotiate new relations.
Aspiring to more of an equal footing
I’ve climbed too high and abandoned hoodies,
the dreary woollies, sackcloth and ashes,
the words that stuck to my tongue like glue.
Between heavy make-up and credit crashes
I talk too naughty and hug too warmly –
he must take his turn to be poorly,
his turn to breathe in blue.
In minutes the mood will be mellowing:
I shall saxophone and cello him
and proffer the charms of poor scarred arms,
the burnt flesh of thighs and *******
this sin within my second-hand dress
to caress his heart and capture him.
Wind and string go enrapturing!
Pull him close to the edge of the abyss –
I want him to hang on my lips
as I’ve hung so long on his.
Mar 16, 2016
Mar 16, 2016 at 12:39 PM UTC
I . Taytu Betul as a leader
Ethiopia is famed for being
A peaceful,hospitable
And warrior nation
How come then it failed
To come to your attention,
As bees whose hive is threatened,
Citizens are ever alert to
To foil provoked aggression!
The 1889 treacherous
Wuchale treaty
I will tear apart
A messenger,with a tail
Between your legs,
Before you depart.
The Italian version
That tries to put Ethiopia,
A sovereign state, a pawn
Under Italy's protectorate
Is completely opposed to
What Ethiopia's
Versions indicate.
Till we meet
Your colonizing troops
At a showdown,
As a punitive measure to
A cheater or a clown
I will be tempted to smack
Your face
To ram home,valorous,
For fear we have no place.
II Taytu Betul a strategist
To deny the invading
Italian troops, advancing
from Eriteria,
Advantages of logistic
We could do
The following trick
Indeed, we could shift
The battlefield
From Adigrat to Adwa
Also we could cut them
From a key water point
Till for truce they plead.
To this end,
A battalion
I will personally lead.
What is more,
I will inspire
Women,combatants,too
To fire!
Parallel to that
Our injured soldiers
To nurse back
Wounded in the attack
Also dry foods
To prepare and pack.
III Taytu Betul as a wife
Though independent,
With lots of love to
Emperor Menelik II,
My king and beloved husband
I will lend a cooperative hand.
IV. A beacon of independence & standard bearer
True to my name Taytu
— A sunshine—
I will flicker
A ray of light
The oppressed for
Freedom to fight!
Women
For a military prowess,
Leadership and intelligence
Have acumen! ////
Feb 25, 2017
Feb 25, 2017 at 4:09 AM UTC
1626
No Life can pompless pass away—
The lowliest career
To the same Pageant wends its way
As that exalted here—
How cordial is the mystery!
The hospitable Pall
A “this way” beckons spaciously—
A Miracle for all!
1.7k
These city streets are empty and cold
Devoid of life
Not a soul walks here but me
Alone in a world of sadness and pain
With tattered mind
And a broken heart
Life is a harsh endeavor
Joy sparse and brief
Tragedy lurks around the corners
One can do nothing to avoid
So I march head on into it
Embracing my fate
Nothing lasts forever
Save one thing, Death
So to death I walk
With my head held high
Hoping to find a more hospitable place
Than this Earth
Jan 25, 2013
Jan 25, 2013 at 3:32 PM UTC
a half moon rises
as the sun sets over
a golden Charles
the Fens
luminescence
guide scullers
chasing the days
ebbing light
shimmering
upon near
stillness,
as dancing
black ripples
push silver
splashes of
floating sheens
toward the
gentle slopes of
grassy banks
fisherman cast
the day’s final
hopes upon
gracious waters
as shad fry
breech to
proclaim
a promise
of a dutiful
return to fulfill
a future bounty
this accessible
river, the pulsing
heart conjoining
two cities;
flows as a
democratic spirit
drawing all to its
hospitable shores
my eyes remain
transfixed on
the glowing ember
of a twilight Charles
drifting under darkened
portals of the
Harvard Bridge,
while the rise
of a sunset breeze
whispers a cool
end to the
summers day
I imagine
Luna blowing
a goodnight
kiss to a
yawning Sol,
as she winks to
young *****
lovers embracing
the long shadows
and sweet fragrance
of tall bulrushes
a slight puff of wind
anoints my minds eye
as lazy water rolls
toward me, lapping
my feet, lollygagging
along, slowly strolling
towards the bay
as I salute pilots
navigating this
most friendly
course
Music Selection:
Grant Green, Moon River
Cambridge MA
7/7/91
jbm
Jun 4, 2013
Jun 4, 2013 at 1:33 AM UTC
Tis done—and shivering in the gale
The bark unfurls her snowy sail;
And whistling o’er the bending mast,
Loud sings on high the fresh’ning blast;
And I must from this land be gone,
Because I cannot love but one.
But could I be what I have been,
And could I see what I have seen—
Could I repose upon the breast
Which once my warmest wishes blest—
I should not seek another zone,
Because I cannot love but one.
’Tis long since I beheld that eye
Which gave me bliss or misery;
And I have striven, but in vain,
Never to think of it again:
For though I fly from Albion,
I still can only love but one.
As some lone bird, without a mate,
My weary heart is desolate;
I look around, and cannot trace
One friendly smile or welcome face,
And ev’n in crowds am still alone,
Because I cannot love but one.
And I will cross the whitening foam,
And I will seek a foreign home;
Till I forget a false fair face,
I ne’er shall find a resting-place;
My own dark thoughts I cannot shun,
But ever love, and love but one.
The poorest, veriest wretch on earth
Still finds some hospitable hearth,
Where Friendship’s or Love’s softer glow
May smile in joy or soothe in woe;
But friend or leman I have none,
Because I cannot love but one.
I go—but wheresoe’er I flee
There’s not an eye will weep for me;
There’s not a kind congenial heart,
Where I can claim the meanest part;
Nor thou, who hast my hopes undone,
Wilt sigh, although I love but one.
To think of every early scene,
Of what we are, and what we’ve been,
Would whelm some softer hearts with woe—
But mine, alas! has stood the blow;
Yet still beats on as it begun,
And never truly loves but one.
And who that dear lov’d one may be,
Is not for ****** eyes to see;
And why that early love was cross’d,
Thou know’st the best, I feel the most;
But few that dwell beneath the sun
Have loved so long, and loved but one.
I’ve tried another’s fetters too,
With charms perchance as fair to view;
And I would fain have loved as well,
But some unconquerable spell
Forbade my bleeding breast to own
A kindred care for aught but one.
’Twould soothe to take one lingering view,
And bless thee in my last adieu;
Yet wish I not those eyes to weep
For him that wanders o’er the deep;
His home, his hope, his youth are gone,
Yet still he loves, and loves but one.
1.6k
The paint is chipping, the Christmas tree shutters hanging
Green on gray, brick stoop and twin column mouth
Opens to creaking stairs that made sneaking out commando work
My room made your favorite shade is gone, death to ugly orange
I used to think of it as my laboratory, safe haven for exploration
And abstract cultivation, I bled my innocence into the floorboards
There are still fist-sized holes along the stud that I detected
Remnants of the games I played and the four that I connected
The basement is still damp and dreary, the wooden cage for laundry suspended
At the bottom of a chute that you told me was the tomb of a curious girl
My weight bench, secondhand and mixed pounds with kilograms
Living in sin, vowed never to be defenseless training endless
The attic lends its hospitable hand to trapped bird and cobweb gems
Quarter-circle window kept by chain hungrily swallows smoke
Shelves packed so tight with yellowing knowledge and petrified wood
That if spiteful spark made love to
Musty air and
********** embers, I would never make it out
Déjà vu as backyard grass soothes badtripbitch with tingling tips
Of leathery flesh, ready to be buried and wormed in its bedbox
Overwhelmed like militia in failing keep against advancing hordes
Until nature’s handsome sprouts remind me life is beautiful, always
The trumpet vine grows hideous and spiny, roots reaching deep
Settles in its site and survives all assaults man-made
For a blink during the year its vermillion nectar tubes take flower
The hummingbirds find love outside my window in their bloom
May 13, 2011
May 13, 2011 at 10:16 PM UTC
I have consumed,
The godhead fungus,
Once again,
Upon upset stomach,
I will watch,
my mind unravle,
become undone,
rewound,
renewed,
possibility of destruction,
Omnipresense,
Tho, the word topple over,
the mountains fall to the sea,
none of this worries I,
For creation comes,
From the depths of the depraved,
Relentless,
Hospitable,
Passion flow like rivers,
Juxtaposed round the ignited,
Universe,
Cosmos,
Atomic Circus.
Nov 14, 2014
Nov 14, 2014 at 3:14 PM UTC
Along the faithful stretch of tensile black ribbon
Homesteads garnished in sporadic , hospitable shade
Sunshine releasing every brilliant pigment ,
summit eloquence in festive motion ..
Botton land fathers toil a plethora of viable hillside earth ,
Afternoon chimney fires season the air with -
-Hickory and Oak kindling from creek-stone hearth
Silver Guineas patrol the forest edges , cordillera
Mountain Deer free themselves from the ******* of the midday struggle , recede into wooded escapes , immune from discovery ..
Mar 31, 2016
Mar 31, 2016 at 3:52 PM UTC
You know nothing of life
Till you feel the deepened, endless, depths of death.
You feel dull
Till you are laying on the kitchen floor
***** plastered to your hair
speckled with pills
you heart racing
and the only thing you are thinking
"I'll never feel snow again."
He comes to you in jagged breaths,
in blinding pain,
and he whispers in your ear
"Your mother cries at night, dear boy why live this way?
Go out, make her proud, I took too much for her, and you have given too little."
and then you know.
you've always wanted to be a teacher
You fell empty
Till you lay in your gown
the beeping of the screen seems endless
as do the days, trapped in your hospitable bed.
everything slows
and you know
hes coming.
Your too tired to open your eyes,
but you feel his soft caress,
his hand holds yours
and says "Does the softball games missed? the dinners skipped and the paperwork finished matter at this very moment?"
and then you know.
Why your daughter never speaks to you.
Jul 18, 2013
Jul 18, 2013 at 1:13 PM UTC
The Platypus
(a limerick for adults, teens and older children)
by Michael R. Burch
The platypus, myopic,
is ungainly, not ******
His feet for bed
are over-webbed,
and what of his proboscis?
The platypus, though, is eager
although his means are meager.
His sight is poor;
perhaps he’ll score
with a passing duck or ******
Keywords/Tags: limerick, double limerick, humor, light verse, nonsense verse, platypus, ****** duck, proboscis, nose, beak, feet, webbed, flippers, eyes, eyesight, sight, vision, myopia, myopic, animal, nature, ****** erotica
The Mallard
by Michael R. Burch
The mallard is a fellow
whose lips are long and yellow
with which he, honking, kisses
his ***** boisterous mistress:
my pond’s their loud bordello!
Dot Spotted
by Michael R. Burch
There once was a leopardess, Dot,
who indignantly answered: "I'll not!
The gents are impressed
with the way that I'm dressed.
I wouldn't change even one spot."
Stage Craft-y
by Michael R. Burch
There once was a dromedary
who befriended a crafty canary.
Budgie said, "You can’t sing,
but now, here’s the thing—
just think of the tunes you can carry!"
Ballade of the Bicameral Camel
by Michael R. Burch
There once was a camel who loved to ****
Please get your lewd minds out of their slump!
He loved to give RIDES on his large, lordly lump!
Clyde Lied!
by Michael R. Burch
There once was a mockingbird, Clyde,
who bragged of his prowess, but lied.
To his new wife he sighed,
"When again, gentle bride?"
"Nevermore!" bright-eyed Raven replied.
Other Limericks
The Better Man
by Michael R. Burch
Dear Ed: I don't understand why
you will publish this other guy—
when I'm brilliant, devoted,
one hell of a poet!
Yet you publish Anonymous. Fie!
Fie! A pox on your head if you favor
this poet who's dubious, unsavor
y, inconsistent in texts,
no address (I checked!) :
since he's plagiarized Unknown, I'll wager!
"Of Tetley's and V-2's" or "Why Not to Bomb the Brits"
by Michael R. Burch
The English are very hospitable,
but tea-less, alas, they grow pitiable...
or pitiless, rather,
and quite in a lather!
O bother, they're more than formidable.
Mar 8, 2020
Mar 8, 2020 at 11:22 PM UTC
Where honeybees work Pineapple Sage , where the Cattails stand proud
in the lyrical winds ...
At the terra cotta crossroad where timeless love and friendships have coalesced ....
Down the hillside toward hospitable , glistening , green bottom lands ...
Across the grassy divide into sunny , well kept acreage ...
Forever walking the field road to the Old Starr Dairy ......
Feb 23, 2016
Feb 23, 2016 at 1:31 PM UTC