Klusener could whack it, yes Lance,
To spinners, down wicket, he'd dance,   
   No defensive tricks, 
   He smote them for six,
The same for the quicks without prance.

Sometimes he could bowl pretty quick,
Sometimes the batsmen he'd trick. 
  Gave balance to the side, 
  Served country with pride,
All without ever being a *****.

His best score V England, remember?
Our bowlers he got to dismember. 
  Zulu hit it so high 
  Way up into the sky,
It didn't come down 'til November.

One thing that get's me all venty
Is bad talk of jolly 'T' 20.
  It's much better by half
  So much more of a laugh
Because 50 is far more than plenty.

England play Pakistan later.
I think that our players are greater.
  But Gul bowls great yorkers,
  And other rip-snoters,
And the ball, oh Afridi, he ate her!

For England the openers are wrong
Neither will give it a biff or a ****.
  We need someone tough
  And aggressive enough
To win it for us when on song.

Our bowling is coming on nicely
The spinners are landing it precisely
  But the quicks can get hit
  When missing length by a bit
Shouldn't do it like that more than twicely

Will we win it today, well who knows?
By then I'll stop blowing my nose.
  I'm now on my knees,
  So a close contest please.
I cannot wait to see how it goes.

Sitting pretty and
tight in my crib
got me the quill
gonna get me the
nib
and poke out your eyes
with the poetry that
ties us
together.

It's nearly Christmas
and I'm going out
I may be some time.

rushing mountain stream
grey stones protrude
blackberries hang just above
little splashes cause sparkles
sunshine filters through branches
light dances on the moving promenade
a lonely leaf passes by without fanfare ~
we sit watching
discussing home ownership steps
dropping names of realtors
considering taking the plunge
just over 1050 square feet
spring fed wood and oil heat
tiny cabin off Tree Farm road
future property of Mr. and Mrs.
Samuel Lyman Temple ~
bright blue Steller’s Jay
squawks his arrival
***** a mow-hawked head
and considers us for a moment
three quicks hops and one more call
before he flies off into the foothills
nature gifting us a nod of approval /

Wild bird, whose warble, liquid sweet,
  Rings Eden thro' the budded quicks,
  O tell me where the senses mix,
O tell me where the passions meet,

Whence radiate: fierce extremes employ
  Thy spirits in the darkening leaf,
  And in the midmost heart of grief
Thy passion clasps a secret joy:

And I--my harp would prelude woe--
  I cannot all command the strings;
  The glory of the sum of things
Will flash along the chords and go.

Shanghai heartbeats human with tumbling turning tiny vessels
it's unbridled chaotic transient transforms envisioned
it's growth and growth irreverent and growth
it's powerful it's frightening it's discordant, it's magnificent

London thrums an overabundance plant bloom on stone crag
ancient, munificent, and sublimely regal it demands
attention, respect, awe and provides plenty justifications
there is an atmosphere I find here where my words fail

Tokyo I find harmonic in its essence,
thrumming and bustling in true city fashion,
yet pocked thoroughly with havens of solace
the quaints and the quicks sprawled out in unity

New York is The City as all other cities are
and it is a cornucopia of cornucopias
as the empirical standard stands tall
densely upwards densely broad ways

Seattle dours in my beloved gloom
spackling stupendous summers in between
gray months incredible
the elements arrive in a conglomerate here