"uproariously" poems
species massacred for grazing
cows rule the world
the Brazilian rainforest
is now 80 million acres
of open range
supporting our demise
one cheeseburger at a time –
6700 gallons of water
is the cost of a big mac
when you factor in growing grain
giving cattle drinking water
and processing meat
peak water and peak oil
mean nothing when chewing cud –
more than 50% of greenhouse gases
methane from bovine flatus
without a single environmental group
working to stop this plague
instead they openly swallow
government lies about carbon
and the role 300 million United States citizens
have in saving the world of 7 billion
by driving less and recycling –
I laugh uproariously at the idiocy
knowing our karmic retribution
can only be extinction
like so many other species
we’ve killed off to make room
for more livestock agriculture
when everyone knows at this point
we can survive and thrive
off a plant based diet….
I’d write more,
but I am starving for
a bacon double cheeseburger –
Sep 22, 2015
Sep 22, 2015 at 1:23 PM UTC
Hail in peace wherever you abode now, dear Nadine Gordimer
You white daughter of Africa, the pen-mistress of July’s people,
You are the lover of July, your holy months of literature
That similarly gave a ****** grave marriage to Maziz Kunene
The African saint of orature; And Okot P’ Bitek, the lion of Gulu,
July have wedded you to the sombre grave in the Jo’burg,
As its apparatchik, the menacing jaws of death feel humdinger!
O! Dear little daughter, cursed are the jaws of death
They have kept on wooing and wooing you relentlessly
They have yearned for your betrothal with mad jealous,
For your iconic position in white African literature,
In which you stand with soldierly embrace a Nobelite,
They have now taken you to their inner chamber nuptials in death,
Before anything; let them now pay dowry to your bothers;
J M Coetzee, Alex La Guma and Dennis Brutus,
For there’s is a competent herds boy, a black shepherd;
Ezekia Mphalele, his living soul will keep the cows
Off down Corner B of the troubled African Image.
Say hello for those you are with in the current realm,
Say hello to foremen and fore daughters of Africa
Those that chose to visit the realm of ancestor precociously;
Say hello to them; Angelo Maya and Doris Lessing,
Let their caged birds and blooming grass sing uproariously,
Marriama Ba and Margaret Ogola, African girls,
They had a long letter and the source of the river from black dialectics,
O! Dear old baby Nadine Gordimer, stand firm in face to face with nothing
Other than the present time you’re in; the Africa’s realm of living dead
To sing the ballads of anti-apartheid both in heaven and on earth,
The only true testament of your footprints on the global sands of times
That Nadine Gordimer, July’s white-African daughter is deadly alive!
Jul 20, 2014
Jul 20, 2014 at 9:18 AM UTC
how Eye make love,
this popped into my head
tho questioning this quest,
what purpose served, unknown...
lacking the infatuation to poetry write,
the mind retreats to the basics,
eye write with no destination,
wondering at the wonderment
of this basic actionable accolade...
sometimes,
be the
operative word,
sometimes
cooperative,
is the operative...
sometimes,
is but a
it just depends
who
is the initiate
and who possesses the initiative...
every story has a different
author, ending...
sometimes slow,
sometimes muy rapido
in foreign tongues
in foreign places,
the only commonality be that
wonderment
eye wish this not to be explanation,
eye wish this to be an explication
of the texts of sensual visionaries,
imagining the helping to happening,
the passageway to and from
where the mind begins,
the body completes its origination
oft I close my Eyes,
listening to hers,
her eye voices directing me,
what will be the course of our
course,
miss no Michelin starred landscapes,
through hers, mine Eyes triumphant...
tour guide excellente
cannot explain
why the temp sometimes
solar flares,
why the temp sometimes
is a glacial expedition,
tongue led,
from toes to eyelids...
always buy tickets for a
round trip flight...
how
is a titillation, begging you to read & expose,
there is no how, only sometimes better,
sometimes different...
why
is a question needs no asking...
when
when the shape of her profiled neck,
reflects shadows of further inquiry,
when her décolletage collects me
as she and her designer intended...
when
she laughs uproariously at my piquant,
suave and debonair one liners,
requiring kissing tickling calming
when
tears spill when reading
a new takeaway poem mine,
needy for a tongue to collect that spillway...
just being friendly appreciative and thanking
where
is when
the how and
the why
intersect
the intemperate weather of
being alone
subtle suggests
auto recollections
now know
the how, when, where and the
why,
my Eyes compose this elegy
of memories of past and present...
Apr 26, 2015
Apr 26, 2015 at 9:18 AM UTC
Pleat, pleat, pleat,
Fix that drape,
Cantankerous petticoat,
Is all bent out of shape,
The mirror jeers,
That's a singularly inelegant drape,
What are you gawping at,
It's time to undrape,
Watch those ankles,
Stop dancing like an ape,
How hard could it be,
To simply undrape,
In walked Mum,
Her mouth agape,
Laughing uproariously,
Got me shipshape
May 29, 2017
May 29, 2017 at 5:48 AM UTC
Stinky, crowded, sweltering
Dedication
Laughing uproariously
Bouncing up with every Michigan pothole
Falling down into the laps of our friends
Riding to yet another competition
Frantically checking to see if we have gloves and gauntlets
The band bus
Feb 16, 2019
Feb 16, 2019 at 10:00 AM UTC
For Steve Yocum
~~~
an old marine called me the other night
a poet from the left coast,
a correspondent and a first responder
to my messy essays
we both, vintners of men,
compared notes on our progeny's
full bodied temperament,
and our own full body's aches and miscreants
bemoaning our losses,
of earnest poets,
of friends, even foes,
and favored football teams,
and ne'er forgetting to tally up
our occasional victories
he authors books,
he authors life,
with grainy portraits,
that try to be peepholes
to clarity
me, a periodic poetist,
more confessional blogger shootist,
than artful-words-to-please dodger,
in a vainglorious futile insanely repeating attempts
to better separate
life's wheat from the chafe of its chaff
perhaps,
we shall someday meet,
a twosome of codgers,
walk the saddened-today, blood-reddened Oregon soil,
armed with each other's comforting wisdom,
tasting grapes,
acknowledging
but for the grace of god,
we go
*together, to gather,
each other closer,
walk the vineyards and the cellars
to clarify
the wine from the sediment,
getting uproariously drunk
on friendship*
Oct 6, 2015
Oct 6, 2015 at 9:34 PM UTC
Skinned knee, tree-barked knuckles,
fights in the long grass pal.
Friends so long that we've our own,
private language
(which renders these public outpourings
largely irrelevant)
and can go years, now,
with no contact
yet never really be apart.
Last Christmas we hooked up,
marvelled at the passing of time,
and you recalled that the last time we met
I gave you a book of my poems.
"Did you read them?" I asked,
and brilliantly, unembarrassed,
you replied:
"No. I looked at the first one,
saw that it went over the page,
thought: 'Oh, that's long -
I'll read that later,'
but I never did."
And we laughed uproariously
as I seldom do with anyone else.
But I know
that long after every other copy
has been thumbed ragged,
misplaced,
passed on
and lost
your copy will remain
pristine and safe
on your shelf
Because although you have
no more interest in poetry now
than either of us did at the age of eleven,
you'll look after it
because your pal wrote it.
Mar 7, 2013
Mar 7, 2013 at 3:58 AM UTC
The Rules
Stand tall, shoulders back
Cross your legs
Play with your hair
Lick your lips
Don't talk too much...
Dress **** feminine
Don't laugh uproariously
Smell good, feel smooth
Don't argue
argue...but don't try to win
Giggle
Flirt
Have babies
Behave
Be polite
Act ****
Play games, hard to get
Don't phone, don't act eager
Keep secrets
Pray you are pretty enough
Always be a little weaker
All this to give, to be happy, to land a man,
and all he has to do is expect it.
Sep 10, 2012
Sep 10, 2012 at 12:21 AM UTC
The steel inside my forearm
Has bent beneath the tremendous heat
Of the forest fire burning in me
How it roars and screams a passionate plea
Not of agony but of fury
Both in might and out of sight
With hands outstretched
Over top the sea of burning trees
And temperatures boiling over uproariously
You’ll hear the howl of this wolverine
As it drowns out the earthly screams
Of a forest fire
Insurmountable and unquenchable by any stream
Mar 22, 2017
Mar 22, 2017 at 4:58 PM UTC
We are allowed to be unkind
To the sick, the deaf and the blind.
We gladly toss them into a ditch.
They don't matter; They are not rich.
We giggle and count what we’ve got
Laugh uproariously at those who have not.
We call our poor neighbors our inferiors
Because having money makes one superior.
It also works the same with every race.
Supremacy is about the color of your face.
It starts there and moves to include nationality.
Only Caucasian Americans match our reality.
Sure non-whites can pick our cotton for us
But, as for equality, the concept will bore us.
It says in the Bible you have to be from here
And white and Protestant, those words are clear.
And this stuff about **** and lesbians too
Not one word of that civil rights stuff is true.
My preacher told me gay people are abomination.
That’s why us Republicans support segregation.
That's some of what is wrong with our schools
Somebody has been listening to communist fools.
We need to get back to the good way things were
Before all this equality stuff was allowed to occur.
I tell you the truth, this stuff totally makes me burn.
I mean, these college-warped hippies need to learn
That this country is a Christian one, since beginning
So, we don’t want this equality stuff you’re selling.
Just shine our shoes and park our expensive cars
And we’ll tip you a little bit and there you are;
Right there in the place all of you ought to be;
Freedom is for us rich whites, it’s American history.
Jul 13, 2017
Jul 13, 2017 at 4:27 PM UTC
Scandalous is a person
A detail the dictionary forgot
They didn't have the joy of knowing you
They never will.
You left the same way you entered:
Inexplicably
Your enthusiasm caught us along
Spontaneously reckless
Always just around the corner
Cackling, head thrown back
Shocking me into hilarity
And now you're....
Elsewhere.
Oh goofy
Oh who's going to play beanie babies now?
The horses and ponies are missing from our field
The irises are blooming wild
Purple owls growl at me in the night time
All these displaced riders
Muttering "where is my niche?" over and over
As we spin
Fantails pecking at our insides.
The doorway was too small for the coffin
You would have laughed uproariously
We giggled, breaking the tension.
They removed the door,
Replacing it after.
Please shock me:
Sit up,
Hold my hand,
Something!
But you've turned to stone
And my doorway is too small
There's too much to let out
It all pushes at once
And nothing can get through
So I slowly remove my own hinges
And try to carry on.
May 13, 2015
May 13, 2015 at 9:43 PM UTC
when i wake up without my glasses sometimes
i think i'm still in a tent on the side of a highway in queensland
and the sun coming up starts a stopwatch
t-minus 20 minutes until the air heats up like an oven
merrily roasting the blonde figures
on either side of a slightly deflated air mattress.
if i keep my blurry vision fixed i can hear whip birds
and cackling kookaburras and
a vague buzzing i forget as soon as i shift my attention.
i want to push my too-tanned face through the moth-dotted
10-second-tent ***** and gasp wholly unsatisfying gulps
of petrol station breezes.
but when i wake up with my contacts cementing my eyelids shut
i think i'm hungover in a grimy hostel in brisbane
with a different blond figure gripping my hip
and 29 other filthy travelers snoring uproariously in the same room
and every one of them asleep with stories still pressed to their lips
willing to trade for the thrill of it.
and i know i won't be able to find my keycard in the tangled sheets
and anyway, my bunk in my own room doesn't have a ladder
and there's always a german girl sleeping below
with her underwear hanging from the bars i use to clamber up
so i sigh and pass that problem down to future-me
fall back asleep
and when i wake up i have miscalculated
and somehow i'm twelve thousand miles away already
as abrupt as this
but sometimes for a few myopic seconds, my chest feels light.
Jun 8, 2015
Jun 8, 2015 at 2:32 AM UTC
together, more than a century
it occurs to his fresh coffee'd brain,
as he,
sliding in behind, half-assedly,
as in half in/half off the bed,
but the rest, the best, nestled, ensconced,
in a serpentine curvature connected
smiling too loudly,
titter~muffled giggle
at the passing by, a funny bone notion,
that combined, conjoined,
together, more than a century,
well, and well more, than that,
a depository of collections, nuances,
cross filed, so that our recollected told tales,
have been all heard before and will again
be retold with a swelling newness
to newborn readers,
checking out the classics
the roar of my suppressed soundings,
clearly too louding,
sleepy hoarse asks
the inevitable "what's the chuckle,"
so accustomed she be to my,
unexpected laughs expectorated,
menagerie of multiplicity of muckled
roars and guffaws, tee hee's,
she will n'ere be satisfied
with a non-answer,,
with a wiley evasion to
her invasion of my innermost
"occurs to me we are a very historical
(never employing that olden adjective)
library,
two cuddling librarians,
who are compelled
to our shelves,
to add a new book daily"
she laughs and kindly requests,
my immediate departure,
for having caused her by
mine awoking and
her evoking
laugh,
to be kicked out of the
library
for excessive noise making
not the first time,
and not the last,
he laughs,
uproariously,
in the deepest of his innermost,
hidden in the silent stacks of their library,
in a demilitarized zone,
neath two pillows soft by,
lest he be shushed vociferously,
by his once again, softly sleeping,
co-conspirator
librarian
Feb 28, 2016
Feb 28, 2016 at 7:29 AM UTC
God scans through the texts of Tolstoy
For the secrets of the universe
While the archangels at the table
Dispute loudly, who is worse –
Was it Van Gogh, or Picasso?
“I was far worse than both of them!”
Says a self-righteous Mozart
While Beethoven starts spitting.
“Oh, don’t you two start!”
Warns a tipsy-stern Gabriel
From behind a tall lager
While Plato scrawls circles
Like a half-a-dime auger.
“Silence!” God booms,
Though his eyes are quivering
With unshed tears,
And Dickinson is shivering
With the draft of early evening.
St. Peter is resting,
Feet propped on a chair,
Before returning to his post,
And God lets them all stay there
By his side as he thumbs
Through War and Peace’s last pages
While the fire burns low
And the storm outside rages.
Wilde laughs uproariously
At the news while he cooks.
“How was it?” Michael asks
As God closes the book.
God takes a moment
Before his answer, confessing,
“It wasn’t too bad, I think,
But far too depressing.”
Mar 15, 2020
Mar 15, 2020 at 3:25 PM UTC
(lost 13% of my baby)
the littlest one turned three in May,
haven’t seen her in the flesh since March,
parents inform, all gone,
they’ll be disappearing
to another state,
all of July, gonzo.
I say
go forth safely, that’s great.
redefining social distancing.
measured not in feet,
or even by Sara B.’s
borrowed ‘many the miles,’
but in longer specificities:
maturities,
weeks and months,
parts of years,
parts of lives,
March, April,
May, June,
now July.
five months.
counted them on one hand,
many times,
at 3:00am
cause I could not believe
the summing of my subtraction
somehow disappeared,
from our calendars
these monthly ** markings,
months wiped clean permanently.
did a quick calculation.
we’ve lost 13% of her
entire life,
can’t be regained.
her first:
big girl bed,
playing first video game,
another birthday party,
candles extinguished by
a single big girl blowing,
dancing, dancing, and more,
driving her scooter in the apartment,
like only a mad woman can,
(stuffed animal riding the handlebars,)
blowing pretend Zooming belly kisses
on her button,
hiding neath the dining room table,
her laughing uproariously,
with never a “stop poppy.”
13%.
a specific amount,
a poem irretrievable,
a blood loss, that
can’t be transfused,
plasma irreplaceable,
containing antibodies
to a specific virus
Sorrow Unique-19
nah,
nothing
it got nothing
to do with that new forehead
furrow, that slow-suddenly appeared.
nah.
“just, these are the days...”^
Jun 12, 2020
Jun 12, 2020 at 1:21 PM UTC
Where I met allure
she was my craft inured
that round my futon
when her neck was born
ready her an all nighter
with vita relinquished
uproariously keen in swelter
but really resurrected platitude
a scorcher for sure
and dreams whetted with desire
while attire was crumpling
here round my dumpling
the weather most attested her rap
that I'd relish her bare
much than sympathy again
always tile her spree.
Mar 29, 2017
Mar 29, 2017 at 7:43 AM UTC
The dark cloud of that day still hovers over us like a stubborn ghost,
A dark moment, sad and excruciatingly tormenting,
Democracy was plunged under a huge and portentous threat,
Just like the lives of each and every miner in solidarity,
Every miner that felt they had been uproariously ***** and beyond measure,
Lives being disparaged and sacrificed for money,
Some fat ugly capitalist politician proclaimed them criminals,
To impress his blood ******* immigrant masters,
The brutish British multinational super exploiters,
The stinking atrocious colonizers who stole our land and our humanity,
And as criminals they should be treated,
Declared the egocentric mercenary politician,
Indeed, as criminals they were treated,
And as criminals of apartheid, they fell,
Heavy machine guns roared,
And the whole environment smelt heavy of burnt gunpowder and blood,
The whole place depicted a war zone,
With bodies lying everywhere,
And the police force claiming victory,
The dead, really dead,
And the living, really leaving,
This is the Marikana story,
A story that has neither beginning nor ending,
A story that is told with very sad and shocking connotations,
A story that is neither a cause nor an effect,
A story of a high disregard for human life,
A story of split unions,
A story of greedy and hyper-selfish politicians,
A story of police brutality,
But above all, a story of innocent lives lost like garbage,
And fingers not pointing at no one,
The Marikana story.
Jun 3, 2017
Jun 3, 2017 at 5:17 PM UTC
I close my eyes often,
sometimes to shut you off and sometimes to go back to you..
I sit alone with my wine from sunset to sunrise.,
sometimes to shut you off and sometimes to go back to you..
I uproariously sing to the acid house..
sometimes to shut you off and sometimes to go back to you..
wish I had an option to pick and choose..
forever and a day would have been with my poetry's muse..
Aug 7, 2019
Aug 7, 2019 at 12:32 PM UTC
It’s uproariously flashy
The effervescent decadence of a slip
Small molecular prism
Juniper berries
Sticking from the cream of freshly fallen snow
Yet I am gliding
Through the flattened streets
trains roar in the distance
Nostalgic melodies
Tickle the masses between ears
As the sun dips
Digs it’s way to the eastern hemisphere
I wait
stuck
Fond by memories
Yet to exist on this realm
Continuously moving
Twitching the trauma away
Until I can exist in a formation
Other than decay
Under the drunken evergreens
With his eyes amongst the hues
Of dripping blue
Sep 25, 2018
Sep 25, 2018 at 12:12 AM UTC