Since I hear no clamor from publishers wanting to publish anything written by me, I have decided to publish my "poetry" here. I suspect it will make them look quite silly. That is, if this blog is on their reading list. Most of these lines appeared as throwaways on assorted Facebook groups. When you read… Continue reading An Anthology of Personal Poetry
I wrote this poem for no reason For it's really just the season. This poem is quite small and it's very stupid and all. Tubetops, when they put these on you also get those bare knees on. You know this is really quite silly For I'm writing stuff willy nilly. You may exclaim "Oh Lord!"… Continue reading Practically Witty
You've said a lot. So have I. You've done a lot. Have I? I've thought a lot. So have you. I've tried a lot. Have you? You've hurt a lot. So Have I. You've worked a lot. Have I? I've cried a lot. So have you. I've smiled a lot. Have you?
Left home and my heart behind with our future on my mind. Just me? Only me? Seems it's me, not we. Looks like it's going to rain. Lord, I don't want that again. It's only me here. Could do with you here. But then, again, is that true? Will you paint my rainbow blue? I think… Continue reading Just me
I cannot lie - it is I. I don't mean to boast or preen but it is true I shopped for shoes and wrote about my woes. The blog it is dry, the humour forced. The Pomes are silly and the stories long A rant or two - There's even a song And I love… Continue reading Who writes this bilge?
He’s a good friend to me, he is. Wherever I go he goes before me. In a public urinal when I go to piss He alerts me to dally not, but pee quickly and get the hell out. He has not gracefully aged Grown a forest, wooded and mossy. Discharged fluids so far caged, when… Continue reading Ode to The Nose
The path to the future never did run straight I have to walk along it, the silent victim of fate. The sun plays hide and seek between the trees Zephyrs lay their gentle touch, the buzzing bees are busy with the business of their flowery date. I wonder at the meaning of the life I… Continue reading The Path
It’s Thursday! You lucky people get to read a very old pome! Enjoy!
The art of the writer
is a precious thing.
He writes for himself,
but others are served.
The heart of the blighter
wants the woman to cling.
He wants for himself
the other thinks “perve!”.
The part of the writer
is a constant thing.
It creates itself
The fart of the writer
has a wonderous sting.
He relieves himself
the room is unnerved.
I'm tangled up in Yosemite and the need to write a blog. The pictures need fixing but the software's just a dog. Oh, what a tangled web we weave when first we try to edit photos, so we can reduce the file size and watermark each photo so we can use them on our blog… Continue reading Yosemite tangle
Now is the season for death. A death that will bring life once again, but for that life we must die now. This is the season for love. A love that will take you further apart, but for that love, this love must die. The present is doomed. The past misunderstood. The future? The future… Continue reading Impending Autumn