2012 Poetry: Shakespearian Sonnet

The bigot strikes the heart with words of stone,

lashing at fantasy cracks in one’s soul.

His words careen, tumble and tear through bone.

He hopes others will help them speed their roll.

A boulder roles loudly, clumsy and slow,

and friction does chip and crumble its base.

Observers act and help absorb the blow.

And granite eyes define the bigot’s face.

Alas, the danger lies in kindly heart.

Microbial dust defiles honest breath.

Unbeknown, the dust stays below at start.

Once dust can cling, it strangles men to death.

Do not fear one man’s hate and bigotry,

he has compiled from society.

2012 Poetry: Glorious Joaquin the Brave

Through the stately streets of Clear Water

Where the oil lamps lit the way,

Steadily stumbled a mighty man

With a jug tilted to his face.

 

His dress was that of nobles

With coat, boots and blade.

His body was a veteran brawler,

And his hair was iced by age.

 

He parted the oaken doors and entered

The jolly old Gentlemen’s Club.

The blazing hearth chased out the cold

with the smell of fine tobacco that he loved.

 

He strode with purpose through the tavern

Where he was known to spend his time.

He meant to stop only for a moment

To refill his jug with wine.

 

Yet, he stayed for all the patrons

Who sang praises to his name,

And he longed for tender wenches

And the comfort they once gave.

2012 Poetry: The Lost Boy

When Billy was a small kid

He lived with wild dogs.

He ate the prickly bushes,

And he slept among the logs.

 

Billy was a small kid

But strong and mean and quick.

When he was teased by the other kids,

He would hit them with a stick.

 

The other children’s parents

Would raise their voices and say,

“Billy you’re a bad kid.”

Then, they’d chase him away.

 

But Billy was a smart kid

Although he lived with wild dogs,

And ate the prickly bushes,

And slept among the logs.

 

The parents would soon get tired

And turn to walk away.

Then, Billy would circle back,

And not a word he would say.

 

Although, Billy was a small kid,

He was strong and mean and quick.

When the parents weren’t looking,

He would hit them with a stick.

July Poem 30

Who wants to move the soda

Gun dripping from the rigging

Onto the stainless steel counter?

 

With a stopgap bar towel to control

The puddle, he leaned back crusted

With salt searching for that

Wife out of town affect.

 

The chorus parted to let him speak,

A microphone for her birthday, Berg guns

Calibrated to give out the smallest degree.

But I’m not tired and buttery nipple doesn’t keep.

July Poem 29

Josh Cherry said in the past,

The Public School Department of Education

Should be fine with communities.

On the other hand, the lime juice side could care less.

Those living in the household

Of the same game who are age 18 and older,

You’ve been pre-selected to receive licensed drivers

Through their vote for a candidate.

But memory was so faulty

Had faded so much, a clay mask with a mouth

Surrounded by vegetation,

And the low branches made to watch the event.

July Poem 27

Dish is changing to make sales representative

Trade-in allowances of circuit boards

That just bedded down onto his rump.

Though it might not quite be resumed abroad,

The research and the making of it seemed to fund

In about the time handed down during the May fine.

They are also of a rare noon. And we’re throwing in extra

College game rules, and conditions.

July Poem 26

The grass, in this corner, full off

The sturdy base of the porch,

Heard an easel and canvas

From the finalist center stage.

His height down like to the grass,

He hunched under the tree

Of tonight’s further ado.

Set up around the grass was

The western understanding.

The captains of grass had to be full of color.

They set up and could not move.

Of the stage, they wore peach colored tree

Hands that followed behind when both gentlemen

Could not be sure how long I had been turned

To face them. I feel roots. I don’t know.

July Poem 25

The flier read the yard with me: that was

The staple out of the marble

With the nails, the yard, the flier, with me

Out of the side of the largest hill.

In darker not quite brown section of shadow,

There was a hint of blue

Elements in the roughly hewn stone seats.

There was a figure in the dark.

Stan. But he looked strange.