Prose Poem: I'll throw in the teakwood furniture.

 

There's an Asian woman lying on my bed.

I don't know who she is

or how she got into my house

and into my bedroom.

I've been home all day,

pondering deep subjects

like how to avoid paying too much

capital gains tax.

I never saw her enter my lovely

and spacious home, where I

love to entertain family, neighbors,

and guests of all sorts.

I'm really a very outgoing

and hospitable person

who cooks lavish meals

and is known for giving extravagant

presents at the drop of a hat.

So far I have not approached her

too closely, nor interacted with her.

But she knows I'm looking at her.

And she's smiling.

There's only one thing I can do --

leave immediately and sell the house.

I'll get a good price for it.

I'll throw in the teakwood furniture at

no extra charge.

And the strongbox of gold Krugerrands in the basement,

I'll also throw that in for free.

Like I say, I'm a generous guy --

who doesn't want any trouble. 

Rock and Flower.

 

Rock and flower both agree

there is nothing here to see;

yet it seems that destiny

made this scene for poetry.

Yet confess I must sadly

that I see but reality. 

Today's Timericks. (Now Featuring Matt Gaetz!)

 

Deliver me some pizza/deliver me some fries/and while you go about it/send sixteen apple pies/There's nothing like calzone/while watching HBO/No calories are counted/out on my patio/Spring weather brings rejoicing/and many greasy tubs/of KFC and Popeye's/to me and my fat schlubs!

There was a lawmaker named Matt/who wanted some cuddling, stat/His staff didn't know/that this Romeo/would land them all in  boiling fat. 

The MLB steps up to bat/and leaves Georgia feeling quite flat/by pulling their game/from their state so lame/A great way to show tit-for-tat!

Today's Timericks. (Featuring Genghis Khan!)

 

There once was a President Biden/who money was always providin'/to fix all the roads/and public commodes/despite all the GOP's chidin'.

The South may never rise again/considering the acumen/with which their states restrict the vote/It's getting many people's goat/So companies both small and great/are leaving Georgia to locate/somewhere that defies Jim Crow/where suffrage never must tiptoe.

The trees are going, going, gone/falling like it's Genghis Khan/chopping down an army brave/not a single trunk to save/Too bad Treebeard ain't around/to protect the battleground!

Break forth into singing, O mountains!

 

The mountains shout; the valleys sing --

to celebrate their hallowed king.

We, too, know of this great report:

that Christ the claims of death did thwart.

The world cannot withstand the cheer

that Christians feel this time of year!

Prose Poem: The Terrible Secret in the Garage.

 

At the age of fifty-five I decided

to run away from the circus

and join a home. 

I packed enough cotton candy to last

me for a week and snuck off the lot

in the middle of night.

First I went to my son's house

in Walla Walla.

His mother was the bearded lady.

But he would not let me in.

Said I abandoned him and his mother

when times got hard back in the 90's.

I guess I can't blame him.

So I went to my daughter's house

in Oshkosh.

Her mother was head kinker.

She died during the Great Milwaukee

Circus Parade of 2009.

Run over by an elephant.

She was glad to see me

and made up a comfortable 

back bedroom for me,

with a view of apple trees

from my window.

She only made one condition:

I was to never go into the garage,

where her husband kept something

secret and terrible.

I said okay, sure, no problemo.

I was very happy playing with

the grandkids and eating oatmeal

at the same table every morning.

I never got bored watching the mailman

come by every day at 4 p.m. 

Then my daughter's husband disappeared.

He went into the garage one day and never

came out. The police searched for him

but got no clues from the garage.

When I went into the garage there was 

nothing in there but hundreds of dried

peach pits.

My daughter was so distraught

that she packed up the kids

and joined my old circus --

as a ticket taker.

She left the house to me.

I take in boarders and embroider

face masks to make ends meet.

My God shall be my strength.

 

My God shall be my strength;

his might he shares with me,

when I obey his will

with true sincerity.

His spirit speaks of love;

of comfort, joy, and peace.

With God I hope all things;

his power brings release.

Where are the cranks of yesteryear?

 

Where are the cranks of yesteryear;

the ones we jeered but did not fear?

Without a cyber platform stand

they rattled folk throughout the land.

On street corners, in public parks,

they gave us such delightful larks.

There was Carry Nation, then;

the terror of all drinking men.

She axed saloons with pious glee;

bartenders thought her quite screwy.

Emperor Norton, of old Frisco,

whose mental state was that of Crisco,

lorded over all the nobs --

and ruled the merry, laughing mobs.

He dined for free on lobster bisque

and granted titles without risk.

And nobody is quite surpassin'

the nuttiness of Harold Stassen.

For president he ran nine times

(he had a glitch with his enzymes.)

Taken first so seriously,

later on 'twas deliriously.

He was a laughing stock, but stay;

nobody said "Put him away!"

Compare those cranks of former days

with how we treat our mental strays

in this cruel, suspicious age --

when ev'ry quirk doth have its cage.

Police respond with rubber hose

to those who thumb a public nose.

The internet is laid with traps

for those who make the slightest lapse.

All innocent eccentricity 

is treated with severity.

Mike Romanoff, we need your kind -- 

to give us laughing peace of mind!

Today's Timericks.

 

Nobody fights the Taliban/They have become a bogeyman/They come and go just as they please/They are fanatics who have fleas/Some groups are just bad news, that's all/The Taliban outshines them all.

Critters in Montana, flee!/The Governor is on a spree/and wants the wolves and bears to know/they're gonna fall like Jericho/with traps and poison tossed about/and that includes complacent trout!

 Happy days are here again/for the lucky businessmen/But blue collar jobs are not/getting such a booster shot/Jobless, homeless, hungry, too/for many it's still Waterloo.

The Lord remembereth all them that have been broken off.

 

The Lord remembers each of us --

to Him, none are superfluous.

He made us, gives us life and breath,

and cares for us long after death.

We may think we're beyond the pale,

but God's watchcare can never fail.