Photo Essay: A Postcard Portrait History of President Joe Biden's Family Tree.

 

Today's Timericks.

 

Pastor Stewart-Allen Clark/has now really made his mark/telling maidens plain so shy/that they need to beautify/their dull faces so to rouse/men to want to be their spouse/With no money in his plate/told his pulpit to vacate/this poor preacher now resides/far from any blushing brides. 

When you shake the money tree/who cares about trajectory?/As long as I am getting mine/I won't waste breath on some big whine/about the undeserving poor/who also this time 'round will score/a check from Uncle Sammy's purse/I love he's now a free wet nurse! 

Reporters ought to know by now/police expect them to kowtow/to their demands to leave a place/or get some cayenne in the face/Though it's their job to cover news/some judges find that's no excuse/to witness what police may do/when protestors have come in view.

He shall make bare his arm in the eyes of the nations.

 

The mighty power of the Lord

by men today has been ignored.

But there will come a day when He

will bare his arm for all to see.

The nations then shall recognize

his right to reign and to chastise.

Photo Essay: Outdoor Sketches & Commentary.

 

I watched Kirk Douglas in "Lust for Life' on Netflix last night. So today I had to tote my sketch pad and drawing utensils into the great outdoors for some manic/depressive scribbling. Here are the results:

In a brown pot

even mostly dead herbs

look classical.

When the artist makes cedar

behind a fence look like

a bamboo grove --

it's time he took up

photography.

A windy day.

A red No-Parking curb,

crammed with dead leaves.

It all means only one thing --

torticollis.

Photo Essay: Postcard Triptych mailed to Reporter Rory Satran -- Your Family Tree

 

Prose Poem: Beijing Socks.

 

"I got these socks in Beijing

twenty years ago -- and they're 

still as good as new" I told our 

dinner guests.

They all dropped to the floor

to gaze under the table at

my socks.

Dark green, they are --

with fuzzy white specks.

"Woven from spruce thread"

I told them, once they had

reseated themselves.

The socks were a gift from

Jiang Zemin during a trade 

conference in Beijing.

I was there as a junior

plenipotentiary.

We successfully renegotiated 

cottonseed oil quotas.

Then went on to Malaysia

to arbitrate the annual copra appraisal.

That's where I learned that latex dentures

were just an urban myth.

The State Department was 

very interested in my information,

I can tell you that.

But my professional detachment

began to crumble a few years ago --

and my resignation caused few ripples

in Foggy Bottom;

I slipped away as quietly as 

smoke drifting through a picket fence.

Now, with Elon Musk, Jeff Bezos, 

and Warren Buffet,

I'm investigating the possibilities

of duckweed.

It thrives in polluted water,

absorbing heavy metals.

It's been used as livestock fodder

for centuries.

Compressed into bricks, it

burns much cleaner and hotter

 than coal.

And the thread-like roots

can be spun into a durable

green fabric.

Like that used in my socks

from Jiang Zemin.

Joe Biden wants in, big time.

He's ponied up several trillion dollars

for our startup. 

And to top it off,

Oprah is interested in starting 

her own Duckweed Culinary Institute

to discover nutritious applications of

duckweed in urban food deserts . . .

If only God were still alive 

to see me now!

Today's Timericks.

 

My contact with cash is remote/the virus has left me afloat/drifting sans wages/with increasing stages/of not having one single groat.

***********************

Even though we are desirous

to be rid of this darn virus

it mutates so very quick

that it still makes us quite sick --

so we still deal with Osiris . . . 

******************************

When I'm gone, remember me

as one without much gravity;

I took my chances, blew a wad,

made mistakes, and sought for God.

Do not ask "What was the point?"

'Twas bringing laughter to the joint!

Photo Essay: Postcard Triptych on the Demise of Mr. Potato Head.

 Much thanks to Johnny Diaz, whose article in the New York Times skillfully limns the sad demise of the traditional Mr. Potato Head, and other unwanted childhood tropes. This triptych is dedicated to him, and mailed to him in 3 separate pieces.

Wealth maketh many friends

 

If you want lots of friends, be rich --

they'll come to you without a hitch.

My life would sure be very nice

if I could take my own advice.

But since I'm broke, and threadbare, too,

with the Heavens I'll make do.

They smile on me majestically,

though I am poor domestically.

Today's Timericks.

 

I'm gonna get a million from the government real soon!/I'll buy a yacht, a foreign car, and one trip to the Moon!/That Biden, he is quite a guy; so generous and kind/Of course a number cruncher in DC can loose his mind/But what care I if dollar bills will soon become tp/I'll burn 'em in my barbeque to make a fricasee!

The Ayatollah and the Pope were meeting in old Ur/A site so ancient that the dust was too tired to stir/They shook hands for the media and smiled real wide as well/while thinking to themselves "He's just a lousy infidel!"/Perhaps the Buddha had it right; we'll all come back again/and maybe learn to love more wide while still in our playpen. 

I love to fry up onions/they go with any meat/some people call them noisome/to me their flavor's sweet/morning, noon, and dinner/ I slide 'em in a pan/and use them for a topping/ on steak and fish and Spam/My neighbors are complaining/they cannot stand the fumes/but I'll keep eating onions/while they starve in their rooms!