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Month: June 2022


Driven by the winter winds,
Through the season still,
Verdant flora russet bound
Defeated by its chill.

Through the heavens angling
To better suit the sun,
The earth in search of radiance
Has for the spring begun.

Fauna reemerging from
The shadows to the roost,
Scamper from the underground
Upon the scenery loosed.

Leafless branches bearing buds,
Bare witness to the dawn;
Sleeping leaves and flowers bloom
As buds begin to yawn.

The resurrection of the birth,
Renewal of the soul;
Restoration of the hope
Diminished by life’s toll. 
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Rev. Al v the I-Man

It’s what he saw
So what he said,
Now folks are wishin’
He were dead.

For 40 years
He’s talkin’ trash;
It’s what he does
For lots of cash.

Some will listen,
Some will not,
To Imus in
The morning slot.

Tuned in, millions,
To interviews
And come what may.

Others don’t,
And millions more
His morning show
Will just ignore.

You can listen,
You cannot;
Change the station
On the spot.

That’s the freedom
Of the press,
That’s the freedom
To express.

But Reverend Al,
He took offense
To Imus and,
From that pretense,

Called for him
To lose his job;
His audience
From him would rob.

Sharpton’s card
In every scene
He’s ever starred.

He plays the deal
At every chance,
To puff his chest
And prance and dance.

The interest in 
This man exceeds
The worthiness
Of any deeds.

Yet there he is
On center stage,
Stirring up
The public rage.

For what and why,
The big debate -
A silenced man
Less apt to hate?

The danger’s not
In what’s expressed,
The danger’s in 
A voice repressed. 

He masquerades
Behind a prayer;
Of demagogues
You must beware.
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False Idol

I could have won the contest,
If only I’d have known;
The prize was worth pursuin’
And to it I’d have flown.

A couple grand she’s richer,
Her name is Katherine Tuck;
While she would win the contest
In Jersey I was stuck.

Montpelier was the venue,
The one that’s in Vermont;
An annual occasion,
A prize that I would want.

The winner was determined
From sneakers on their feet;
And I’d have been the favorite,
The one they’d have to beat.

The Rotten Sneaker Contest,
Now thirty-two years proud,
Features sneakers reeking
So bad they smell out loud!

To win the shoes submitted
Must rise above the smell
Of other sneakers gathered-
Olfactory living hell.

Katherine’s only thirteen,
And that’s too little time;
My feet aged to perfection, 
My feet are in their prime. 

Her shoes, a pair of Nikes,
Are eighteen months in age;
The fungus on my great toe
Is older at this stage!

I could have been a winner,
And Katherine Tuck defeat;
The crowd would hold their noses
And worship at my feet.
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It lost its struggle to remain
A leaf upon a tree,
And though it clung tenaciously
It now has fallen free.

When spring began it wasn’t there,
Unfettered was the tree
By leaves of any sort or size
And sunshine rained on me.

But summer brought a jubilee
Of leaves that grew to green;
And rays of light that once poured in
Would elsewhere then convene.

As fall begins to settle in
The leaves begin to brown,
And shade cast by their canopy 
Is lost when they fall down.

Yesterday the leaf clung firm
Though green to brown it turned,
But now beneath the oaken branch
Upon the ground lies spurned.

Its purpose served, it now returns
To feed and fuel the earth
From which it sprung, it now fulfills
The calling of its birth. 
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  the willful
  the willing
the fire

the tempted
  the willful
  the willing

  the willful
  the willing

  the willful
  the willing

the glance
and the glancing
the dancer
the dancing
  the willful
  the willing
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From Iran to speak he came,
His presence sure to all enflame.
Symbolically, jihad’s façade;
Its president, Ahmadinejad. 

A little man whose stature grows
Within the minds of would be foes;
The world has empowered him,
Beyond his place as passing whim.

From within his desert home,
A pile of sand, this little gnome
Denies the lessons of the past,
Arrested thought within him vast.

Some fear his words used to enflame
But it’s his words that make him lame;
When he speaks it’s on display,
His ignorance in full array.

Yesterday before a crowd,
Announced to all so rightly proud,
That thanks to Allah, all ye praise,
That in Iran there are no gays.

(Of course there’s fewer than before
‘Cause when they’re caught, they’re caught no more;
He wraps a noose around their neck
And drops ‘em through a wooden deck.)

In the litter box he plays,
A piece of waste with numbered days;
Not worthy of the time of day,
Napoleonic, he’s cliché.
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Something to consider
The next time you are bound
To visit with your dentist
For cavities you’ve found.

The medical tribunal
In London’s fabled town
Oversees the medics,
In counsel to the crown.

Brought before the trio,
A Dr. Hutchinson,
Alleged to be deficient
In dentistry he’d done.

“Sir, it’s been reported,
By patients in your care,
When practicing your practice
No gloves you ever wear.

It’s also been detailed,
By those you have employed,
You utilize quite oddly
Those dental tools deployed.

You clean your fingernails
With tools you then insert
Into your patient’s cavities,
Or so some here assert. 

Dr. Alan Hutchinson
It seems a little weird,
You clean your ears with tweezers 
Until your ears are cleared.
But these offenses pale
They really seem quite tame,
When measured by the tale
For which your nurse here came.

A final question queried
About your dental ways,
Then we will issue findings -
Condemn you or we’ll praise.

In practice as a dentist
For years of twenty-eight;
Do you think within the spittoon 
You ought to urinate?”

The testimony given,
All witnesses he’d faced,
The medical tribunal
Upon him guilt has placed.

He’s not out of business,
Another hearing’s set
To determine if his hygiene
Serves up a dental threat. 
A wave of nausea rises
In patients he has known;
And as for new appointments,
Not likely they’ll be prone.

A checklist for your dentist
Before he parts your lips;
He’s zipped and wearin’ latex
Upon his fingertips.
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Match Point

I’m still in the running!
I’ve still got a chance!
I’m swabbin’ my tongue,
My chance to enhance.

The judge has decided
To run a new test
On Anna Nicole –
The one with big breasts!

To determine who fathered
Her most recent kid,
Of the hundreds that tried,
They’ll determine which did.

I filed the papers,
My swabs in a tube,
To prove that I fathered
The kid of this rube.

The chances are better,
The investment the same,
As the dollar I’d spend
On a lottery game.

Not like the legs
Of the lady we’ve lost,
Every finger I’ve got
With another is crossed.

Here’s prayin’ my cells
Can be DNA matched
To the motherless baby 
And the fortune attached.
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All the News That’s Fit to Print

The week’s reviewed within this poem,
Distilled and poured from news I comb
  From yesterday, four stories versed
For you to read at work or home.

We’ll kick it off with one depraved,
On a driveway asphalt paved,
 Mom and dad fresh off a spat
Apparently dad’s brain then caved.

In his car the children load
While mom went back before they rode,
  To get her purse or keys or coins,
Looked out to see the dad explode.

Through the window of the car
Threw the baby, not too far,
  To the grass beside the door
Knife and blood on baby are.

The blade within poor Devlin’s back, 
His brother ran from the attack.
  Mom rushed Devlin to a friend
While the car, the dad did jack.

Devlin’s daddy’s on the run,
They patched up Daddy’s second son.
  Mom is under constant guard
Thank God ol’ daddy had no gun.

Back at home in Michigan,
Where I was once a favorite son,
  A turkey will be honored soon
Where Methodists conduct their fun.

It would seem a turkey came,
Attending service in God’s name,
  Every Sunday at the door
Greeting comers; grew quite tame.

Two years he tended to this chore,
Standing sentry at the door,
  But met his end this week just passed
When down upon him cars did bore.

So come this Sunday service held,
In honor of this turkey felled,
   In Wales Township, prayer and song
Will fill the church where turkey dwelled.

Along the turnpike of our state,
A Russian man would meet his fate;
  To a rest stop with his friend,
The Russian man outside would wait.

Nearly eighty, out he went,
Where Brian White was trouble bent.
  At twenty-six, from out of state,
Mr. White attacked the gent.

Beat him ‘til he’d breathe no more,
While folks were screamin’ from the door.
  Then in his car, he sped away,
Pedal pushed down to the floor.

Ninety miles of givin’ chase,
They caught the Texan, won the race.
  Booked and charged with murder one,
To Humble, Texas brought disgrace.

In a brothel in Cologne,
Where services are sold and sewn,
  They’re offering a discount rate
For seniors who are all alone.

Like a diner’s own Blue Plate,
For senior’s who will come in late,
  Between the hours of 12 and 5 
A discount price of half the rate.

For feeble folks with aging eyes,
Membership in AARP will rise.
  They got the money, got the time; 
They only hope that no one dies.
And that’s the news that’s print to fit,
Upon this page, to you submit;
  Stories from the Ides of March,
Nuanced in verse, abridged a bit. 
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02:03:04 05/06/07

Set your clocks,
Be sure to rise;
Sunday brings
A big surprise!

Another hundred
Years you’ll wait
Before you’ll see
This sort of date.

Four seconds past
Three minute’s mark,
At two o’clock
When it’s still dark,

On May the Sixth,
In order all,
This year of years,
The numbers fall. 

Don’t be late
To celebrate
What time and date
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