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Author: poetrypause

Promise

The night is clear
The crickets sing
  The moon hangs high and still;
The twenty-ninth
Of August comes
  And memories from it spill.

A couple spoke
The wedding vow,
  Upon a stage were cast;
Though it seems
As yesterday,
  So many years have passed.

I’ve never met
A promise made
  That time did not undo;
A summer’s night
Within the still, 
  Remains the promise true.
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Blue Moon

On the eve of the New Year
We’ll be one year away
From a rising blue moon
That’ll be on display.

Uncommon occurrence
Each quarter decade,
Two-thousand and nine
It’ll be on parade.

In time universal
As a blue moon holds sway,
The heavens bow down
As the night slides away.

A night to cast wishes,
When wishes come true,
When a new year’s delivered
On a moon that is blue. 
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302

They’re painting the rooms,
They’re making it theirs,
Transforming it like
I never was there.

Walking through rooms,
The kitchen and bath,
Transforming the halls
To unrecognized paths.

Gone is the soul
That inhabited her;
Heartbeats anew,
A new soul confer.

Though doorways once open
Forever now close,
Between every wall
My memories repose.
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Fleedom

They’re invading our lives,
Every breath that we take,
Protecting ourselves 
From the judgments we make.

The government thinks
That your freedom of choice
Should be theirs to decide
Not a freedom you voice.

Every year passing
Brings about laws
Patronizing some sector
For their votes and their cause.

But they’re going to far
And it’s time to revolt,
To rally the masses,
Uprightwardly bolt.

Introducing a law,
Two congressmen talk
About fining the foks
Who text while they walk.

And Maryland’s trying
To stop the massage
Of animals equine
As a part of dressage.

For years in Damascus
In Maryland state,
A woman name Mercedes
To horses relates.

 
To train and to calm them
Her services sought,
By the owners of horses
For muscles grown taut.

Now the state has declared
That she no longer can –
She needs a license,
Until then she’s banned.

She’ll have to acquire
The license that’s held
By masseuses and trainers
That are likewise compelled.

They’ve shuttered her business
Of fifteen long years,
She can’t rub their muscles
But only their ears.

From the language you use,
To the jokes you can tell,
To the people you hire
And what you can sell,

Their hot air combines
With an iron-fist way
Corroding the soul
With each passing day.

Slowly eroding,
The land of the free-
The political forces
Destroy by decree.
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Feet Us

This is exciting
Perhaps it’s a clue
Policemen are happy
All dressed up in blue

For a fifth human foot
Has washed onto shore
In the waters off Westham
In the country next door.
 
The Canadian shoreline’s
Been buzzin’ all year
As the feet keep collectin’
Most odd and most queer

But this one is different
From the earlier four
For this one’s a lefty
All right ones before

The source of the flesh
Washing up on the shore
Is a mystery to those
Who investigate gore.

But the novelty trade
Is expanding each day
With everything fashioned
Like feet from the bay
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Bare Trend

There’s a new trend
That’s making its mark -
Activities done
Naked and stark.

Not sexy and swinging
But normal things nude;
Hobbies done naked
But never done crude. 

Pete’s got a place
On Old Fulton Street
In Brooklyn New York
Where naked you’ll eat.

The diners and waiters
The staff and the crew,
Don’t wear a stitch
While swilling the brew.

And the Mercantile Grill
Serves beverage and food
In lower Manhattan
To those dining nude.

Perhaps meditation’s
More suited to you
Then the Temple of Phoenix
Offers yoga to do.
 

Stretching and pulling
While naked and bare,
Downward faced dogs
Waving butts in the air.

At the People’s Improv,
A comedic showcase,
The only thing worn
Is a smile on a face.

There’s even an airline
That flies the blue sky,
Each passenger nude,
Each bosom and thigh.

But judging from people
I’ve seen on the street,
Nude’s not the way
Most people I’d meet. 

It’s surely sounds better
Than it’s sure to be,
When most of the dressed
I’d rather not see.

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Graduate

He was a good student they say
Nonetheless he’s the worst anyway;
  At the top of his class,
  He came in dead last
At the graduate student soiree.

When he started the school there were plenty
Of students like him, maybe twenty.
  But when he was done,
  He was it, only one,
The classroom was virtually empty.

Through four years that he had attended
All others attending had ended
  Their presence at school
  And adherence to rule,
One way or another suspended.

Embarking on his senior year
To everyone soon it was clear;
  They’d all said goodbye,  
  There was only one guy
Attending the lectures to hear.

‘Twas the shortest of services rendered,
When official diplomas were tendered.
  He walked ‘cross the stage
  When his name they did page,
Then his cap and his gown he surrendered.

The best and the brightest attending
The class of ’08 he was ending.
  Though finishing first
  He was also the worst,
Both honors to him they’re extending.
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Fowl Play

He’s joined the Colonel in the sky;
Joined him there, their birds to fry.
Mr. Copeland, sixty-four –
Al he was to friends, no more.

Founding Popeye’s Famous Fried
Chicken he’s now upped and died.
His salivary gland got sick,
Grew a tumor, he died quick.

Copeland had a donut store
When KFC came to his door;
Thinking it a better gig,
In his pocket deep he’d dig.

Founding Chicken on the Run,
His answer to the Colonel’s fun;
But six months passed, he’s goin’ broke,
Thinks some spice will sales stoke.

Closes down to rearrange
The recipe of flavor change;
The French Connection lends the name -
Popeye Doyle’s how Popeye came.

Opens up and three weeks pass,
And Mr. Copeland’s kickin’ ass;
Ten years on, eight hundred stores
Dot the landscape, shore-to-shore.

Feelin’ good about his place,
He’s Number 3 as chickens race;
Makes a grab for Number 2,
Buys up Church’s Chicken too.

But it is leveraged to the hilt,
And Copeland’s fortunes start to wilt.
Belly-up did Popeye’s send,
Fifteen years from start to end,

Lamborghinis, powerboats,
Gated yards and castle moats;
He lived large but leaves the cast
Frying chicken unsurpassed.
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Piloting Rest

There once was a pilot named Oltman,
Shepley his mate on the flight plan;
  The airline they flew,
  Hawaii Go Blue,
Essentially wings on a tin can.

Flying commuters they daily
Flew customers giddy and gaily
  Island hop-scotching,
  The passengers watching,
While listening to strummed ukuleles.

Three quarters an hour the flights are,
No movie, no lunch and no wet bar.
  Just a quick up and down,
  They fly town to town,
Guided by radar and North Stars.

But yesterday’s flight like no other,
Controllers would shortly discover;
  When it came time to land
  The plane as was planned,
The airplane continued to hover.

The radio calls to the plane crew
Unanswered they were as the plane flew;
  Too many minutes
  Controllers would fidget,
Determining what they could do.

Another plane hung in the skyway,
Traveling the aerial highway,
  Was dispatched to see
  What it was that could be
Keeping the flight in the flyway.

Overshooting the landing by miles,
The worry turned soon into smiles.
  The pilot and mate,
  Though responding quite late,
Had fallen asleep at the dials.

A comforting thought while proceeding
On airplanes while napping or reading,
  That the men who are charged
  With your safety at-large,
From consciousness may be receding.
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Empty

The heart was forsaken
The day that she left,
The chambers were emptied,
Abandoned, bereft.

The pathway of promise,
The corridor close,
Like withering petals
Of a lover’s last rose.

Emptiness seized
The blackening skies;
The definitive dawn,
The sun’s final rise. 
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