Tag: poetry

Moving On (Or Not)

smokeface

I sat at the window

In my lonely house

And scrutinized the

Sad summer moon.

 

Find another lover

 

On the lawn below,

A lurking black cat

Shape-shifted thru

Indistinct shadows.

 

Move on, she’d said

 

The soft moonlight

Somehow soothed

The all-enveloping

Sorrow in my soul.

 

Swear it on my life

 

I reluctantly got up

And threw my butt

Away as well as my

Old marriage vows.

 

You made a promise

 

In minutes, I was at

A single’s bar, both

Hoping and hoping

Not to find a lover.

the sportsman

the sportsman

 

webster’s says a sportsman is a man

who hunts wild animals as a pastime

but it doesn’t seem all that sporting

to me for a heartless trophy hunter

to gun down a wild animal for sport

 

terrified of the stinky monkey man

his more docile prey see him as an

evil affront to nature with his noisy

guns and his sharp teeth for ripping

flesh and his eyes so full of murder

 

the sportsman is a very macho man

you should see him aiming that gun

and so carefully pulling that trigger

if he desires to be a real sportsman

he should hunt lions with his knife

 

After Christmas

broken bulb

 

(Not for the humorless)

 

‘Twas the day after Christmas, when all through the house,

Not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse.

The stocking were flung on the floor without care,

The tree, once so proud, now stood lifeless and bare.

Little Sue’s dolly was missing her head,

John’s truck had a wreck when the batteries went dead.

There were boxes and ribbons and wrappings galore–

Huge mountains of trash on the pine-needle floor.

And ma in her undies, and me in the buff,

Had just settled down–we’d had quite enough!

I’d had too much eggnog and too many nuts,

And the fudge Patty made felt like stone in my guts.

When out on the lawn, there arose such a clatter,

I sprang from my bed to see what was the matter;

Away to the window, I managed to trudge,

Tore open the shutters and threw up the fudge.

And what did my wondering eyes behold then,

But a huge garbage truck with eight garbage men,

With a little old driver, so lively and quick,

I knew in a flash it was Garbageman Nick.

He was covered in grime from his head to his foot,

And his clothes were all tarnished with ashes and soot.

A bundle of trash he had flung on his back,

And he looked like a hobo just toting his pack.

He spoke not a word, but went straight to his work,

Yet seeing me there, he turned with a jerk,

And laying a finger aside of his nose,

He offered a gesture I cannot disclose.

He sprang to his truck, to his team gave a yell,

And away they all flew like a bat out of hell,

And standing there naked, enframed by the sash,

With my gut full of pain and my house full of trash,

I heard him exclaim as he drove out of sight,

“Last call for trash ‘fore we all go on strike!”