Tuesday, November 19th, 2013
Before he wanders through the wood,
The knave knows not of the beast,
Except the details loudly sung
In the safe warm halls of a feast.
Until an answer can’t be found
The brain knows not how much it grows
When forced to search for methods new,
Opposed to those it thinks it knows.
The body hums an easy pace,
And seems a simple system, sound.
The strength of each component part
Unknown until it comes unbound.
And as it’s breathing down his neck,
The knave remembers those he loves.
He turns and stares at beastly eyes,
His hands fly forward, true as doves.
When answers lie just out of reach,
And all used paths lead to an end
The brain remembers more than facts,
Creative thinking is its friend.
When beaten, bruised, tired, and sore,
Immunities against the ropes,
The body soldiers on and on,
What flows in veins is blood and hopes.
* Inspired by my dear, brave cousin, who is battling cancer.
Sunday, October 27th, 2013
What do you carry in your bag of brains,
Marvels, and memories and little word games?
Do you pack a calculator for everyday use?
A wrench to tighten when things get loose?
A fan to cool those overworked fuses?
Some ice and heat for soothing your bruises?
A scosh of sun in a sealed tight jar?
A map for days you want to go far?
Photos of everything you’ve ever seen,
A cinema screen to watch as you dream?
A notebook of names, a binder of musings,
A gold case of moments especially amusing?
Got a telescope for long-distance viewing?
A cauldron bubbling with ideas stewing?
Files filled full of insightful defeats
Next to a stack of success recipes?
Records tooting your favorite tunes?
A safebox of sweet words that once made you swoon?
An album of faces you’ll never forget,
Blank pages for ones you haven’t met yet?
The size of the satchel is constantly growing
So don’t stop now, keep on stowing!
Wednesday, September 18th, 2013
Before zookeeper, astronaut, athlete, or teacher
I had another idea of what my future would hold.
It was less of a career and more of a feature,
I decided I wanted before I grew old.
When I grow up I’m going to be tall,
I’d announce as if I had the means.
Turns out I grew up to be quite small,
Picking pants is not the same as genes.
Friday, July 12th, 2013
I had a large dinner at quarter past seven,
It rendered me too full to sit,
So I laid on the hammock to stare up at heaven,
Thought I would rest for a bit.
It was a peaceful two minutes, supine outside,
But the little stringies beneath my bum,
Silently screaming, surrendered to my backside,
And submissively snapped, one-by-one.
Thursday, May 30th, 2013
Maybe the dirt under his toes,
The million-years-old grains of sand,
Sparked the ancestry of his fine nose
Set off a chain reaction, demand
To hunt, to chase, to set his gaze
Upon the horizon and scan
For preys to raze and bring forth praise
From his best friend, his master, man.
His muscles twitched. But not so fast,
Fowl was sparse in this urban land.
Jays parted ways, larks did not last,
And the city had chickens banned.
But his stance was firm, his jaw set,
His tail was as stiff as a mast.
Paused his duties as a house pet
As he spotted something fly past.
The hound in him snapped back with ease.
Adjusting to much smaller kill,
Domestic dog settled for bees.
Wild pup just enjoys the thrill.
Friday, May 3rd, 2013
Like a hummingbird
Moves so little, so much work,
Except I am slow.
Monday, April 8th, 2013
My great grandfather owned a gas station,
The first fuel pump in all of the nation.
Well maybe not nation but first in my town,
Well before laughter fueled us around.
Perhaps ingenuity skips a generation
Because my father ignited the transformation
From cars using gas to giggles and hees,
And laughter, not gas fumes, filling the breeze.
It happened one day when we ran out of gas
Began telling jokes to help the time pass.
We burst out with laughter, the car it roared
With laughter too, and the gas was floored.
The rest, is history, as you are aware,
Each somber drive now a jolly affair.
And if you are alone and cant conjure up laughter
At a station buy bottles of hearty laughs – captured.
And now more folks plan on driving together
‘Cause laughing with two or more is much better.
Travelers are not alone in now feeling sunny,
The economy is thriving, and embracing funny.
Friday, April 5th, 2013
Most people are reminded of
Their loved ones by flowers
Wanting to sit in a field,
Sniff & ruminate for hours.
The scent of roses, daisies,
Fragrant petals and such,
Mimic their love for another,
But for me – this is too much.
When I walk by a swamp,
A dump, can, or a bog,
Or smell air filled with
Acid rain, smoke, or fog,
Or when I walk by a
Tooter, or a dog squatting on grass,
Or if Cupid is kind,
By a cow farm I pass
That’s when I think of you.
Most people upon hearing,
Meolodius music and sounds,
Daydream of wonderful times
Spent in their lovers bounds.
The sweet sounds simmer
In a soft spot in their heart
And remind them they mustn’t
Spend a second apart.
I must admit, sometimes
I slide into this state of mind,
But for the most part I
Consider myself not of this kind.
When I hear music that
Makes my bones rattle,
My muscles tighten & flex
Jams that are a battle
Between thirty-two instruments,
With words that usually
Make little sense.
That’s when I think of you.
Thursday, April 4th, 2013
They say that hardship is halved when shared.
Tell me next time you’re feeling sorrow.
I have a friend, happy to help in repair,
Whose services you’d like to borrow.
Britt was born with a wonderful gift,
A physical skill plus infinite cheer.
Her tear ducts are run by an on-off switch
Turning on anytime someone crying is near.
When her tears turn on, the cry balance shifts.
Suddenly, you will feel lighter than air.
Your tear trickle slows, your sadness lifts,
Oh but for Britt you ask, is it fair?
Don’t worry she won’t be burdened with pain,
To her its just tears with no blues.
And to help stay dry from her daily tear rain,
Wears small umbrellas over her shoes.
Wednesday, April 3rd, 2013
Her milk poured out of a metal spout,
Flowing the same way soda comes out.
With no mooing sound or swishing tail,
Machines hath replaced the metal pail.
In cities and towns, food is ample,
With different colors and tastes of milk to sample.
It’s easy to forget where it all comes from
And where the cartons go when the day is done.
So let me tell you of this one dear farm,
And its loving farmer with timeless charm.
Most farms these days stuff cows in stalls,
Confined indoors by windowless walls.
But not this farmer, no siree,
He lets his cows roam outside, free.
He gives each cow a name, an identity,
Designed his farm to keep the cows happy.
Despite the number, he names all his sows.
John Jansen the farmer, loves his cows.