No Paraphernalia Needed

No Paraphernalia Needed


With only a couple boxes left on the shelf,
I decided I'd better grab mine
a bowl of hemp oatmeal
to start my day
high the natural way,
no genetically engineered organisms,
chemical herbicides and pesticides,
and never any synthetic preservatives.
No paraphernalia needed,
just empty packet into bowl
add 1/2 cup of water.
Now baby is bouncing
up the right path,
whole grain with a hint of brown sugar,
tasty too.
Endorsed by George Washington himself,
who once said:
"Make the most you can
of the Indian hemp seed
and sow it everywhere."
Thank you Lord
for directing me to Sprouts
and Nature's Path
Hemp Plus.

Pathetic Poetic

Pathetic Poetic

Her arm was broken before they could hear
an infant that never wore a cast,
a sidewalk dumpster bumpster baby,
born in a dadaless wonderland.
She mapped madness and melancholy,
through a pair of John Carpenter sun glasses.

Her nursery was decorated with
Dali psycho schizophrenic illusion,
a distorted holy vision, she drew
along with a key to a golden city.
Her first words, gaga'd
a Sistine Chapel salad super,
hell tickled holy city.

She's the baby that didn't see,
her dietitian forgot to prescribe tea.
She learned her way underwater.
A tile cross on the wall, marked
where it all began, swim skinny sinny bones
seventeen laps by a dog's tongue.

She's a pathetic poetic horror flick,
vanity vanished a foot, off the path,
then back again. Sticks and stabs may slit her abs
but music keeps her breathing.

Her wasteland fed scavengers,
crows asphyxiated her sweet syrup love story.
Now she's sippen slipper juice
alive on the stone, a sequel,
dada come home,
She's a hip-hop baby revival.

Cling

Cling

Tree roots

cling to mounds

like the artist

clings to canvas

Like Madonna clings

to Jesus,

and a song

clings to ones soul.

lawn fairies Tanka

Lawn fairies delight,
raising neon bulbs of dew,
a safe landing light...

for plum blossom wind surfers
that glide on springs waking breath.

A Poem in Rome from Home

Oh beautiful City,
we find love.
Pigeons shuffle between our feet,
a fairy tale,
a composer of music,
history,
walking.

Green grass grows
on an empty lot
and a single flower,
white on white canvas,
unpainted.

Simple faith
for girls without a teacher
and a big bad wolf.
Stones,
windows for shopping,
pillows for dreaming,
God always knows the truth.

Follow the puppet,
never tell a lie,
have lunch
inside a whales stomach,
swim.

Books.
Education.

The roof is a mountain
for a City
and a woman- alone
with only key
gifted from angels
and a fountain of wonder.

Each soul has it's own mystery to solve,
the context of our life,
faith and blood
from birth to death.

Out of the Box

Her head didn't fit
in the box they prepared.
They believed
they could press her down,
but she rose,
opening the lid,
lifting her ears
over the edge -
and her eyes.

The passers cast hooks
into the box.
Little fish bit and teased.
To this they were pleased,
jerking their line
snagging bits of hair
and cardboard.

They yanked hard,
till the box
collapsed - spilling.

Water ran over her body
as she was freed.
Little fish
flipped and squirmed
at her feet.

12/29/2012

Feather

Feather

It found me,
though the bird had flown.
A feather,
on a red door matt.

It could have rode in
on a sock or shoe,
or maybe by
the wind's invitation.

Now sacred words,
adrift, out of place,
unnoticed,
by the passers.