Memorial Cliché


 A mean and petty old boss I once had,

made threats to all when he was mad.

“My pen’s mightier than the sword!” he’d say

“Bad recommendations will affect your pay.”

He was always looking to pick a fight.

So with my pen I poked him – to find he’s right.




Enough Said


Nature needs man like a hole needs a head.

Man needs nature as butter needs bread.

Needs fulfill, it’s how we’re fed.

Yet when needs consume nature’s dead.



Testimonia Miscellanea


I know not what of poetry.

If it sounds Latin it’s Greek to me.

Yet pages turned new words learned,

emotionally concerned more is yearned.


Emboldened by fantasy I ward off attacks.

Slivers of truth yet slip through the cracks.

In a masquerade of hither and yon,

a poet’s mask is what I write on.


Sadness lurks beyond a child’s grin.

The truth bleeds hidden within.

All parabolic permutations I can’t define,

calculating the depth of every line.


So I’ll jump up and down, rattle around,

feet in the air and ears to the ground.

I’ll hear the sounds I note before bed,

where arranged tomorrow, unless I’m dead.







I don’t like writing sad poetry.

It’s not a place I choose to see.

In my world of goodness, all are free,

where faces of children are full of glee.

Hope and happiness is how it should be.


Yet pencils ever dull in reality,

so I hone my points, turn’s the key.

Returning I do to the safety of fantasy.

I think that’s best, don’t you agree?

Or is everything escape in poetry?