Posts Tagged ‘poetry’

Sunday Poem: Should I Continue Reading Man’s Lame Law

December 9, 2018

The inspiration for this villanelle came from a recent Supreme Court of Canada decision, and from the Westmount Poetry Group.

Should I continue reading Man’s lame law?     /
Particularly when eyes suffer a shortage of time     /
Of all I’m certain is life’s short see-saw.     /

In most cases judges flip a coin, ya
I would do the same if I had a dime
Should I continue reading Man’s lame law?

Life’s lessons do not help preclude making flaw
I’ve discovered this often in my prime
Of all I’m certain is life’s short see-saw.

When holy court slams Vice they rub me raw
Flexing one’s freedom should not be a crime
Should I continue reading Man’s lame law?

Most decisions are filled with fluff and guffaw
The worst part is: The fuckers don’t rhyme
Of all I’m certain is life’s short see-saw.

Sitting in chambers supports the final straw
Talk, Talk, Talk. Dysfunction rules sublime
Should I continue reading Man’s lame law?
Of all I’m certain is life’s short see-saw.


Sunday Poem: Address to a Jelly Donut

December 2, 2018

Good morning to you my jelly friend

Upon your deliciousness I depend

Annual joy I yearly defend

On lips upon chin

You’ve begat fairest social trend

Where no belly goes thin.


Your birth unknown from a baker wise

Your filling fills up a child’s eyes

Your taste no honest man can despise

If racks run bare

Another batch of yeast will rise

To fight despair.


Upon your lifting out from oil

The aroma divine, texture royal

There’s never been a one to spoil

As all get et

No bag is needed just sheet of foil

For none’s grown old yet.


In the palm of my hungry hand

You leave a mark a fatty band

There is no worry small or grand

You disappear

Upon my gut’s command

O save me dear.


As stickiness descends on my bite

I catch a mouthful of sugar white

As my exploding buds ignite

As I devour

The sweetest gluten in my sight

I thank farmers for flour.


Surrounding jelly, soft dough sings

The combination in winter brings

The pleasurablest things

I need another

And though the dough has greasèd wings

No pastry I’d druther.


After six I fear I might puke

My partner offers stern rebuke

I smile, I burp like richest duke

As acids blow

And swirl, I catch long fretful look

Suffer no woe.


Pączki, sufganiyot, berliner

So good out but better when inner

For none can I wait to get in ‘er,

I know for fact

Who eats them’s a winner

Red fruit jam-packed.


In this world there can be only peace

If donut availability doth increase

For every tongue needs a little grease;

War will abate somewhat

When all human beings get their piece

Of blessèd jelly donut.


Sunday Poem: The Only Amusing Encounter I’ve Ever Had

November 18, 2018

I once met a man named George Amusing
Did this actually transpire
Or was I snoozing?
Now that my head’s afire
I find the current occurrence confusing.


Sunday Poem: You Know What I Mean

October 27, 2018

I’ve had my fill of social media
When all I see is Fissipedia.

Sunday Poem: We Are Becoming Disco

September 30, 2018

We are becoming disco
nnected with every new app
With all the fruits in ‘frisco
silicon valley’s software trap
the future of poetry
is wholly crap.

Time To Redraft A Nafta

September 20, 2018

Auto parts, pots, aluminum, and steel
Beef, barley, beggars, and MBAs
All, all part of the deal
Leaving me sad with financial malaise.
As negotiators negote and negoo
They work on levels beyond me, beyond you
They profess an air of fairest trade
But, but, it just ain’t true.
Sitting at tables opposite and opulent
They plot how to gain an advantage monopulent
You’d think they were trading apples or horses
As they shelter and shield secret discourses.
This is the nature of the creature NAFTA
Trade Agreement—will we redraft a?

Sunday Poem: Let’s Face It

September 1, 2018

Let’s Face It

There are poets more skilled than I

Who own a more developed ear

Who sing mellifully from the mouth

Did they study Shakespeare, who knows?

Sunday Poem: Blueberry Pie

August 25, 2018


Blueberry Pie

I made blueberry pie, blueberry pie
Actually I made two blueberry pies
Two is better than one and I’ll tell you why—
Leaving one for tomorrow is very wise.

Sunday Poem: The Last Poem Of F.R. Scott

August 4, 2018

This past week saw the first Frank Scott Poetry Day held in the sluggish province of  Quebec. I say sluggish, because in February I had asked both the mayors of Westmount and Montreal if they would proclaim the day. A simple task. Neither took up the challenge, so I had to invoke the authority granted by Percy Shelley, who said poets are the unacknowledged legislators of the world. I exercised my unacknowledged authority and proclaimed August 1 as Frank Scott Poetry Day. For the celebration I wrote the following poem, The Last Poem Of F.R. Scott.

In restful Mount Royal Cemetery lies a plot
Where British and French foot-soldiers fought
Today the bones of Francis Reginald Scott
Occupy a nation going to pot.

But the last poem of Frank’s ought
To have taught us a helluva lot
Because it was spot on, on spot.
But now his poem is gone, is gone.

He had given his subject considerable thought
For law should halt the exercise of brawn
Though in his later years injustice was brought
Because scurrilous scoundrels had sought
To levy, cast heavy revenge upon
The bilingual map our founders had drawn.
But now his last poem is gone, is gone.

Sunday Poem: If I Should Succumb, Please Water My Plants

July 28, 2018

It’s silly to put a poem on my blog in Green, but silliness and poetry sometime go hand in hand. Apologies to all the serious poets. In any case, here is my Sunday Poem: If I Should Succumb, Please Water My Plants. Please Share.


If I should succumb, please water my plants

I hope that they may someway continue

With life I have developed a romance.

How many years did I get dirt on my pants?

And obviously more in and on my shoe

If I should succumb, please water my plants.

As my poems and peonies grow more askance

I feel as though I’m tipping the canoe

With life I have developed a romance.

I threw seeds of tomato into soil by chance

Steady and awkwardly they grew

If I should succumb, please water my plants.

Death is a season I hate to glance

Unless of course the myth of heaven is true

With life I have developed a romance.

Remember me and you will advance

And do remember when water is due

If I should succumb, please water my plants

With life I have developed a romance.