Funny and/or Strange My Poetry Uncategorized

Ugh, They Did It Again…

Ugh, they did it again. I was away from here more than I was here the past few months, and things look–and work–a little differently. Ugh.

Yeah yeah yeah yeah yeah
Yeah yeah yeah yeah yeah yeah
I see they did it again
They made us believe we know how it works
Oh baby
It might seem like whining
But it doesn’t mean I’m not serious
‘Cause to lose my bearings
That is just so typically me
Oh baby, baby
Damn, they did it again
I played with posting, I’m lost in the game
Oh baby, baby
Oops, I didn’t mean to delete
Couldn’t find the save draft tab
I’m not that ignorant
You see my problem is this…
I just couldn’t find
Oh wait there it is, now where did it go
I cry, watching the words
Can’t you see I just miss the straight-forward days
With all the buttons right there
It’s just so typically W.P.
Oh baby, oh
Oops, they did it again
I played with your heart, got lost in the game
Oh baby, baby
Oops, you think I’m in love
That I’m…
My Poetry

Reply To Personal Ad

SOLD! to the tall man Image
in the back row
with the ugly brown hat.
I’m here to say:
I liked your ad;
You were the one
“looking for a guy
with teeth,” right?
Seeing that I have some
(teeth, that is), I’ll reply.
I’m dying to know about
the combat sports and
prestructuralist semantics,
not to mention the tattoos.

My Poetry Photo I Like

The Only God I’ve Seen

129045703_9e61fee243_oSince you asked,
the only god
I’ve seen rolled reckless
from a red, cardboard
Cracker-Jack box, elusive
from lips to lap
and mad as hell, no decoder
ring to metaphrase the sharp
sting of copper on tongue
coated in caramel
candy coating loaded
with peanuts, good,
sweet, and salty.

My Poetry Poetry

Svarog’s Hymn

Svarog’s Hymn

One true Church,
he grinned mischievously.
It is mine, obviously.
The Church of Me—
I, mine and me,
now that’s a trinity!

My Poetry


She likes bright colors set
against stark striking white;
he is partial to browns
and ruddy greens. You know:
earth tones or, as she calls them,
“moldy shades of decay.”

My Poetry

Sugar Season Haiku Cycle

Spontaneous, no-revision haiku scrawled in a fit of boredom….

bmlthayerT1067Snow concedes, contracts
Shadows shorten with each dawn
Totems bleed sweetness




OLYMPUS DIGITAL CAMERAElectric drill whirs
Thirteen miles of plastic hose
Grandpa had a bucket




maplesyrupGood dry wood burns clean
A grey squirrel tail, smoke and steam
Sweet in the hollow.

meme My Poetry Photo I Like Uncategorized

Monday Meme: Wiener Crash (with poem)

wienermobileI’m thinking on this
Monday Meme thing:
how long can it last?
A good meme is hard
to find, frankly; fortunately
I’ve found this frank foible
that’s far and away
the facebook favorite
of the day..

No Bologna! Oscar Mayer Wienermobile Crashes Near Harrisburg

I’ve noticed, via diligent research, that this isn’t an isolated incident.  Pleasantly, the wienermobile is eminently meme-worthy….
5de90e87e7d915a50075b9537eada20f oscar-mayer-wienermobile-stuck-in-snow-randomLOLz

My Poetry Poetry

Spam Poetry Challenge Entry

Christy over at Poetry Parfait threw down the gauntlet for a Spam Poetry Challenge.  I apologize for my entry in advance–I didn’t take it very seriously, I guess.

I’m putting the poem first, because it works better that way.  The original spam lines follow.

DisappointedA different female I had been speaking to was stunned,
said Wow, you might be excellent without it–but–
11 weeks accomplishing almost nothing?–
simply, Junk, a dedicated artist of desire(?):
Buy Cialis Buy Cialis Buy Cialis Buy Cialis Buy Cialis…


So, here’s my lines of spam…

1.A different female I had been speaking to (who hadn’t reported just about anything still) was stunned and said Wow, you might be excellent out with it ehand then said I want to complete whatever you did. 

2.Ala Dolomite all their motto is “Just claim it! very well Correctly, often the Democrats would want practically nothing better than to be able to inveigle all their media allies directly into spending another 11 weeks accomplishing almost nothing although talking about Romney’s taxes brand by means of brand (and every person how the media have to have valuable very little when it comes to inveigling). 

3.Just simply read this junk to check out the time out and about in to the weeds a dedicated reportorial disadvantage artist such as MacGillis goes while offered practically nothing of importance or maybe desire.

4.Buy Cialis Buy Cialis Buy Cialis Buy Cialis Buy Cialis Buy Cialis Buy Cialis

My Poetry Uncategorized

The Weeds Have Grown Up Around The Stone Fire Ring

(working draft…)

The weeds have grown up around the stone fire ring;
morning glories twist filigree about the wrought iron table
and the lane is laid in gold with last year’s grass,
a few bold saplings, sticky burdock and the
soft fallen limbs of carefully inventoried trees.
The big oaks look good, the hemlocks by the creek
still seem sound, though the adelgids must be there.
A hard winter knocked them back, but not forever.
They’ll regroup, heedless of fairness or heartbreak,
growing and biding as buds swell and sap surges skyward,
The ash trees are going, their crowns tarnished brown,
bark peeling to show their scars–the emerald borers won.
Such small things to bring down such height and vitality,
Massing within, shadowed and secretive until the very end.
The paint is peeling on those old Adirondack chairs;
Vicki had me haul them back to town, to strip and paint;
it’s not right, to let them go, no one using them, she says.
The girls want to paint them “bright burning red.” We will.
They’re old enough I can tell them some of the good stories,
now and then, but not so old they don’t remember you.
We walked the farm with the map you made, but no one
knows what the symbols mean–there needs to be a legend.

My Poetry Poetry

Tsunami Sketch

I watch them walk wonderingly,
Stupified across the strange expanding sand
And I, likewise bewitched, stare mute
Eight years and half a world distant:
It’s not right
It’s not right
It’s not right
And when it comes, it is perfect,
A brilliant curl rimmed in white
An embrace
And still they walk
And still I watch
Naseaous and bewildered
By this, this thing like god itself
Wrath and love and death
The scale of which is clear
Too late, too little
Against the cold,
clenching mountain.