Tag Archives: poem

Narcissical

Posted on by
19

acrylic on paperWhen man’s-man men find womankind

especially spectacular,

it often seems their taste’s opined

as front-ular or back-ular,

and chicks who eye them back with leers

and rudeness too vernacular,

also choose looks, though dudes’ hearts bite

as badly as though Dracula-r.

How can they stand their standards thus

and stoop to stupid gravity

that pulls them down to lower lows

of foolishness, depravity

and such devotion to slick looks

that any cranial cavity‘s

acceptable, as long as ‘hot’

and needs no jot of suavity?

Must we accept only the slinky,

cute, or babe-a-licious?

Such flimsy taste is quite a waste,

and creepingly pernicious

when all the future of mankind

becomes so superstitious

as to attach to looks and limbs

values so shallow? Vicious!acrylic on paper

Whether Discomposed or Decomposing

Posted on by
14

mixed media + digital imagePardon My Snoring

My lead-lined eyelids will insist it’s time to go to sleep,

So don’t be too insulted if I leave to count some sheep;

I find you fascinating and quite scintillating too,

So please don’t take it wrong if I should conk right out on you.

Your dazzling personality and brilliance are so bright

It pains me to, but go I must, and bid a fond Good-Night!

Pay no attention to the way I’m backing out the door,

And know your super-excellence could never be a bore.

I sigh, I yawn! But, for all that, it can’t be you that tires:

I’m sure it seldom happens that your audience expires!oil pastel on paper

Dollar Signs on My Mind

Posted on by
32

While I am busy preparing to open an online store to offer some of my creative output for sale as prints, T-shirts, book material, and so forth, naturally my brain is calculating how many itty bitty royalty payments it will take to, say, pay off an eensy-weensy portion of the hours-days-years spent producing said items. Fortunately for me, y’all know I’m a terrible mathematician, so there’s obviously no point in delving so very far or seriously into that topic or tragedy will surely ensue. I’m not fishing for compliments here, just stating the cold hard facts of the rarity of cold hard cash when it comes to art. Many of you friends of mine are fellow artists, so I know that you know just what I mean. Nothing particularly fishy about it. So instead of whimpering needlessly, I will just share one of my silly little verses with you and call it a day. A much cheerier way to close St. Patrick’s Day than worrying about the Bankin’ o’ the Green. Goodnight, my fine friends! Smooth sailing ahead for all of us!digital artwork

The Gifts of True Love

In lieu of parties, holidays

And feasts and fests, vacation days

And celebrations—rather, heck,

Than all together—send a cheque!

A party lasts mere days or hours

And Wilts like last September’s flowers–

Festive events and gifts all fade—

No joy compares to getting paid!

So if you want to be recalled

And loved as one who has enthralled,

Forget the cakes, balloons and flash—

Just send me some heartwarming cash!

The ABCs of Me, Episode 2

Posted on by
26

The Awesome Blog Content Award, Courtesy of HRH ‘Nessa of the Stronghold, requires that I provide you with an entire alphabet of Me-itude in response, so in order to prevent your eyes from snapping back in your head like the cylinders in a slot machine and your brain going into hibernation, I have subdivided the alphabet into three parts. I will reiterate only the award rules–to get the rest of my response to it you should head back to Episode 1–and share the second series of letters in today’s post.

Rules of this award:

1. Pass this on to unlimited fellow bloggers.

2. Share some things about you, using the alphabet.

photo

K is for Krumhorn

not clues in Trivial Pursuit,
but instruments from ancient days–
I’ve newly learned to sing their praise.
Light, come clear the darkness, break impenetrable night
to let in day and sanity and set the wrong aright,
to open hopeful windows wide, to raise to higher station
these wond’ring, wand’ring souls of ours through your illumination.
Mute as the grave, voiceless and weak,
I haven’t a singular word to speak
when the signal fails and the synapse strays–
but only on my worst dysphonic of days.
Night calls to me. I love the velvet
darkness of its touch, its song,
its slowing breath, the way a well-met
dream can draw me right along . . .
Ossified as I can be,
a stuck and stubborn brute am I,
unwilling and unchanging–see?
I let the whole quatrain go by–
Peculiarity is my gift! My adoration for the weird
knows few bounds–I get a lift from thinking fish could grow a beard,
from dreaming idle silly dreams of lizards singing, candy socks,
electric sofas, grey ice-creamsand giving grown-ups nasty shocks.

photo

Q is for Quiver

Quiver full of arrows, yes? Here in my heart I quiver with glee
because in love I’m a quivering mess,’less Cupid comes to puncture me–
No, no!–the quiver, instead, should hold an armload of arrows of skill and wit
to set ye a-quiver, as though fell cold, in astonishment I had thought of it.