There's a time before my birth,
which hereto didn't exist at all
where matter of my mutations
muddles in spaces quite small
There'll be eons post my death,
when after equals every before
and memories of my existence
will disappear at invisible door
Poems
Dabble in truth
Dibble all sooth
In the orchards of
Chauncey Gardner
You're on to something true, robust and high-test
Delving deep to convey secret meaning
You're up to goddamn good, getting oaths off your chest
Forming free verses ready for screening
You're getting the real feel, free and unchecked
Running runes of poetic inkling
You're right where you should be, letting truth reflect
The manna of florid freethinking
I think sitting down with good intentions,
to write poetry about anything or nothing
'tis our worthwhile Homo-sapiens pursuit
Verses may have no meaning whatsoever,
and convey powerful or harmful emotions
but human art 'tis the mystical taking root
I'd planned on murdering Tucker Carlson,
when he'd gone to the store all by himself
for what reason each and every Thursday,
he lone shopped while restocking shelves
Shadowing him right over to lunch meats,
a monkey wrench got thrown in my plans
here came face to face with Sean Hannity!
so, I man-slaughtered instead the big ham
Glancing over I saw Carlson's near coolers,
transferring two one-gallon sweet tea jugs
he's staring straight at me and drops them,
so, I shoot him too with the leftover's slugs
Needless to say I won't make it outta there,
off-duty cops in the pickle's aisle had been
no time remaining for reloading any gusto,
so, my blood flows like sweet tea's revenge
Be the black sheep
True to your color
The odd sad man out
Through time interstellar
Praise the black sheep
Loved but forgotten
One blip of quick time
Living large but not rotten
They're like us, don't you know
In a less crazy way
Lost in life, on their own
In that large living way
Let them go, wish them well
That's just how the wheels turn
We had nothing to tell
And so much more to learn
Quite certain if I won millions in a state's lottery,
then you'd take some interest in talking with me
And isn't good enough it appears sending poetry,
which leads to a bad social reflection, apparently
When I sent you an email written in poem form,
'twas me communicating in thoughts about you
although not directly did I ask how you're doing,
I believed it's mention less my reach out 'tis true
When uncles send poems to nephew and nieces
I'd think you could ask yourself what would I do
to be in my sixties and still sending out limerick
while siblings' kids don't seem to care about you
One more poem, one more breath
One more sip of cream and honey
Then the pain, thoughts of death
I just hope the place is sunny
