A complete poem is one where an emotion finds the thought and the thought finds the words.
— Robert Frost
Rem tene, verbe sequentur: grasp the subject and the words will follow. This, I believe, is the opposite of what happens with poetry, which is more a case of verba tene, res sequentur: grasp the words, and the subject will follow.
— Umberto Eco, Postscript to The Name of the Rose

 

TO PURLOIN A SIRLOIN IS TO TAKE A STEAK

 

Waiting at the gustation

Knife and fork, spoon and cork.

Collander and hollandaise

Cauliflower, mayonnaise.

Grab a bottle from the cellar,

Pair the oysters rockefeller.

 

Someone said the sky was falling.
Now I know they're right.

The stars that burned so brightly hot,
Have now turned cold and white.

They make their way, each one unique
And on the ground alight,

Accumulate and call to me "let's have a snowball fight!"

 

The Poetree
Leafing through the pages strewn
Throughout the Autumn afternoon.
They're rounded up and bound together.
With covers sewn for Wintry weather.
A brainstorm-front, a silver cloud.
The sounds of Spring are read aloud.
And Summer's sun will play its part
To grow His words up from our heart.

 

Hearing the click of leaves that pass
Down through the branches to land on the grass.

 

Water off a duck's back.

Echo of a duck's quack.

Neither wave has much effect,

And neither cause what you'd expect.

 

As
Bees
Come
Dancing,
Entwined
Flowers
Grow
High
Into
Juxtaposition.
Knowing
Light,
Mixing
Nectar
On
Petals.
Quickly
Receiving
Sustenance.
Tell
Us
Verily,
Why
eXactly
You're
Zealous?

 

DO you ever wonder how melodies are?

REcalling the time that we danced neath the stars.

MIx it with laughter, are you feeling the spirit?

FAr from the noise of the crowd. Can you hear it?

SOrrow is gone and the fear disappears.

LAst but not least, take the muse by the ears.

TIming yourself, step out onto the floor.

DOn't you realize that's what music is for?

 

Saw the universe.
Swirling around in my cup…
I stirred, it was gone.

 

as my thoughts turn dreams

I realize a world awaits

that's all in my head…

 

Consider Jesus:
His salvation free, priceless,
Yet costs everything.

 

The word f*** has a ring
That I think I should mention
Is real good at getting
A person's attention.

But when using this word,
Use caution, you should.
Because often when heard,
It's misunderstood.

 

They talk of the elephant here in the room,
When they say I've had too much to drink.
They flatly insist that it's something I've missed.

But I see it right there and it's pink!

 

Elide the "i", would Apple die?
With all the Pads and Pods bereft,
And to its own devices left,
Ive would have to lend his letter,
To make it better.

 

A parakeet and a marmoset
Stood atop a parapet.
A pair of pets, they made a bet
To see how far from their cage they'd get.

 

Elide the "L", the "I", the "D".
Now kern the "3" and make a "B".
This is how the first typesetters
Pared the words that made the letters.

Better than 'bollocks', better than 'blast': better say "ballast" and hurry up fast!

Cresting the cusp of a former horizon. All you can do is strabismus your eyes, then.

Maggie danced to bring the rain. Grew old in May and hid the pain. Bought the farm quite literally and treated Bob with much disdain.

Secret Santa dons his shades and shrugs into his trenchcoat gray. Loads his bag and hitches eight white elephants to spirit away his sleigh.

From supercollider to super colder:

Freeze this word, you know you should. Elide the "L", the "I", that's good. Now put a space between, don't doubt. And even Kelvin would be proud.

Pencil in the "L", the "I"/Do no harm in saving lives/Growing mold and writing scripts/Requires better penmanship.

An artificial edifice.
A hollow mountain's face.
A surreptitious precipice
That hides a secret place.

Absolutely the
Best.
Carefully
Deciding
Everything
For
Good.
Heaven
Is
Jesus:
Kind,
Loving,
Merciful.
No
One
Possesses
Qualities
Remotely
Similar.
Tell
Us
Verily,
Why
eXactly
You're
Zealous.

 

Owed to the Sea of Ingenuity

There is a crater on the moon,

(The one affecting all the tide)

Whose shores are ripe with bright ideas,

No H2O at all inside.

A Sea of Ingenuity,

On the dark side of the lunar face.

Of cleverness and imagination.

Staring longingly to space.

See, darkness isn't all that bad,

When anchored as a satellite.

The sun at your back each and every day.

The earth, your audience by night.

 

Allwowed

I turn to shout it to the crowd.

But fear my voice will be too loud.

And fear that they will be too wowed.

To see the things that God's allowed

As things that must be said aloud.

Fear not. Say it anyway.

 

"Soon" says the moon
As it crests on the rise.
It looks at the Valley
Through milky-white eyes.
With one on the sun
And one cast below,
Reflecting the light
Like a pallid pillow.

 

THIRTY DAYS HAVE SEPTEMBER

APRIL, JUNE, AND NOVEMBER.

ALL THE REST HAVE THIRTY-ONE

EXCEPT IN LEAPYEAR THAT'S THE TIME

WHEN THE REST OF THE POEM DOESN'T RHYME.

 

Tragic flaws, foibles, tells.

Things that make us grimace, wince.

Chinks that we perceive in others, 

Shed light on what's inside ourselves.

 

And like a root, its stem is severed/Springs to life, it seems it's tethered/To the Sun for which it yearns/Hope, intangible, it burns.

 

Put the "s" back in inanity

But not so much you plead insanity.

Your equanimity's here to stay

So long as you're spelling things the right way.

 

The golden egg the goose had laid turned out to be for nought.
The farmer hoped that he’d get paid, at least that’s what he thought.
He took it to the market stall but came back home instead,
(It was a goose egg after all) with a goose egg on his head.

 

Like day-old mayonnaise turns to glaze,
Life's malaise, opaque and gray,
Blocks out all the sunshine's rays.

But I find that gratitude allays.
This ever-present, complacent haze.

Gifts and graces, grants en masse.
Each one a present; moments pass.
For all the stuffing and all the stuff,
It would seem we’ll never have enough.
But seconds, please. And thank you too.
I’m grateful for all the things you do.
Saying grace? You make the call.
The feast is moveable, after all.


Thanksgiving isn’t about the food.
It’s about expressing gratitude.

 

Diatessaron

A poem’s the one, that phrase you heard
It gets inside your head.
Through meter, feet and spoken word
A thought has been conveyed.
A song, however, can’t be read,
But sung to you instead.

What laughter and joy are to the joke,
Music is to the words you spoke.
While each has lines and each sounds fine,
A song will something else evoke.
The bridge and hook, the tune and tone
Are putting forth a different note.

And what about the math equation?
I’m happy to report.
The thought you put in that notation,
Has symbols of a different sort.
Of properties and twos and threes
Of theorems, angles and degrees
With only one right answer, please.

Now explain away the joke to me
(And make me laugh as well).
Unlike the poem spoken to me,
The love the song awoke in me,
In this one, rhymes don’t matter much
But time it right, it packs that punch.

Each of these, a prayer sublime.
They all don’t sing, they all don’t rhyme.
No matter how the thought’s expressed.

Whichever way, you say it best.