Our Full Pond

Our full murky pond
over-running the stone brim
with every spring rain yields
green frogs.  And how these
loud wet frogs burp at us,
after eating bugs of course!
Slimy yet sly,
sitting out only for the sun.
Legs lingering like
tantalizing
chicken fingers.

Old Sam

My wife? Hazel? See?
-- she doesn't stir from her
bed.
The full green moon?

She sees the shine in his eye,
what now...

Why do I think of Old Sam
peering up at the full green moon?
Standing in his bed clothes facing the
clear sky over his lake saying

            Hazel?               Hazel?

It isn't really just his lake.
Nor his full green moon.
But he only wants to share it
with one woman.

Hazel?  See?

Meop (for any one attempting self expression who fails to engage self expression, that is to say, who has written without conveying anything about anything then without translating the world of feeling into memorable contours of words set in an order which removes all else)

The bug was
on an edge
of wood trim

meeting a
porcelain
toilet

ancient yet
durable
designs

think of other things
or try to
as you squash

the sun the moon the trees the breeze

smile at the shining sun
gaze at the full moon
hug a green tree
feel a warm breeze

interchange
all
of the above

gaze at the smiling sun
hug the full moon
shine at a green tree
feel a warm breeze

you get the idea.

Another Murder in America

Alternate Title
(Why we love baseball.)

Or even golf.
The rules seem
to make sense,
even when
the umpire needs glasses and
the officiating sucks.
The alternate title
doesn't even fit,
nothing rhymes,
And there are no other names
or titles or themes
to really believe in, despite
loud TV faces repeating themselves far beyond
absurdity.

Or like cut out Jesus
glued by Elmer
to a felt cross
saying He loves me
in macaroni letters.

Greed kills more
people than the guns
Greed sold.
But a baseball bat or
a golf club in the wrong hands
or used the wrong way
can ruin my Saturday afternoon,
or make my Saturday afternoon,
at least
until Sunday morning
when the good people pray
and the birds sing
and just like any other day
none of the birds
want to get shot
or struck with a bat
or hit by an errant slicing drive.

By next Saturday my team may
win and my swing improve
and probably there will be
another innocent or dozen innocents murdered
while macaroni Jesus love
bleeds trans-substantiated tears.