THE GOSSIP

I live for steamy gossip

About my dearest friends.

Who is screwing whom?

Who’s ill, who AA attends!

Who owes a bundle,

Can’t even pay the rent?

Who’s behind in taxes?

How did Joe’s car get the dent?

Whose kids are delinquents,

Always high on dope?

Whose parents are demented,

Can no longer cope?

I thrive on misfortune

(As long as it’s not mine!).

Minding others’ business

Is my idea of a good time!

So keep the gossip flowing.

Listening is my trade.

Keep me up to date

On each juicy escapade!

BIG FAT WALMART MAMA!

She’s big, fat and beautiful.

She shops at Walmart every day.

Luxuries, necessities,

Things for work and play.

The sales stir her soul.

She surfs the shelves with glee.

She buys stuff by the truckload.

Well, gosh, it’s almost free!

Of all the items treasured,

Groceries are number one.

She heads first for the sweets 

And loads close to a ton.

When at last she’s through,

And spent her last thin dime,

She rushes home to eat.

It’s way past snacky time!

She eats ten Oh Henry bars,

A bag of potato chips,

An apple pie à la mode,

And a quart of Coke she sips.

Now the crucial moment;

Her reputation is at stake.

She steps onto the scale.

A new record she can break.

She’s gained another Kilo!

She’s Walmart’s shopping dream!

She’s their Big Fat Moma,

Their consumption queen!

HAIRCUT

My hair is unmanageable,

It sticks out every way.

I used to part it on the side, 

Though it would never stay.

 

I tried to look cool and neat.

Just so I always dressed,

But my hair betrayed me,

No matter my suit was pressed!

I strove to look debonaire;

I wore a fedora when in style.

But when I took it off,

I resembled something vile!

A wild and crazy lout,

Who evoked fearful screams.

What could I do

To be the man of my dreams?

The solution was so simple;

A triumph of common sense.

Shave it to the scalp!

With hair I could dispense!

Now I’m coolest of the cool.

A Don Juan with shiny pate,

So long as I remember

To shave ere every date!

THE WHEELS ARE COMING OFF

The economy’s in a mess.
It indicates decline.
Its presence is worldwide,
A beast ugly and malign.

Not a cyclical thing,
It’s not occurred before,
A piling up of factors
Presaging more and more.

There’s disaster coming.
I feel it in my bones.
A catastrophe unprecedented,
I hear warning siren drones.

Depression wide and deep,
Then never ending war,
Death and destruction,
Despair at every door.

Democracy will disappear,
And decency and good will.
Thank God I won’t be here
To be fed the bitter pill


 May, 2012

THE GOSSIP

I live for steamy gossip

About my dearest friends.

Who is screwing whom?

Who’s ill, who AA attends!

Who owes a bundle,

Can’t even pay the rent?

Who’s behind in taxes?

How did Joe’s car get the dent?

Whose kids are delinquents,

Always high on dope?

Whose parents are demented,

Can no longer cope?

I thrive on misfortune

(As long as it’s not mine!).

Minding others’ business

Is my idea of a good time!

So keep the gossip flowing.

Listening is my trade.

Keep me up to date

On each juicy escapade!

GLOBAL WARMING

The planet’s getting warmer,

Cold winds no longer blow.

Polar bears have swum away

In search of ice and snow.

Now palm trees gently sway

In the soothing Arctic breeze.

Flowers bloom year round

Where glaciers used to freeze.

Ads promote enticingly

Spas and posh resorts

On the shores of Hudson Bay.

Come play your favourite sports!

Catch a flight to Inuvik;

It’s like Tampa used to be!

Take the super highway.

To the tropic Beaufort Sea!

Meanwhile way down south,

It’s too hot to go outside.

Soon the whole wide world

Will be Kentucky fried!

FUCK

Fuck is such a useful word in poetry and prose.

Besides a literal meaning that every body knows,

It rhymes with other words so your poems never miss.

There’s pluck, luck, duck and stuck, a few that make the list.

If you wish to give a jolt to those innocent of sex,

Drop a fuck or two in your stanzas or your text.

If you’re angry or depressed, and would let off a little steam,

Unload some pungent curses using fuck in a stream.

There are other profane words in English it is true,

But fuck is the worst to be really, really blue!

It makes but little sense; after all, it’s only sound,

And times they are a’changing. Its uses now abound.

In just a little while it’ll be just another word,

So use it while it’s hot, and gives grandmama a bird!

EGGS

Hens eggs are magical.

You can cook them many ways:

Poached, fried and boiled,

In salads and entrées.

Even when they’re raw,

As fresh oysters from the sea,

With Tabasco sauce,

You’ll know gourmet glee!

They’re healthy and nutritious,

Extra easy to prepare.

Serve them at picnics,

Or on fine dinnerware.

Eggs are cheap and plentiful.

Their numbers do abound.

They’re a budgetary value,

By the dozen or the pound.

And if you get pissed off

At your spouse or bosom friend,

Throw at him/or her an egg.

It will put conflict to an end!

FELONS

They’re smoking near a schoolyard!

Quick, before they run!

Zap them with your Tasers!

The law they mustn’t shun!

Cigarette smoke’s adrift

Over all those helpless kids!

Their health’s in mortal danger!

Society’s on the skids!

Lucky we were here

To catch them in the act!

Smoking! Can you beat it?

Confessions we’ll extract!

They’ll face a brutal judge

Who’ll sentence them to death.

They’ll go to the Devil

With tobacco on their breath!

But as they inhale their last,

They’ll have shown once more:

‘The law is a ass’*,

And why politicians we deplore!

*Quote from Mr. Bumble in Oliver Twist

RABBITS/HARES?

Rabbits (or are they hares?)

Are hopping wild and free.

They’ve overrun the neighborhood.

Rabbits multiply, you see.

They leap from the shrubbery,

On missions to and fro.

In the winter they’re invisible.

They blend in with the snow.

As they romp about and play,

They have a certain charm.

And so close is Easter day,

Who would cause them harm?

But there are far too many.

Let us not squeamish be.

Maybe rabbits (they’re really hares!)

Are good enough to fricassee?

KISSES

Kiss me in the morning,

Kiss me late at night.

Whenever she kisses me,

I’m again her gallant knight.

Kiss me when I’m angry,

Kiss me when I’m low.

Whatever mood possesses me,

Her kisses banish woe.

Kiss me in the summer,

Kiss me in the fall,

Kiss me in the winter,

And spring’s promise I recall.

Kiss me when I’m young,

Kiss me now I’m old.

Even in death’s dark shadow,

Her kiss is purest gold.

THE SEX PROFESSION?

We ought to be respected whatever work we do:

Dig a ditch, cure disease, or for money screw.

To pick up trash or scrub a floor is hard and dirty too.

Ditto digging ditches or cleaning cages in the zoo.

For construction jobs you must be strong, and extra care is due.

Falling on a roofing job can leave you black and blue!

Sitting at an office desk from nine to five each day

May not be a challenge, but keeps the wolf at bay.

If you’re skilled at any trade, say plumbing or carpentry,

We cannot do without you. You’re a dire necessity!

Doctors, lawyers, engineers, reputed to be smart,

Attended school for many years to learn their special art.

All us common working stiffs by our peers should be esteemed.

But just a special few as professionals may be deemed.

A hooker may be wanted; her johns have no complaint.

Yet a hooker’s still a hooker. An architect she ain’t!

THE HOLY ROLLERS

They came to my front door,

These pink-cheeked, bright-eyed men.

They had a message for me

From the Almighty’s pen.

They were selling little tracts,

Quotations from The Book.

Through unopened screen

They implored me take a look.

I engaged them in discussion

On religions and their worth.

On every point I made

They could quote a Bible verse.

These men were Holy Rollers,

To them scripture was The Truth.

The planet’s age six-thousand years,

Darwin a fool, forsooth!

I’m envious of their certainty

That in Heaven some day they’ll be.

While I am left to wonder

Are they nuts or is it me?

THE EX GURU

Ask me any question about life’s mystery.

I regret my honest answer will no revelation be.

I’m obliged to tell you, I don’t know bugger all.

I went to school and read a lot, but can’t a shred recall.

I know the date and time; I’m sure my name is … Jim?

Beyond these simple basic facts, my data bank is thin.

Ask about religion. Ask is there’s a god.

Ask what are good and evil. I’ll stroke my chin and nod,

And say with deep conviction, ‘I haven’t got a clue!’

I’ve lost my bona fides. I’m a gaga ex guru.

THE DEATH OF LANGUAGE

Kids when they talk today

Make but little sense.

They can’t express a thought,

In any case or tense.

Every second phrase is:

‘I mean’ or ‘like you know’.

They lack sufficient words

Just to say ‘Hello’!

Language is a marker

Of scholarship in bloom.

Without it we’re mere animals

Aimless in the gloom.

Will our children’s children

Communicate in ‘you knows’?

Books just fuel for campfires,

No poetry or prose?

Like, progress just happens.

I mean, why worry? Let it flow!

What’s the use of language?

Like, I mean, you know….

THE ELEVENTH PROVINCE

It may sound outrageous,

But let’s a moment dream.

Conditions may be ripe

To enact this wild-ass scheme.

The U.S.A.’s in trouble;

It’s broke and bozos rule.

It needs some expert guidance,

In fact, national renewal.

The Yanks should look north

Where a model country is,

One that isn’t bankrupt,

Led by a right-wing whiz.

This year our U.S. neighbours

Elect their chief exec.

Obama’s had his chance;

The GOP’s a wreck.

Steve should not be shy;

He should leap into the race.

With ease he’d be victorious,

And attain his rightful place.

The main condition of his win,

Once he commands the day,

The U.S.A’d join Canada

As eleventh province, eh?

RELIGION

The problem with religion,

It’s a dead-end path.

Kids get taught the Bible

When they should be learning math.

The atheist professes

To not believe in God.

Where’s evidence, he asks,

What I’ve seen is surely flawed.

The Bible’s contradictions

Are the unholy work of man.

Nowhere do I read

A trace of lucid plan.

We roam in desolation

Unguided and unsung.

We must create some meaning

Or conclude that there is none!

PREDETERMINATION

How tall will you be?

Will you be smart or dumb?

Will you be blond and gorgeous,

Or brunette and just ho-hum?

Will you compose great music,

Or will poetry be your thing?

Will you be a dancer,

Or paint, or sculpt or sing?

Will you bear many allergies?

Will you be straight or gay?

Will you be lion hearted,

Or flee danger, come what may?

These are a few examples

Of qualities we host

Determined by our genes:

Our birthright, weep or boast!

Then come circumstances:

Where on the planet born?

Was it in the desert heat,

Or where glaciers form?

Did your parents love or hate you?

Were they nurturing or cross?

Did you have to go to war?

Did you suffer penury and loss?

All this makes me wonder

If we are really free

To make the least decision

About what we are to be.

Was everything predetermined?

Am I just conditioned to respond,

A mammal that cerebrates,

Here today, tomorrow gone?

THE PERFECT HOST

Sip! Sip! Sniff! Sniff!

Hold it to the light.

Is the wine from Bordeaux

Or a less known site?

It’s certainly from France,

Or is it Italy?

I detect a touch of Spain.

No, it must be Germany!

Is it sweet or is it dry?

Does it have a nice bouquet?

Is it simple or complex?

Does it recall a sunny day?

So much I must consider

When choosing one that’s right,

To show I know my stuff,

That I’m urbane and bright.

Don’t be such an asshole!

Your guests don’t have a clue.

They can’t tell sweet or dry,

Bordeaux from Timbuktu.

Buy the cheapest brands.

Plonk makes the perfect host.

If it provides a buzz,

It’s good enough for most!

TERMINAL DISEASE

A sickness has infected

The whole human race.

There is no hope of cure.

It ends only in one place.

That place is the morgue,

Then a hole in the ground,

Or reduced to ashes,

By loved ones scattered round.

The disease is known as ‘life’,

A killer without remorse.

It decides when and where

It will pursue its deadly course.

Medicine may postpone it

For a decade or a year.

But time will still run out;

The end is ever near.

Science may find a way

To forever give us life.

I’ll take the here and now.

I don’t desire eons of strife!

THE PLUMBER

I’m no Mr. Fix It.

What needs repair is me!

At least I must try,

Or what good shall I be?

A water hose is broken

Beneath the kitchen sink.

Twenty years ago,

I’d fix it in a wink.

Pliers and a wrench,

A little muscle too,

A few moments work,

And, PRESTO! It’s like new!

But now there’s a hitch;

I must get down on the floor,

Squeeze into a cabinet.

Can I do it just once more?

The job at last gets done.

And now I need a crane

To get back on my feet!

My angry joints complain.

As I get ever older,

I may be getting dumber.

But, if hoses break again,

I will call the plumber!

MARK ROTHKO

Rothko’s work typifies

‘Art’ I really hate.

It qualifies as rubbish,

No matter how critics prate.

Anyone with sense,

From across the room or near,

Sees smears of paint on canvas.

Nothing more is clear.

Art that has appeal

To just some art-school spawn,

Critics, other ‘artists’,

Gallery hangers-on…

Isn’t art at all,

But merely mindless spew,

Dog-shit on the pavement.

Is the dog an artist too?

Rothko has no talent.

He’s a phony and a twit.

Send him to the minors!

He can’t run, throw or hit!