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!