Where Poetry Goes to Die

Pace

noreply@blogger.com (W.B. Picklesworth) — Sat, 11 Feb 2012 15:32:00 +0000

Spazzes from another age
Moved slower than today,
Sniffed the roses, took a breath,
Didn't get all frayed.
Nowadays, of course, they fly
And scene cuts into scene.
Life as flashing strobe effect.
Spazzes gone obscene.

Bluster

noreply@blogger.com (W.B. Picklesworth) — Fri, 10 Feb 2012 04:53:00 +0000

Arise, my heart, and with a will
Sing songs to beat the night.
Say bollocks to the raving moon
And eulogize the light.
Timid hems and pansy haws
Will nothing put to flight,
But ego mixed with blustering
Will surely win the fight!

Ppbbbbb.

noreply@blogger.com (W.B. Picklesworth) — Thu, 09 Feb 2012 01:19:00 +0000

I'm tired as a tree stump
Fatigued like army green.
I'd like to lie like lumber lies
As still as e'er's been seen.

Another Brief Thought

noreply@blogger.com (W.B. Picklesworth) — Tue, 07 Feb 2012 15:47:00 +0000

Wife said, "diaper"
I said, "crap."

This A.M.

noreply@blogger.com (W.B. Picklesworth) — Mon, 06 Feb 2012 20:09:00 +0000

Heavy frost in sunlight gleam
Trees adorned
The world: pristine

An Unpleasant Irony

noreply@blogger.com (W.B. Picklesworth) — Sat, 04 Feb 2012 16:31:00 +0000

Planned Parenthood fights like crazy to stay alive.

Komen vs. Planned Parenthood

noreply@blogger.com (W.B. Picklesworth) — Fri, 03 Feb 2012 20:34:00 +0000

When a bully comes to your doorstep
And yells that you're hateful and mean,
Give them a jab in the tonsils
And offer a punch in their spleen.
If insults and threats keep on coming
It's best not to cower and cringe,
But give 'em what for
Cause they chose the war.
Too bad if some others will whinge.

The Early Days of Fatherhood (Redux)

noreply@blogger.com (W.B. Picklesworth) — Thu, 02 Feb 2012 00:46:00 +0000

Dear Lord, I need.
That sums it up.
From breakfast time
To way past sup.
My eyelids doze.
My muscles fail.
All thanks to dearest
Abigail.

The Ol' Snippety-Snip

noreply@blogger.com (W.B. Picklesworth) — Tue, 31 Jan 2012 16:57:00 +0000

Amos the kitty was absent last night,
A-gittin' his testicles "done."
Seems he was fightin' and comin' up short;
Well now he just won't have a son.

----------------------------------------

We had to take him in for the second time in just over a month for a wound that left him unable to put weight on a leg. The vet told me that the ol' snippety-snip should take care of the fighting thing, so Amos is "gittin' 'er done."

The intention was to spend no money on this cat. It seems I am a weak-willed softie. So help me, if he wants cosmetic surgery I will say NO!

Implicit: (Potent Toots)

noreply@blogger.com (W.B. Picklesworth) — Mon, 30 Jan 2012 15:34:00 +0000

When baby don't poop

Ain't nobody happy.

Talking Dogs

noreply@blogger.com (W.B. Picklesworth) — Sat, 28 Jan 2012 16:07:00 +0000

A pig says "oink";
That's all he'll say
And every horse
Knows only "neigh."
Consider ducks
Who "quack" each day
Or cows as well,
On "moo" they'll stay.

But dogs have depth,
A repertoire,
Myriad ways
To speak with pow'r.
Dogs "bow wow;"
They "arf" and "bark."
They often "howl."
When it gets dark.
Dogs, at times
As is their wont,
"Growl" at folks
A canine taunt.
Finally, when
Contentment's here,
Dogs say "woof"
And scratch their ear.

Bony and Nervous

noreply@blogger.com (W.B. Picklesworth) — Fri, 27 Jan 2012 22:49:00 +0000

The nervous squirrel, he looked at me,
Then skittered up a nearby tree.
He paused a sec, and looked back down.
I thought a saw a furry frown!
"Go on," I said, "You've naught to fear.
You're far too thin. I fancy deer."

Your Humble Poet Laureate

noreply@blogger.com (W.B. Picklesworth) — Wed, 25 Jan 2012 20:12:00 +0000

Perhaps I should mention that the newly elected mayor has just named me Poet Laureate of The MOB. What is the MOB? It is the Minnesota Organization of Bloggers. (Technically I now live in Iowa, but rules aren't stringent.) In the wake of twitter and other e-fads, the MOB isn't what it once was, but it still is a means for bringing folks together and I like that.

Is this a great honor? Why yes, of course it is! And it is also pure tomfoolery of the best sort. In that spirit, I will have to write some laud or ode to the Mayor. But not today. This prose just takes it out of me.

Beware Grandmothers Bearing Sleds

noreply@blogger.com (W.B. Picklesworth) — Wed, 25 Jan 2012 18:01:00 +0000

My son was a-sliding this morning
Upon the slick crust of the snow.
He got a strong push from his grandmim
And into the flagpole did go.
It's alright, his head wasn't broken,
Just badly bruised on both sides.
She says she is sad,
(Though she's quite clearly bad,)
And is itching to give him more rides.

Narcissism

noreply@blogger.com (W.B. Picklesworth) — Tue, 24 Jan 2012 14:32:00 +0000

The beautiful sunrise I missed
Was boring as boring can be
For I didn't see a darn thing
And really it's all about me.

Angels

noreply@blogger.com (W.B. Picklesworth) — Mon, 23 Jan 2012 19:29:00 +0000

When a bell rings
It might be a number of things:
Someone's at the door,
A boxer's on the floor.
An angel got her wings?
Well really, that's a bore.
Sure, some angels fly
Like those who flew in Luke,
But what of all the others?
This thing must be rebuked.
Wings and angels go together
Like Indians and feathers.
Some have 'em; okay that's great.
Others don't, and are still first rate.

Bah

noreply@blogger.com (W.B. Picklesworth) — Sun, 22 Jan 2012 04:02:00 +0000

The humbug is the insect

Of the body politic.

"Ha, ha, ha," he explained.

noreply@blogger.com (W.B. Picklesworth) — Fri, 20 Jan 2012 15:11:00 +0000

In he swooped with reckless wind,
Old man winter living large.
Asked by many to rescind,
He just laughed. They said "Argh."

Don't Taunt the Winter

noreply@blogger.com (W.B. Picklesworth) — Thu, 19 Jan 2012 14:28:00 +0000

Old man winter wasn't dead
But lying quietly in bed.
Now he's roused and eating brunch.
Next he comes for you for lunch.

Abigail and Esther

noreply@blogger.com (W.B. Picklesworth) — Wed, 18 Jan 2012 18:27:00 +0000

In the space of twelve hours a birth and a death,
The giving of life and the taking of breath,
Joy in the wonder that's finally beheld,
And grief that one loved will now be withheld.

The Snow of Stereotype

noreply@blogger.com (W.B. Picklesworth) — Tue, 17 Jan 2012 14:00:00 +0000

On the Midwestern plains a light dusting of snow

Does stereotypical things: it swirls and blows.

Rarely does it rise up and smack you on the face

Nor play poker with the dawn, trumping with aces.

It's rather like an old school character actor;

Predictably playing his role, not much of a factor.

Historic Nursery Rhymes

noreply@blogger.com (W.B. Picklesworth) — Mon, 16 Jan 2012 19:03:00 +0000

This little piggy went to market

This little piggy stayed home.

This little piggy liked Carthage.

And this little piggy liked Rome.

And this little piggy went, "Gah! Alaric and his barbarian invaders!!!"

Abigail Rose (born 1/14/12)

noreply@blogger.com (W.B. Picklesworth) — Sun, 15 Jan 2012 01:02:00 +0000

The first one came, a lumbering boy,
Who had no hurry in his bones.
One day crossed o'er into the next
And then another he condoned.

This baby girl now born today
Came thund'ring fast, her mission clear.
Her mother gasped, and cried aloud
For there she was, our daughter dear.

An Exhortation

noreply@blogger.com (W.B. Picklesworth) — Sat, 14 Jan 2012 02:22:00 +0000

Ahem.

Socks are best when worn in twos

So take good care you do not lose

Them.

Walnut

noreply@blogger.com (W.B. Picklesworth) — Thu, 12 Jan 2012 22:02:00 +0000

A walnut is an unstately thing,
Awkward and hemispheric
Like a small, edible brain.
Care for some walnut?