Where Poetry Goes to Die

The Master of the Moment

noreply@blogger.com (W.B. Picklesworth) — Sat, 03 Feb 2018 15:27:00 +0000

The F.B.I.'s reputation lies in tatters.
The press lies, and shrieks, and clatters.
And Trump just rides along and grins,
Revealing all our betters' sins.

The Reckoning

noreply@blogger.com (W.B. Picklesworth) — Fri, 08 Dec 2017 03:11:00 +0000

Harassing a woman is awful.
And believe it or not it's not lawful.
The gropers are paying.
'Cause the mobs are a-baying.
Damn sure they'll be getting their claws full.

The Reactionary

noreply@blogger.com (W.B. Picklesworth) — Sun, 06 Aug 2017 03:04:00 +0000

Some creatures have eyes on the side of their head

And others have eyes that look forward.

I, on the other hand, hark to what's dead,

To a past that's already occurred.

With longing I pine for the sweetness that's gone

For the flavor that's turned into dust.

Others want iron that's spotless and strong

While I like mine covered in rust.

Jangled Noise

noreply@blogger.com (W.B. Picklesworth) — Sat, 18 Mar 2017 01:43:00 +0000

Where there is random noise there can be no rhythm.
It's almost spiteful how shrieks and unrepentant humming
Put to death anything unified or hopeful.
Nothing against noise. No, boisterous sound can carry a family
Or even a nation.
But both are wearied to frustration,
Deadened by tuneless tintabulation.
If you must make your voice heard, make it sweet
Give a man's ears something good to eat.
Make it potatoes or creme brulee,
But don't ruin a God-given day.

A Red Door

noreply@blogger.com (W.B. Picklesworth) — Fri, 10 Mar 2017 05:32:00 +0000

A red door is... striking.
A red door is bold.

A red door will beckon you

In from the cold.

A red door gets opened

When you've got the key.

But it isn't much help

When the key is with me.

A red door takes mail

On the days that it comes,

And sometimes graffiti

When found in the slums.

But this door is special,

Whate'er it appears,

Because it's my Granny's

And has been for years.

On Not Freaking Out

noreply@blogger.com (W.B. Picklesworth) — Wed, 16 Nov 2016 19:36:00 +0000

Feeling sweet and calm
Letting others own their own
Peace, brother, be well

Wanna Get Away?

noreply@blogger.com (W.B. Picklesworth) — Sun, 28 Aug 2016 00:55:00 +0000

There was a load of people one day
who got dropped off by trucks or cars or something
and they inhabited the house in which I was being
for a time.

And during that time, however much I enjoyed
the conversations, I sensed fatigue steal in and curl up,
not in my lap like a cat, but in my brain like a fog.

To become slowly transparent and slip quietly away,
to reside instead with pretend characters in books
or at least on a couch in the semi-darkness
with the sounds at a distance
that would be delightful like morning coffee
wished for since bedtime.

How Siblings Relate

noreply@blogger.com (W.B. Picklesworth) — Fri, 05 Aug 2016 17:09:00 +0000

My daughter is keen to annoy

Her brother who's rapt by a toy.

"Your Legos forsake!

For your sister's sake!"

And in bugging she finds her own joy.

Never Gonna Give You Up

noreply@blogger.com (W.B. Picklesworth) — Thu, 16 Jun 2016 14:09:00 +0000

Gratitude resides
In everything gone so wrong
And yet before very long
Knowing God abides.

Road Construction

noreply@blogger.com (W.B. Picklesworth) — Tue, 31 May 2016 03:25:00 +0000

In Iowa east of Sioux City
Is a road that is looking quite gritty.
Where there used to be two,
Another two grew,
And all four lanes are not lookin' pretty.

The Difficulty of Change

noreply@blogger.com (W.B. Picklesworth) — Tue, 17 May 2016 18:53:00 +0000

When her hypocrisy dawned on her,

So soon after the glory of God’s work,

Everything could have changed.

But then who would she be?

“God works through suffering, no doubt.

I’ll find out.”

Absolute Dreck

noreply@blogger.com (W.B. Picklesworth) — Fri, 06 May 2016 23:54:00 +0000

Sometimes I'm glad to stay home
Reading a history tome,
But I will admit
I love me some Lit
And even a terrible poem.

A Heartfelt Description of a Prayer

noreply@blogger.com (W.B. Picklesworth) — Mon, 25 Apr 2016 20:18:00 +0000

The balding minister lit candles, waiting
To feel the blessed peace of Christ, descending
On a fragile and flawed saint, hoping
For the light to overcome the darkness.

Mary the Mother of Jesus: A Good Friday Sonnet

noreply@blogger.com (W.B. Picklesworth) — Thu, 14 Apr 2016 20:01:00 +0000

Oh my son. Oh my son. Oh my son. Oh my beautiful baby boy....

My heart is breaking for you; I'm dying inside; I can't even speak.

I want to die instead of you. But you are so strong; and I am weak.

You are hanging there with nails in your hands. You are in so much pain.

And I can't help but to think of the night you were born... and of the rain
That was falling cool and hard. And of how Joseph was annoyed,

“Surely somebody has some place for a pregnant woman to have her child!”

There was plenty of pain that night. But now it is you, not me, travailing -

Birthing God's promised redemption. It's been a treasure never failing

For me since the angel spoke. But I know that first you must be reviled

...and die. The light has gone out of the sky. This darkness is heavy like lead.

Soon, though you deserve only the very best from us all, you'll be dead.

Oh my son. Oh my son. Oh my son. Oh my beautiful baby boy....

I am dying with you, in front of you. Dear God, my beautiful boy.

Peter: A Good Friday Sonnet

noreply@blogger.com (W.B. Picklesworth) — Thu, 14 Apr 2016 19:57:00 +0000

Oh man, why is my mouth so stupidly big?

I failed him. I'm no better than a pig.

To crawl down deep in a hole would be bliss.

But I know that I shouldn't run away.

Didn't I tell myself, “I have to stay”?

But crucifixion? That I'd rather miss.

Oh God, you know how bad I want to flee

Oh God, why did you even fashion me

In my mother's womb? Give me a cold, dark tomb.

I just want to run so far. Don't make me see

Him.... dead. Send me to Ninevah. There's room!

Yeah, send me anywhere at all. Make me pay.

The sin I've committed is heavy like stone.

The best I can do is to sit here and groan.

Pilate: A Good Friday Sonnet

noreply@blogger.com (W.B. Picklesworth) — Thu, 14 Apr 2016 19:56:00 +0000

These pompous Jew beggars coming to me before sunrise

As if I was some kind of hit man for hire. Well, surprise!

This Roman isn't too interested in playing that game.

They walk in, filthy and reeking of their food, with proud eyes.

Restraining themselves out of fear, but spitting that one name...

“Jesus: You don't get him dead? You'll be the one who gets blamed.”

Can I ignore them? No, damn it. There's no way to tell

What they might do. They might rebel. But I'd make their lives hell.

Well, here's the thing: I'll see the man and I'll take his measure.

“Bring him unto me, this Jesus. It will be my pleasure.”

I'll ask the questions. I'll make this Jew see the light.

I am Pilate and should be feared,... everyone knows that, right?

“Hello there brave Galilean. What brings you here today?

What, cat got your tongue? Haven't you some begging words to say?

Well?....”

Le Printemps

noreply@blogger.com (W.B. Picklesworth) — Sun, 10 Apr 2016 03:52:00 +0000

Chill breeze and warm sun,

Greening, freezing, and hoping,

Spring is in the air.

Three Lines of Eight Syllables

noreply@blogger.com (W.B. Picklesworth) — Thu, 07 Jan 2016 17:19:00 +0000

Rain pours down in December.
Sewage rises in my basement.
Bye, bye books in cardboard boxes.

A Hindu Limerick

noreply@blogger.com (W.B. Picklesworth) — Sun, 08 Nov 2015 02:02:00 +0000

There once was a cow from Calcutta
Whose owner was once heard to mutter,
"This bovine looks tasty,
But I mustn't be hasty,
Lest I end up dead in the gutter."

Stains

noreply@blogger.com (W.B. Picklesworth) — Fri, 02 Jan 2015 02:38:00 +0000

How do stains get on ceilings?

Do they crawl up there when no one is looking?

Are they the fruit of over zealous cooking?

Do they sneak down from the attic above?

Do they just want to be loved?

How do stains get on ceilings?

The Fat, Snuggling Poet

noreply@blogger.com (W.B. Picklesworth) — Fri, 19 Dec 2014 04:01:00 +0000

If I were a poet of girth

Known for romantical worth

I'd snuggle a rhyme

Then, after a time,

This verse to a poem'd give birth.

------------------------------------------
My wife informs me that the first iteration of this poem was actually very naughty. Somehow I missed that. Sweet naiveté, I guess. In any event I edited a bit.

Geography

noreply@blogger.com (W.B. Picklesworth) — Mon, 15 Sep 2014 15:46:00 +0000

To the west of dear Iowa
Stretches a plain,
Rich in its greatness
And packed full of grain.
Also there's cattle
And don't forget sand.
And rocky-type mountains
That really are grand.
And going west further
If further you goes,
You end up with water
A-tickling your toes.

Just Nonsense. Just Because

noreply@blogger.com (W.B. Picklesworth) — Sat, 13 Sep 2014 20:50:00 +0000

Rest is often deception
Promising relaxation,
But not delivering.

Pizza, on the other hand,
Does exactly what it says.
It, um, pis. And it zas.

The Home Front

noreply@blogger.com (W.B. Picklesworth) — Thu, 31 Jul 2014 13:40:00 +0000

He had a bowl of Grape Nuts.
He drank a glass of juice.
He talked a bit at table,
The domesticated moose.

Algebraic Breakfast

noreply@blogger.com (W.B. Picklesworth) — Mon, 07 Jul 2014 05:39:00 +0000

One scrambled egg

Two pieces of toast

Three little sausages

Four cups of coffee, no cream.

(First word's value) + 3 = syllables