PARENTAL ADVISORY

Hear Ye. Hear Ye. Here we
propose to posit prose poetry,
forming forms of continuous connectivity
to communicate considerable
contemplative reflectivity.

Simply put, we pose this where
prose poetry is what you'll hear
when wondering where the time went
while reading such rhyme wonderments
as oft we've wrought, and revealed thusly;
each whit of wit written Hieronymously.

Christian Doppler Effect


There's this thing that's on my mind, 
a word that rings. I think you'll find 
my mind consumed. Presume to know 
what all, and why, I'd like to show 
you now just how that ringing word 
appears. It's clear to all who've heard 
the word before. It sure does ring in 
terms of Angel's voice when singing 
praise. I raise my lance, defensive 
not of what I've got, consent. Give 
ear, and hear the word unfurling. 
Voices join; send winds a whirl. Bring 
this brief missive closure knowing 
sound rebounds when ships are slowing. 

Grace On Crutches

Welcome into my mind state, 
as if such state were great, 
related here to clear the air between 
each word written above. On screen, 
a door before you opens. Grace, 
once upon a time and space, 
is sure to cure your need of two 
crutches that touch and support you. 

Climb through rhymes to peaks, ascending 
stairs with care. When knees are bending, 
I pray they play their role, supported 
by that which was previously reported. 
I say I pray when knees are bending. 
So with this missive, I'm sending 
out healing feelings, since such is 
now the state of Grace on crutches. 

Patriots Day

You may run, but you cannot Hyde,
so park it here, and share the ride
vicariously, as Boston's Globe
projects upon your frontal lobe.

Just the facts, ma'am. Just the facts. 
Yesterday I wore short slacks,
and knew I needed a new shirt. See, 
the one I'd worn was torn and dirty, 
so since I'm not a real bright fellow, 
I picked a tight light shirt, quite yellow 
in fact. It acts as an alert 
to passers by. Why? My new shirt 
illuminates my gait, and jogs 
the sight of those who drive in fogs. 

There are things I cannot say 
due to events of yesterday. 
I cannot say that you should run 
for love, or money, or just for fun. 
I cannot say where you should go 
to get away from all you know.
I cannot say who, what, why, how 
you go. I surely don't know, now. 
All that I can say as one 
runner is, I have to run. 

Nimble minds, accumulate. 
Cumulonimbus clouds crowd the sky. 
Runners fly by, staccato cadenced,
as sweet sweat fragrances the air.
Somewhere on the ground, a sound 
stops time in its tracks, and traces of faces 
are drawn on dented cement pavements. 
Curb your enthusiasm. Time marches on. 

#Goodbye Me

Stop by me a moment now, 
for thinking past. Remember how 
you were before. You wore love, sent 
by listening along, a covenant 
of cemented sounds of soul, 
bound unto the heart you stole, 
and wore uncaringly on your sleeve. 

Take every thought you bore, and leave 
unfettered, flawless, falling. Falling fast, 
as if the gift for thinking past 
were passed between us, unseen somehow. 
So, stop. Buy me a moment. Now, 
afford this rhyme some time, repeating 
every word hashtagged, worth tweeting. 

Standards & Practices

Read me like a stolen passage. 
Plagiarized within this message 
is a wheel of steel I ride on 
right up front. I am a guidon 
lightning rod, though oddly worded. 

Standing out, I look absurd. Did 
you just see the 'me' I mention, 
or do boring words sow tension 
to your brow, like how you worry 
when you're in a real big hurry? 

I guide on high. I rely on my guidon 
to be by my side, and provide what men died on 
behalf of. The staff of my standard stands tall for me, 
offering all those who call a glimpse of what you see. 


This Is Not A Poem

This is not a poem. Please stop reading. I'm a bore. 
If you should continue, you'll be needing time to snore.
Although I keep on writing, you're invited to ignore 
the rhymes, for time is passing, and so far I've written four
lines. Your mind is mine now, as we head toward the door
to where your staring witness shows my fitness for no more,
or less than this confessionary sharing from my core. 

Commercial Appeal

I can't stand my crooked teeth.
The ones up top are underneath
my nose. Suppose my proboscis
weren't big. No pig would sniff like this.

No snout about the size of mine
would grace the face of any swine;
nor forehead gleeming, seeming wide
compared to where my hair is tied
in knots with snot, ear wax, and turds.

I'm gruesome, in so many words,
and hate to see me say sometimes
I hate to wait, so make these rhymes
compound my sounding off here, ranting
sick with all the sycophanting
phrases made today, somehow,
I hate that I must end this now.

In my pictures, you can see
someone much like Alfred E.
Neuman - human, worry free,
& MAD as Hell, quite obviously.

Chews


What stiffness parts your lips, and comes 
softly out? No doubt some gum's 
flavor, savored while it's chewed, 
sticks unto a shoe, eschewed. 

Prized Boobies

Dear Ms. Tits, ma'am. By your leisure, 
boobies bring both food and pleasure 
to my mind. You'll find me aroused 
by boobies, when they come unbloused. 

 No man is an island Formosa their lives. 
Some have got friends. The others have wives 
to fill spaces where friends would have been 
had nary they tarried to marry. Amen.

Marriage Rites

Marriage is a Union, Man.
Man means you. A Human can
Woo - Sue for the affection of
another Man. So Woo, Man. Love
simply shows Man knows and cares,
no matter who, man or woman, stares
queerly, clearly understanding
Equality. What's so demanding?
No one here will ask or tell,
'cause we know Cowards, like Noel.


Stuck Up


I'm stuck up Hi; stuck in your ear. 
These words reflect an atmosphere 
of 'stuckupness', I guess it's called. 
I'm so stuck up, you'd be appalled 
at all the sticky stuck up stuff 
stuck here upon my sleeve and cuff. 

Like buggers wiped when snot descends, 
my stuckupness often offends. 
I'm stuck up Hi, like on a shelf. 
I reach to preach about myself 
in terms that worms can comprehend, 
since worm food soon will be my end. 

To end, I send this rhyme to task; 
stuck on the wall, or up your [...] Ask 
me now just how I knew 
to stick with this till you were through? 



Leaves of Grass

Before this gets any more hectic, 
realize that my style is eclectic. 
Currently, I think verse 
as I read, write, rehearse.
Then I sing my body electric. 

I'll accede to fate for my fault. 
I littered this lettered assault 
with reference to deference 
and poetic preference, 
'cause when I think Whitman, it's Walt. 

So consider these limerick jokes in 
a way one could say is, well, 'spoken' 
by one known as Hi, 
and then you'll know why 
I use 'Leaves of Grass' for my tokin'.