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.

Flock You!

Please forgive my attitude 
 if I don't project gratitude 
 extending you the platitude 
 of, 'Have a nice Thanksgiving'. 

 I mean nothing untoward, 
 and half expect to be ignored 
 by those whom I've so often bored, 
 but I have to make a living. 

 So, off I go to work out yonder 
 where the work is, and I wonder 
 who else takes the time to ponder 
 what lies in God's word. 

 I can't be alone in thinking 
 God sees all my nods, and winking. 
 Is ours the only kitchen stinking? 
 Time to flip the bird!