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.

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.