Busted

Gentle as rain, the poetry police
Thundered at my mixed metaphor

Then accused me of, splitting, I think,
Infinitives with grammar poor

The hanging judge participle, thinking my words
Predicate syntactic crime

The jury, an actively passive bunch
Took little joy from my rhyme

The discourse was quick, I has no defense
But felt no need for penance

Foreshadowed is seemed, from the very first word
I was given a fragmented sentence

So here I sit, poetic license revoked
Condition of release now imposed

For the next thirty days, for my own good
I’m only allow to write prose

Not a nice guy

Father preferred
Competing over teaching
Life lessons generalization were few

I stumbled into adulthood
Knowing drive to the hoop
No pearls of wisdom, save two

First
The conservative’s a person
Who doesn’t like change
That’s what it’s really about

Last
Time will be spent
Waiting for women though
Worth it he said with no doubt

Been gone so long now
Can’t remember his face
Unless I look at a mirror

Odd what you conjure
Up late at night
Odd which thoughts become dear

The lie remains one
Of our most popular
Communication forms

Quick Litany of Lies

From
I’ll call you
In the morning

To
Vote for me
I’ll change things

Ever
Popular for
Your own good

We face it every day

Quaint
No sex with
That woman

Pious
Free markets
Grant us freedom

Thinly
Veiled checks
In the mail

I fear they’re here to stay

Let’s try
More time
With the family

Privileged
He just needs
More rehap

Frequently
You need
Our product

Hey

Don’t go by what they say

Habits

Yesterday didn’t write a thing
Not one word emerged

Instead tried on a few new friends
In an alcohol based social surge

Afterwards we went to sleep
Without really saying anything

Woke screaming with a cramp
Just as the dream was getting interesting

A sharp reminder of what it takes
To assure we don’t fall sickly

Sure hope it don’t happen again today
Since I form habits quickly

Frankly getting out of bed
In the morning is risk enough
Thanks

What are the Odds?

He preferred gambling
With a lust for chance exceeding even sex
Not that sex isn’t

Long odds not short skirts
Spending serious thrills to get that
Intimate adrenal afterglow

Took up rock climbing
When money lost its edge
Deciding upon higher stakes

Lost that last bet
On his way up a mountain
With a woman half his age

The First Thing That Pops Into My Head

He tried to teach
The most import thing
An artist needs is
Something to say

I don’t get the meaning
He critiqued across the circle
Always suggesting
Be more specific

Forty years two, maybe, three
Lifetimes down the road
Still unsure what he meant
I remain hopeful