I’m stayin’ right where I am
Don’t plan goin’ no  place ‘cept
Here, sittin’ on this milkin’ can.
Nothin’ movin’ right now..slept
Like a lamb yist’rday.
Paw’s been callin’ my name
But I’m doin’ the low lay
And keepin’ outa sight jest the same
‘cause I don’t wanna do what he say.
So, I stay put right here
Mindin’ my bizness the rest ‘o’ the day.
 
© 2007 George E Thompson

Of long gnarled fingers
and razor claws grey.
Voices of injustice
that silence the grave.
 
Unimaginable despair
that you wreak
with your fingers.
Long gnarled grey fingers
that damn the insane.
 
Of judgments you passed
on judgments you seek
to quiet the poet
and silence the meek.
 
And judgments you rant
on hideous grave
the devil himself
would blush in disgrace.
 
But still you point fingers
and wrap around throats
to steal a breath

My neighbors, Marinko and Sharon
invited me over to their back yard last Saturday
for his take on American BBQ,
complete with pork shoulder, salad,
sliced canteloupe, red grapes,
and the almost dessicated looking blackberries
that grow from the tree
straddling our backyards.
He even made the chicken wings that he used to make
back home in Croatia,
before he fled to Germany,
"Der Deutschland."
I cannot find the words to describe the spice,
and what he did to the onions accompanying them
is beyond my skill as a chef.

 
a note from me to thee,
my dear Joe:
 
you do inspire me,
I delight to see,
 
to place more nonsense
in my poetry.

 
 
’tending college ain’t what’s rumored to be.
’tis really all about employer ’ceptance in our society.
 
high-grade A’s’re not so hard to make:
just get yourself informed as far as what a sole professor wants; then heave it back at him—or her—on any test you take.
 
’tis plain to see (by even me)
I learn more of value from the bluest sky and darkest sea …
 
and from my yardly feral critters
(’long with their endearing, playful litters) …
 
and myself …
 

 
 
my dear water glass
 
made from melted sand,
how wonderfully you fit
my grasping hand …
 
but if I fall, or even trip,
and you should somehow slip,
fall to floor, and break in bits,
 
what’s left can kiss my ass

 
 
For Me ’tis Plain to see---
and quite Self-evident---
God is and always was irrelevant.
 
When a Bible’s tale-teller
(if I may aptly vent,
I’m sure what’s true he Bent!)
 
acknowledged God
(a concept really Very Odd),
for the life of Me,
 
I dunno what the Hell he meant.

 
 
being skilled
to phrase in ways
dubbed childlike
 
I consider to be
my greatest gift
 
to all my writing—
 
although the tag is,
the truth to tell,
a quite deceptive one,
 
for what I pen
so like a child,
 
a child could not