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if IRS should choose
to like the taxes you do pay,
they just take your tax
returns and phylum away
to hold them tight against you
on some other rainy day.
1)
Boll weevil,
Boll weevil,
Castor oil
Thunder soil,
Oh, delirious for evil,
Boll weevil.
2)
Boll weevil,
Boll weevil,
Castor oil
Thunder soil,
How mysterious is evil,
Boll weevil.
3)
Boll weevil,
Boll weevil,
Castor oil
Thunder soil,
Oh, inure us to evil,
Boll weevil.
4)
Perely hass insenslacs weedle teels
thi awf-rie groadflar praw,
Soe mrives echry sonsie
pature tho adform hetself bith claw;
Cand thi selnder Chernts
cand Mages plaid thym gious fructure jite
Vy un relocratic ninstinct prover’d fronst
thi comple’s cloarby vite.
a beautiful scene
but life is mean
rhyme’s obscene
it tends to demean
and trap the flutterbies on the page.
flutterbies in a cage?
quelle outrage!
I am reduced to exclamation marks.
the chrome and formica are rugged
this chair is as old as this house
back when cars had wings
spaghetti today for the happy little one
her small smile from ear to ear
and the sauce is everywhere
in her fingers in her ears
a radiant array around the legs
to top it off she puts the tiny bowl
atop her adorable head and throws
the spoon on the floor
i laugh and she giggles
much music plays on in the living
room sunshine fills the kitchen
Those old plays!
With intriguing middle agers
In make up,
And dress ups!:
Like serious children.
The dusty musty
Solid, fake velvet curtains
And used floorboards
Withered, creaked and strong
That held many thoughts
Lived out
On its old back
* * *
its all ways there the old theatre cavern.
The cave.
Go down deep.
It’s cool;
In it’s silence.
I find it hard to imagine it with it’s party,
Host face on.
Now that I’ve visited it
When it was quiet
And lonesome
Like a grandpa.
Last Christmas,
while my Irish rellies said “fecking”
and my Aussie rellies said “frigging”
and online they said “fncking”
I got in trouble for saying “fucking”
fuck that.
I am
in his hand
I am his
constant companion
I am his aid
I am a part
of his art
he writes
in stanzas
to mould and shape
to give form
and to
allow his reader
to digest
what has been read
a brief reflection
a contemplation
of the images
thrown into
the readers mind
(c) 3.8.2007 Lenny Gazbowski
poems and stanzas
go hand in hand
giving form
to the poems land
in between
each stanza
there is time
for brief reflection
a perfect and
impromptu hesitation
(c) 3.8.2007 Lenny Gazbowski
for now
the words
will end
and
the story
will pause
me
the writer
has no friend
I will hide
myself
until
I am ready
to put
pen to paper
So please
only whisper
if you care
to be amongst
the dead
and the silent
(c) 3.8.2007 Lenny Gazbowski