More Poems

Slick riders granddad! Alone is the shaded fallen.
Always a bode as the firm ship goes into shellfish prose.
Do you so plainly shine like fish nose? Alfalfa, root beer, candlelight throws!
Into an outcome all the rubbish glows.
Paprika, nutmeg and lorn ripe woes.
Speak to me of holidays as Wilson's wayward foe.

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Ye Would Not

Way Wand Young

The clock, rooster and morning pillow theoretically subjects are being hurled
Over occupations shear clift.
Leary of the gender of curled harlots, derailed splendor
Now that Abigail re-embarks on her third smoke break cherry ember,
With her never-ceasing matches and tinder.
Notching the glass on the cigarette vendor, somehow she spelled out
Willie Neslon and left work to her mother's for dinner.

Ma and Pa

The Barber

Matches and Tinder

Oh, look at me, oh, look at me
Where does time fly to?
I think most likely the same place into the sky.
Anyhow, my namesake I carry around in my pants pockets
But loosen the bands, fetters, collar, for my namesake, for my brother,
I give up my last dollar if that what it means to folks.
So, preacher, come to the kitchen of the puffhorse spokes
Right down there beside hard runnin' steele
My Pop and his Pop worked hard for their every meal.

And Frankenstein also indulged in acrobatics, but only on the Sabbath.
Because the werewolves were commonly engaged
in the practice of yellow journalism.
But never reached the conclusion that bats are sonar directed
and crocodiles declare another form,
highly uncommon to the natural species of their own,
and never link cold fusion to the use of leather for a wonderful Saturday among
the feet and pencils too,
When from a dark, dead night, fashion shows whirling upward
And free streaming loathfulness, sporadically combined a male paternal birthright
and achieve sheetrock from a hummingbird extravaganza.

He was reminded by a soft, cooled cigarette of his neighbor from along the
cadence of the rewing of his motor car
Then to his smile, pleasing him into thoughts of white sand
blowing from the daylight.
Laughter from deep, deep down in his everescence of manhood
That his friend was now pulling into a gas station, hotel, plaza!
A dog bites, reminding of teenagers not so far gone
As good youngsters just for show.
Some of these youths were no longer shadows by the light of day
Now in full bloom.
Science tells us that God is God and that that is that.

Chains

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My Steward

Is it any wonder that our brother, Jesus, is the Savior of this world
And worlds without end?
When at the council of heaven, when Satan and his brothers fell
Into that eternal dark chasm called apostasy and destruction
That Jesus stepped forward and said, "Here am I, send me".

On earth our stay is but a single moment in comparison to the everlasting life
That God hath prepared for his children "if only they would."
He would have spread forth his wings to comfort you as a mother eagle
spreads forth her wings for her chicks.
God said he would have nourished us, if only we would
But ye would not.

How ungrateful were the nine lepers who never went back to thank Him
No, only one.

A take in the wheel of chairs. Also a space in the weather giver.
To be spots revolving around grown shop.
His malice a thorn farm burgler.
Shedding thorns, joyful plumes all shaking around born down fingers.
Feeding on the picnic silvers. Oh! The plumes are mirrors formed once,
Ifs lorn chrome enhances few that thrive the burglar droppings!
All chasing born drone glowers from within the light
whistles the mourn chum formers!

Turquoise sparrows shaded by Georgia.
Abner scorches in amber sunshine.
Canine barking, cadence as malnourished mailboxes draw conclusions,
Anonymous looking glass laterally circumvent estranged midwives
And sanctified paper sunshine aloft whilst ebony dances.
Sunsets, granddad and twilight humus, the greater the odds,
The grander the chances.

Provocative sod the mule and dog scepters allure locked dampers
on Spring cleaned chimneys, along with the fireplace bending,
fabricated mule ride into the sunsets in cinema
Of poems I have read, the verse hath no ending.

Apple’s

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Flaming Hues Of Grammar

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Wayward Foe

Christmas Eve

White Sand

Sailing words upon the ocean of letters.
sentences caught in nets,as scathing
schooners seer before sundown the
painted sea of etiquette!Marbled showers
gather in the flaming hues of grammar,as
the sky sparks and splatters her dreaming
lunar ladder,her captain?A flower.Hues
of assunder,ink blots of thunder and the skiff
go not under,her sails filled with wonder,the
windwheel a ponder,the mast is plowing yonder,
her sails will bid her fonder and lead her to a song bird'
or perhaps,a literary strong that will tame confusion
onward!

I raised that boy, I brought him up
He and my rooster drank from my cup.
The cup of absurdity, ill fated luck
The leaves were my own.
I loved him like a pup.
And defended his ignorance and folly.
I fought for him, I beat two kids up.
Where were you, Michael, when we were all caught up
Chasing youth in harmony, he called it a throw up, burp
And I, an upchuck.
He loved Ricola, I'll give him that much
And I, tobacco and pipes like old Huck.
He was no Tom Sawyer, no Peter Pan.
I was blind, he was a reptile and then he slithered in the sand.
A salamander he was, a salamander was He
He turn into a wood chuck, and climbed a willow tree.
He didn't stay there long, he forgot to count to three.
I would love to have seen him throw a stick at me.
I would have softly forgiven him, then break the stick in two
And then would kindly have said, ''This ones's for me, and this one's for you."
But, no, no, he batted it all down and then started bragging
And sounded like a clown.
I cut off my hair, he grew his out.
I gave him my music, and he blotted it out.
A friend turned hornet, wasp or bee.
Take away this hypocrisy.
An American gigilo
In a town of thirty-three, think to yourself, "What would happen if he ran into me?"
So whatever it is, it wouldn't be good.
So we ought to obey God and do what we should.
Because Satan is here and wants us to believe
That he is Jesus Christ and this is Christmas Eve.

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Larry Doomis Had Chicken Feet

Aloft in the perplexities of mountains, also; wayward young:
Profiles of degenerate monsters.
His conglomerations of trousers, swiftly announced his shepherd1s gist of Goliath.
Himself a wayward frosty.
Allowing his punctual sweet tart as Darren eats his diamonds.

Alas, hyperbole conveyor belt, sincerely is sweltering youth1s magnanimous delusion,
An oboe for you to wear shoes in, beware the drunkenness protrusion,
aloft in mine profusion.
Anchored upon delusion and subtley within the apple core
in which drunkards reap so few than.

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The Doorstop

Paper sundrops, bronze buttons zipping down
Looking glass doorstop, the doorknob footwear of blackness
And leather boots of brown.
The loss of iris in eyes of mother of pearl the opposite of iris I beheld was fox hair,
the goldfish trophy mounted, another flag unfurls.
Tapioca dishware, this china in her hutch of breadlines in the projects
And canned goods of such.
Together we'll reap electricity, the cattle prod you'll touch,
And softly you'll forgive me unto cow pie you’ll clutch.
Proclaiming of its truthfulness of such and such and such
And in this speech concluding, thank you all so much.

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Cold and tarnished nickel, dirty yellow nails
In a dream dreamt by windmills out today out of jail.
My pockets are filled to the brim, in fact it's becoming hard to walk around.
What I have to fill them with, takes me into the ground.
For my mama and papa told me, the serpent grins
And poked holes in my pockets and laughs when I sin.
The hymns take me back to Ma and Pa
Outside from you, Dear Lord, God knows they are my two best friends.

Aloft and in convulsion, when the storms of the tempest beat against my berth,
The very bosom of my breast, my very soul
and tum ble rocks against the ship of this mortality
and the conscience of men throw a wave into that never ceasing vessel called life.
It is toward God I am drawn.
Nothing of man canst thus comfort and seal that everlasting covenant called
gospel more than the Lord's will
But in truth we are bound to our kind Father, Almighty God,
Creator of all things in this universe,
The steward of my everlasting spirit which God holds so dear.

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Forever delving, piercing youth, a black bowl and shears
An answer as fallen death like petals dropping
No thorn but within my heart.
Lashes, lashes these form as ashes,
as all who live here withstand these rashes.
Mine head not fallen, my youth's lorn call than, a purpose lead to me,
Withstood as bread to me, an angler sure hath sheared his heart.

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Some chum formed alone as the lorn bug phone
That whosoever seek the lorn throne is; as an as, the foam door!
Your oh! Another clone floor, as ladies saw runners the lone dance
Behind the throne door.

This lorn more as leg lore as the roar of thorns, the egg store.
Oh, no! 'Tis old mute hell door you low, low, four more.
Alone, you reap glum war, the lone slum, no more.

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My Last Dollar

Some Chum

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The Angler And The Silversmith

Paper Sunshine

Dead Night

Take the apple right from my eye,
take this guitar, and from my cold fingers pry.
Loose in heaven what's loose on earth,
bind me Jesus, lift up this curse.
An apple in a basket
An apple in a pail
Come free me, Jesus,
Come go my bail.
Apples in the oven
Baked in apple pie
Nothing sweeter than carmel apple skies.