Neighborhood 12 Days Of Christmas

One free 2019 calendar
from a local merchant
Two telephone directories
that nobody wanted
Three hungry chickadees
Four front yard holes
from the utility company
where no holes used to be
Five overflowing trash bins
Six strings of colorful lights
on an artificial tree with
genuine, life-like pine boughs
Seven, white-tailed deer
emerged from the woods
Eight deflated snowmen
Arose magically at dusk
Nine feral cats yowled
somewhere in the night
Ten neighbors scowled
taxes were way too high
Eleven empty beer cans
gleamed from the roadside
Twelve discarded cardboard boxes
rain-soaked by curbside

 

You Should Be Writing

You should be writing–yeah
You should be writing–yeah
On the brink of midnight
Rising to the top
Going to take you higher
You should be writing–yeah
And still you’re not
Thank you for waiting in line
No punch drunk, punch lines here

Cow & Mockingbird

A mockingbird

Rode the back

Of a weathervane cow

In a mockery of scale

Preened–pretended

To point wind direction

The cow in an act of stoicism

Had nothing to say

–Image, Craig Roberts–

Rolling, Rolling, Rolling (Dung Beetle Blues)

There were lots of cattle on the farm where I grew up.  And, in the pasture were lots of cow patties.  My brothers, sister, and myself had plenty of dung beetles to watch for entertainment.  There weren’t any smart phones–or electronic devices to entertain us in those days.  A post from two years ago.

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Rolling, rolling, rolling

Keep them dung balls rolling

Dung balls

Keep on growing

They may be

Full to overflowing

Roll, roll, roll ’em

You know

You can’t

Control them

Stay strong

Roll, roll, roll, them

Dung balls

All day long

Head ’em up

Move ’em out

Knowing there are

Larvae inside

Daylight Savings Time (Time Piracy)

Once again, clock hands will be turned back one hour this Saturday night.  The insanity of it expressed in a slightly revised post from 2015.  My sentiments haven’t changed.    

Aarrrgh!  Tonight, an hour’s sleep pirated away in the name of DST–it happens every spring.  I don’t like it, but will knuckle under like everybody else.  Why not have a tribute to honor the lost hour; or, at the very least, a poem to honor the occasion.

Everybody is welcome to join in, with silly dance moves and melodies.  I was thinking about “Safety Dance” by Men Without Hats, to get the party started.  A drunken leprechaun dance might also work.  If you know any drunken leprechauns–they’re invited.

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“The DST Dance”

It used to be

It’s not anymore

It’s not there

Who cares?

One single hour

That became a bore

Ignored after midnight

Nobody cares

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You can dance, you can dance

With a patch over your eye

You can dance, you can dance

Even if you don’t know why

You can dance, you can dance

Dance like you’re out of your mind

You can dance, you can dance

Leave that hour far behind

Hoppin’ Robin

Hopped on the sidewalk

All day long

Hoppin’, rockin’

Singing his song

Hoppin’ Robin

Caught some air

Hoppin’ Robin

Really didn’t care

Who was watching

Hoppin’ Robin

Didn’t care

That he had

The seasons wrong

 

–Image, Craig Roberts–

THE SUN COMES UP…

The sun comes up
No cars come by
You are here
And, so am I

Hitchin’ a ride
Hitchin’ a ride

The sun comes up
No cars come by
You look like hell
And so, do I

Hitchin’ a ride
Hitchin’ a ride