Tuesday, November 15, 2011

GRITSTONE



















In the deep bowels of Vulcan
With its hot fires engorged,
This man was not born
But by Thor’s hammer forged!

His cold steely eyes
Put the blue in the skies,
And the gale forces blow
When this mighty man sighs.


Olympus falls silent
As he strides towards their door.
Demi-gods cower
As Zeus hits the floor.

The toughest of men
He fills with deep dread.
Why, even the Boogeyman
Checks under his bed!


When the day is the darkest
This man stands alone!
All hail the emergence
Of the mighty Gritstone!

Terror in the Classroom




















Miss Pettigrew, our coach in math
Was mad as mad can be!
A rubber band had hit her cheek
And raised a welt, you see.

Young Tommy Jones, a fair haired boy
Was just aiming for some fun,
But was slow to hide the evidence;
A smoking rubber-band gun!

Miss Pettigrew, she swore out loud
To purge this foul corruption,
And confiscated Tommy’s gun;
A weapon of math disruption!

Monday, October 17, 2011

Feed My Sheep


Carnivore Kate and Cannibal Joe
Grew tired of eating pigeon.
So they asked the Padre in for lunch
For a taste of true religion!

Monday, June 6, 2011

To the Great Ogden Nash or "I Can't Believe He Gets Away With It!"


















Raise your glass, sing a song, strike the band, come along,
Join the fun while we all throw a bash
For the one we all love, with his gift from above,
For the poet, the great Ogden Nash!

I oft read his verses, his words full of wit,
His collections are hard to put down.
America’s son, the bard of our time,
How did he achieve such renown?

I am sometimes confused, if not fully amused
At how deftly he ties up each line.
Undaunted, when words just won’t come to mind,
Why, he simply makes up a rhyme!

Delicious, fictitious, and so serendipitous,
How does he keep a straight face?
Congruitous, manipulatous, and oh so ingenuitous,
The right word in just the right place.

Now, I’m just a novice and not one to say
That the good Mr. Nash is a cheater.
But have you all noticed how often Ol’ Odgen
Strays just a bit from the meter?

And just when you think that there isn’t a chance
That the point he would make will break through,
He lengthens things out, or cuts it right short
To make sure that its clear and that you get the point of what he is saying so there is no way you could misunderstand where he was taking you.

He’s a master, I tell ya, of spinning a yarn about
things that go “bump” in the night.
He thinks the way I do, and writes the way I would
If only I only could write!

To fully appreciate this poem, you must read some of Ogden Nash's work! He is truly the master of light verse!

Wednesday, June 1, 2011

The Mud Won't Get Glovey














Throw your white glove in a puddle of mud.
Let it represent all of your toil.
The mud won’t get glovey, for crud is still crud,
But your glove, I’m afraid, will be soiled.

Take particular care in the friends that you keep,
For your friends either lift or drag down.
Choose those who propel toward goals that you seek;
Shun those with the cheek and the frown.

Yes, there is room in the world for a kind word to all,
For the saint and the ruffian alike.
Pray, offer your hand to those who would fall,
But be watchful for serpents will strike.

Say Again?
















From nearby close proximity
I looked, beheld, and I saw me
With inclinations of proclivity,
Leaning obliquely toward perdition,
Trapped by altered, changed transition,
Doomed to redundant repetition!

Friday, May 27, 2011

Steve












Of Cleanliness and Godliness, the adage appoints;
God will be proximate to the most cleanly joints.

Now, Craig’s place is clean, I mean, his pad is bright!
And Steve lives on Craig’s left while I’m on the right.


The way that I figure, if that old saying’s true,
Then Steve’s digs are painted a deified hue.
Steve must be holy as holy can be,
‘Cause he’s next to Craig’s place, and God is not me!

Wednesday, April 13, 2011

Eye Trouble



















While fishing in Alaska,
Amongst the islands there,
I had a ton of fishing fun;
Even saw a grizzly bear!
Baiting hooks was my demise;
I had some trouble with my eyes,
So I bounced the old jalopy
Into town to find out why.
The doctor scratched his graying head
And pondered a solution.
I thought he was an eye doc
But he's an optical Aleutian!

Tuesday, April 12, 2011

Darn'dest Thing I Never Saw!














I once heard of a lumber jack
Who got caught in the milling saw.
It cut his left side clean away;
His arm, his leg, his jaw.
Someone said that he survived
But I really don't see how.
If so, I know its been some time,
He's probably all right now!

S M @ L



















Henry Houdini, kid brother of Harry,
Stood only five-foot six.
Though not as flamboyant,
He was somewhat clairvoyant,
Amazing men with his tricks.

Clever young Henry, soared to prestige,
It seemed that his boat could not sink.
‘Til a Judge bought his yarn
And bet the whole farm;
Poor Henry wound up in the clink!

It took but an hour and Henry was free,
To this he’d left Harry in charge.
The cops felt most dire
So they hung up some flyers
That read, “Small Medium at Large!”

Monday, April 11, 2011

Walk a Mile in Their Shoes















Without remorse, he told the tale
Of willful acts of poaching.
And I, his friend, had balled my fist,
Preparing to reproach him.
But he went on to describe the time;
Nine siblings of meager means,
With no father to supply them bread;
The meat had stretched the beans.

A blue-haired girl in studded jeans,
Piercings adorned her face.
I scoffed inside at this punked out girl
Who had set herself so out of place.
And yet her clothes were modest and clean,
And she carried her head aloft.
Her apparel screamed, “PLEASE, NOTICE ME!”.
But her spirit was mild and soft.

We live in a world with billions of souls;
Diverse and dynamic and vast.
We must yet find a way to get along
If a peaceable world is to last.
Yes, in judging the acts of our brothers,
I profess we react too fast.
For each sinner yet has a future . . .
And every saint has a past! *

* Oscar Wilde . . .    "Every saint has a past and every sinner has a future."

Monday, March 14, 2011

If I could Write a Book
















If I could write a book, my son,
And put it in your hand,
So many things of life and love
I’d have you understand:

Of books to read and hills to climb
And foods you need to taste;
The value of your closest friend,
And time you dare not waste.

If I could write a book, my son,
And, if I could write it well,
One chapter there would stand alone;
One theme on which to dwell.

I’d write of bridges wide and strong;
Of beams that bear their load,
Unwavering in the task assigned,
So, worth their weight in gold!

I’d write of honest men and true,
Dependable and brave,
Who brook their trials like a king;
Noble-born or slave!

But alas, my son, I would write in vain.
This truth you know, and well:
This chapter you must write alone;
Not mine, but yours to tell!


To all my children!

Wednesday, February 9, 2011

Cowbirds















Behold the humble Cowbird, such an evolutionary quirk.
Somehow nature taught this bird to be a first-rate jerk!
When it comes to low and dirty tricks no other bird can match it.
She lays an egg in her neighbors' nest; leaving them to hatch it!


She says she’s far too busy; "I’ve got to follow the herd".
I say that she’s just lazy! You conniving cowardly cowbird!
When her ample hatchling sheds its egg, the bugger’s just not fair.
It crowds its nest mates to the ground or eats more than its share!

Sound familiar? I hope to shout! Of all things that annoy . . .
The cowbirds in the office here act out this scornful ploy
By dropping projects on my desk, ill-thought, half-baked at best;
Expecting me to hatch them out and make room in my nest!

Our bosses do this all the time, but I reckon that’s their lot,
But what of Slow-Joe down the hall? I can’t believe this rot!
He hangs around and wrings his hands, judging my ambition;
Taking potshots while I sweat to bring his work fruition!

The problem with this cowbird gig; the thing that gets my goat
Is that cowbirds get promoted, and I don’t get a vote!
This is small of me, I admit; this outrage misdirected.
Cowbirds will always tick me off, at least 'til I'm perfected!