Agrrrrh!

When I see yellow buds bust from green,
I wonder if  it's snap for them, or is it like it is for us,
the budding accompanied by primal screaming?

When I young woman swung ax,
kindling gathered and strung necklaces of skulls,
I taught my boys how to kill in hunt and war,

little could I have dreamt one day
I'd be hung in museum closet
desecrated  head to toe.

Hear what the Museum Windpipes say:
We're not certain of Agatha's age
By the looks of  her vertebrae, she might have had a tail.

Of what she deceased is under consultation.
Might have been diabetes,
or some other kind of cave life peril.

In Ice Age, there wasn't much one could do to keep warm
Catching mink was tricky business,
and you needed at least 6 fat ones to fashion stole.

Ten thousand years later,
St. Nick is portrayed as jolly,
essentially because he had a high caloric diet.

How Hot Pants managed to squeeze his fat ass
down a chimney and  then back up, is anyone's guess.
Maybe the Museum Windpipes know

Poem's Beginning

Who knew no joy,
in Him joy strengthens
and liberates.

Who died, I live for Him.
Who into hell descended,
like Him I'll resurrect.

A poem's beginning a psalm's fulfillment,
the poet David,
I partaker, I recipient.

Cookie Sheets

You live moments
Music rises and falls in notes
Hours pass in seconds
Song Writer is in deep arranging.

Then bang!  Inspiration vanishes.
Song Writer is are more than empty,
for there is empty like never been filled,
and there is empty like well run dry.

Song Writer is understandably withered
Inspiration has voided her like she may not rebound too quick?
Thus, the Song Writer's cookie hath crumbled.  Despair not; woman!
A crumbled cookie is essentially a rearranged cookie sheet.

What about you, friend, how's your tank,
are you running on empty?

Moore Said

You little pathetic woman
begging affection from one who doesn't loved you
You are a mop head.  You've are a dust bin!

But know, you,genders, that as one may stand on a street corner
watching 18-wheelers truck, the drivers don't rule the road
The rules of the road do, and violators are ticketed.

More be said,
I'd be accused
of tinkering with your brakes.

Man Up

Fatherhood defines a man

There's more to a man
than the size of a penis
There are more penises than men

How else to account for so many unwanted children
whose fathers have been like plants dispensing pollen?

Instruments of Candle

I bring to table a pebble
I bring to the table a buckle

Rounded pebble syllable of  water tongue
grand design of floods and trickles

Busted buckle moss encrusted
sleep walking to the forest edge

Sleep walking to the pond
where Spanish moss hang  faces

In womb, I was  pebble,
I heard sad mansion moaning

She stood last night, a stoic wife
under good  husband's avalanches

But know you now, insulter,
her lover's sleeves are green.

His fingers lattice her breast;
his kisses are insistent beetles.

She is  longer sure Resurrection is what she reckoned
if Reincarnation is a curse like a candle that burns and wanes.

Unsure if life indeed is candle, if suffering indeed is wax,
may the instruments of the device not disappear;

the flame which tolls the bell in the candle's belfry;
the wick which is the buried worm bound to burn.

Would you have had it some other way
that she buried you between her legs

And now disinters you, l
liken then  the tongue to a shovel,

the digging done, the shovel is oiled anew.
You, the living should be the diggers

and for the dying, please dig at least 6 feet.

Long and Longer

Genius and idiot have this in common;
they have trouble standing still for long.

Elephant and tortoise have this in common;
because they're slow, they are long livers.

I have a problem with long and longer
How much longer can I long for you to return?