We Clowns, Wee Martyrs

Poets and scribblers, musicians as well,
are sad clowns of red bulbous noses
with a knack for tripping over anything pretty

Have a hankering to explore something exotic?
Try Chinatown eateries before you're tempted
to visit lonely heart web sites

True romance is of the taste buds.

More of Paula and Less of Butter

I will entertain no charge of sin levelled against me
Lies complete are as hard to find as unadulterated truths
Inquisitors want forced confession and feigned repentance

That I once said "Niger" with attitude
does not in itself not make me Anti African
Be happy and  please excuse

Paula D.

Sticks and stones may break my bones
but words can not hurt me.
What sheer hypocrisy in the matter of Paula Deen!

She should have been banned from television year ago
not for using the "N" words but for overuse of butter in her pastries.
By the way, what's the "N" word, I'm not from this neighborhood.

No --- Now Know

I think I've figured out the problem,
inadequate study of human behavior.
Lessons learned I fail to practice,
which makes me dumber than dumb.

Here in capsule
is what I've captured
Never trust anyone entirely.

As to my own trustworthiness
I haven't  been exactly a poster child
regarding the you-know-what
Ten Commandments

A Supreme Decision

The Court has ruled
Man may marry man
Woman, woman may wed

One convention will not be altered

One will be husband, one will be wife
Each pair shall choose, each two will decide
Can't wait to see what happens when polygamy is legalized.

The Quality of Hope

How could it happen
I talked myself into a prison
with no allowance for parole

Shall  I ever stop doing penance?
Will I one day cease sinning?
"The quality of mercy" rain on us

The Hawaiian islands
once fumed, once smoldered
Presently, they are lush and verdant

Maps That Scream

blue green green blue
green blue green through dark
stainglass rose tints flicker
garden shadows recede in wickers

lips pluck and plucker fleshy around a note surpassed
a Dizzy Gillespie b;ast of trumpet which sets me reeling
down the steep canyons of my past
I feel witty, Missy.  I feel  misty, too.

I feel willy nilly, Mister, and silly, too.
I feel like the wabbit in Alice.  Oh, pray, I beseech thee
leave me not feeling wabbit, for my transformer hums
and my loins are firing bolts of lightning.

Kindly understand that as in the building of a wall
first you slap the mortar, then you set the bricks,
so in the stew of chaos music swims.  In fact.
were it not for chaos, we'd have strait silence.

This in brief, this in britches is the swelling
this time of month that bells the weather.
The name is Maps, my thoughts run rampant
my spring runs rampant and crimson, too.