If I say I need you,
it's not all in my head.
If I say I knead you,
I must be making bread.
The "K" is silent in
English, I know,
instead of being "guttural"
in the Germanic style.
The word kinder
is German for child.

Jump up and down
you old, aged clown.
Please leave us now.
Just get out of town.

When your stomach starts
talkin trash to thee,
your lactose intolerance
may be a new allergy.

My thoughts are a jumble,
No longer from me,
for I've lost control.
It's now time to flee;
to run from here,
as quick as I can,
and become for the moment,
the old Nowhere Man.

Should I worrry
When she says,
"I have to go to
The bathroom" and
Then says, "Where
Is it?"
Should I worry?

The grey-blue
of the VW van,
shows primer spots,
with a little paint.
The metallic side,
is smooth; plain
with paint removed.
A great find today,
as a new ride may be
on its way. Hooray!

I lay in bed
with a thought of Ewe
in my head.
For counting of sheep
is supposed to help you sleep.
I hear a neigh in my ear,
for I can't disappear,
as the evening is nigh.
Oh, wait. I need to explain,
I'm talking of reign;
not talking about rain,
for if I do there,
it will be pain (ful)
as I place my head through
the window pane.

Looking out the window pane,
the streets are wet
with a Springtime rain.
As I lookout I bet,
the newspapers
may be dry, hopefully not wet.

From the cold waters of Lake Lenore,
come the voices from a bird haven.
Dark as night, not a Crow but a Raven.
A bird who will blot the Sun from the door,
saying over and over again, "Nevermore."
What sayeth now? I asked of him.
He wouldn't say but he looked grim.
"I have no words, to say to you,
for I know you always abhor,
a bird who talks, saying, Nevermore.?"

I'm alone in the dark,
years before cell phones.
A small flashlight,
it's called a "pen",
for it resembles,
the instrument
of its name.
Not much light
but I can still see,
the small patch
of ground, near my feet.
Not much help,
not to me,
but anything will do,
at a quarter to three.

I stood there looking at thee.
I watched you but couldn't see,
For I was lost in my reverie,
What has now happened to me?

Never more. Never again
will I tell you
I have an ear to lend.

Forego the wind.
Forego the fame.
I ask only
for your name.
We were young,
when we met.
Asking of you,
with no regret.
My memories gone.
Fleeing the scene,
escaping from here,
for I mean,
of something thought,
is your last name;
what I forgot.
Help me now,
oh pretty please.
Keeps me hanging,
not nice to do,
dangling in the breeze.

It's getting close.
It's getting near,
when a mosquito's sound
is what you'll hear.

If I have a poetry predilection,
is it considered a poem addiction?

Do you suppose
if I were to propose
a meeting of those
with the funny old clothes,
they would accept? Who knows
for they're wearing odd hose.
I suppose I would, if my nose
invited them and they arose
to ask of the nature of those
who did lately, I suppose.

I tire of this writing style,
for words, come not to me.
My mind has slowed to a crawl,
as my body strength does flee.
Words which came along this way,
no longer do they appear to me.
Do I care? Of course I do,
for writing was a pleasure; mine.
Perhaps I need a spark again.
I'll try again, while drinking wine.

From my heart,
words came to beguile,
explaining why the
words came with style.
Asking of you, I say
you are looking
marvelous on this day.

Why do we demean a pig,
when we call someone a swine?
Is it because they're so messy
or if they squeal or whine,
or when they care not for others,
who detest how they dine?
I'll have some crackers and cheese
with my fresh glass of red whine.

The few words, I knew,
the less I would say,
except the words Hello
and have a good day.
I played by myself,
there were no other boys,
so I became the Master
of all of my toys.
I know what you're thinking,
for it most certainly would be,
I was a small child;
a child, age three