“Look! The aging poet sleepwalks again.”
“Sir, should we wake him from his nightly tour?”
“No! God no! His heart could not stand the strain.”
“He’s heading for the open study door

Other than the slight ringing in my ears
The only other sound I hear is the
Computers low droning inner gears.
Monotonous sounds that drive me a
Little crazy at times; background noises

This poem was written near the end of the Bush administration.

O Tempora! O Mores! My good friends!
These last injurious years we endured
Under another feckless George will end

The hour of darkness covers many men.
They enter foreign soil illegally.
En mass invasion time and time again.
The problem is arithmetically
impossible to stop. Deportation

Solitary delight

Alone
but not lonely.
Pedaling along an
odoriferously perfumed
pathway.

Clock

Two hands
continuous
circumferential trek
through nonspacial continuum...
Timeless.

Poet!
recite to us
a monody. Let it
be sad. Make us cry for those that
have died.

Remind
us on this day
of mourning, why they died:
So that everyone may live in
freedom.

Brrring!
Hello!.. Oh, hi
dear...fine.. You?... that's good to
hear...dinner?..where? Perkin's is fine.
Bye Love.

Human
contrived playthings
that transports fat asses
places we would never, ever
walk to.

Commenced
as a tiny
egg glued to foliage.
Maturing bondage in a shell
awaits

Larva.
Eating, growing,
full size caterpillar
outgrows its present confines.
Splitting

Again.

Malefactors owing
political allegiance
to a foreign land,
who enter another land
prohibited by its laws.

Trudging behind a hungry machine
who's diet consist of all things green.
Just when the lawn is picture plane
three days later it's grown again.

Clipping, smoothing, pruning; silly
dilly-dallies that people do.
Gross lessons in futility
achieved. And Oh!, tis true, tis true!

Our blue marble is imperiled
Due to excessive CO2
Like being over a barrel.
Our blue marble is imperiled.
Greenhouse gas, it's our funeral
the solutions long overdue.

Tasty
sweet confection,
savored by young and old
alike, that satisfies one's own
craving.

Muhammad Ali
who stung like a mad bee.
He floated like a butterfly
then punched you in the eye.