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Mooning' The People

'Look...
Let me set the record straight,
For you people.
And make it clear.
There will be no further snooping,
As to when we last used our axes
We have already reported those dates,
When we decided to reveal how we did that.
And where we sent the trees once we chopped them down,
Is none of your business.
We have been doing this most of our lives.
We are The Normans.
We own property all over the world.'

But...
Not to be insistent with my persistence.
It is 'your' husband running for a high public office,
Mrs. Norman.
And will be elected by trusting and...
Mrs. Norman,

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poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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Ode to Bouncer (is this your dog too?)

Ode To Bouncer

Playful and stinky
First come to mind
With faithful and honest
Not too far behind

These things are what make him our dog

large brown eyes
Big Black wet nose
On my pillow he lies
In canine repose

He’s poopy and snoopy
With an aura of funky
Ears sad and droopy

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poem by David Whalen
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Tuby Fuby

Everybody in the party like Tuby Fuby,
She got my wallet like Hubby Hubby,
Playing In the mud like Muby Muby,
Calling me her turby Burby,
Danceing in the club like she don't know me,
In Line like Hokey pokey,
Drinking hot coffee like sweet motion,
Picking up friends Locomotion,
playing with her golf hole holy polor,
Everybody in grand stands u didn't know me,
We be drinking in here like sweet sensation,
Me and her conversation,
Big Potato in microwave cookie pookie,
Need new kitchen sink sookie sookie,
Tuby Fuby we party like its 1990 to the nine,
Everybody on their own time,
Calling me still like ghetto phone line,
We drinking up a storm windows busting,
Tornado hit the sun (snowing outside) ,
Tuby Fuby I undress her she my homie,

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poem by Tommy Laster
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Sarah Cynthia Slyvia Stout Would Not Take The Garbage Out

Sarah Cynthia Sylvia Stout
Would not take the garbage out!
She'd scour the pots and scrape the pans,
Candy the yams and spice the hams,
And though her daddy would scream and shout,
She simply would not take the garbage out.
And so it piled up to the ceilings:
Coffee grounds, potato peelings,
Brown Bananas, rotten peas,
Chunks of sour cottage cheese.
It filled the can, it covered the floor,
It cracked the window and blocked the door
With bacon rinds and chicken bones,
Drippy ends of ice cream cones,
Prune pits, peach pits, orange peel,
Gloppy glumps of cold oatmeal,
Pizza crusts and withered greens,
Soggy beans and tangerines,
Crusts of black burned buttered toast,
Grisly bits of beefy roasts...

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poem by Sheldon Allan Silverstein
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Our Brilliant Public School Students

Listen up, clowns!
...er, a... students.

Last week,
It was brought to my attention...
By many of your parents,
That my assessment of your reading abilities...
Were,
For the most part...
Rather harsh and vindictive.

I have invited your science teacher,
Mister Robin Bobbin...

**LOL**

I will have none of this!
Show some respect.

As I was saying...

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poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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Peanut Butter: My Old Friend.....[Personal; Food]

I had a peanut butter sandwich today
which made me think of all the way....
sssss my life has been touched by that
stick-to-your-mouth sludge of peanut fat.

Not 'touched' in the sense that's it's shaped my life,
but when I open a jar and take up a knife
or a spoon, I can picture times of enjoy-
ment as an adult consumer and as a boy.

Of course I'm lucky in that I generally enjoy food
even if I'm in a rare bad mood.

I assume pb was a common snack in my childhood,
though I'm not sure it was. My memory is not that good.
But I do remember my Mom made cookies from it;
I helped her. And the first cooled cookie I'm sure I bit,
paying some attention to the crisscross pattern on top,
or the sometimes-present big chocolate drop.
And when I visited my childhood neighbor, Helen, it's a good bet

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poem by Bri Edwards
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The times are a-changin again

This government will not control me
I will fight
I will not let it hold me
by making decisions and telling me whats right
I wish somebody could tell me how a kids supposed to make it out of Longsight
there are no jobs
tuition fees are in the dark of a winter night
where I look up
looking for a lucky star
children in the world do starve
while the leaders of our country dip their hands in the cookie jar
our ancestors they have marched too far
they have marched too far, for us to be where we are
we are all done wrong by the right to vote we are given
equality is still forbidden
and we are brain washed into distraction by the things they put on the television
the writers need to expose
and make the ignorant listen so they can see the people nobody knows
the youth are growing to see and are searching for followers to lead
racism survived because we were not let understand each other

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poem by Daniel McCann
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Every Path

Every path is as wide with compassion
as the planet that you're walking on
so there's really never any danger of falling off.
I didn't lie
and you didn't tell the truth:
two sins of omission
trying to fit lenses to clarity
like fashionable eyewear.
It's what people do
when they don't want to see too much.
And I'm sure you've recreated me in your own image long since
I discovered good-bye was older than eternity
and more absolute than space.
I remember you asking me once
after we'd finished making love in the red tide
as the breakers dashed their galaxies against the rocks
and we both sprawled there naked dripping with stars
what I thought a human was and I replied
an interpretation with a face.
And you asked why we were here

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poem by Patrick White
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Parkinson's Disease

While spoon-feeding him with one hand
she holds his hand with her other hand,
or rather lets it rest on top of his,
which is permanently clenched shut.
When he turns his head away, she reaches
around and puts in the spoonful blind.
He will not accept the next morsel
until he has completely chewed this one.
His bright squint tells her he finds
the shrimp she has just put in delicious.
Next to the voice and touch of those we love,
food may be our last pleasure on earth—
a man on death row takes his T-bone
in small bites and swishes each sip
of the jug wine around in his mouth,
tomorrow will be too late for them to jolt
this supper out of him. She strokes
his head very slowly, as if to cheer up
each separate discomfited hair sticking up
from its root in his stricken brain.

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poem by Galway Kinnell
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Pendulum Rubaiyat

The pendulum of history shall swing
now to, now fro, pride break or profits bring:
thus one ‘should take the current when it serves’
for Change is in the air and on the wing.

The century snails onwards in its slime,
or so it seems to those who actions mime
as if they were the puppet masters, still
strings stay attached to the design of Time.

Soon we will witness Nature’s thunder hurled.
Pandora’s box has menaces unfurled
which angry retribution will afford
Mankind for the abuses of our world.

Convenience converts much truth to fiction
outside pure science for what's held conviction
acts as a shield protecting ignorance
from fears life's one-way ticket, then eviction.

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poem by Jonathan Robin
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