RHYME TIME

Universal Poem #14

My human sat down to write this poem, that didn't rhyme,

What a waste of his talented time, not to his usual taste, nor mine,

Any hovering key tapper can finger his feelings down,

Can spill his heart until his soul is puddled on my ground,

What makes a poet most poetic is smooth and timely rhyming,

What makes my tapper better than yours, is his skill to rhyme sublimely,

With respect to haiku, and iambic pentameters,

My human rhymes fine lines with nine-life parameters,

Without rhyming words, I am not impressed,

No matter which combo of keys they do press,

Non rhyming poets leave me bored and depressed,

Their words with no rhymes, in public, undressed,

A poem with no rhymes, big deal, no stress,

Please finger and print my letters with care,

Open your rhyming heart on me, 'till your soul is poetically bared,

If you rhyme it, you'll show you have clever to spare,

If you rhyme it, you'll show that your wit isn't scared,

My love has been wired for those who declare,

That rhyming is poetry, no rhymes, beware,

Rhyming is poetry, my core belief shared.

CARDBOARD COLLECTOR

Universal Poem #19

A traveling artist of sculpture was he,

Wildlife and abstract, his inner voice, set free.

Sacrificed trees, his material of choice,

With sharp chisel and hammer he gave it a voice.

Old truck filled with carvings, he sets to the road,

At fine art and craft shows, he lightens his load.

Back to the workshop, creating once more,

Filling the needs of his traveling store,

From the foothills of the mother-lode, down the narrow windy road,

Over bridges when nearing the big city mode,

The city by the bay, the San Francisco way,

A sunny day to sell his sculptures under shining rays,

Time to go for this weekend's show,

Trading his creations for hard won dough,

Maiden Lane the site this time,

A street of lore well past its prime,

Shantsy O'Day and his wooden display,

Ready for viewing first weekend of May,

Art patrons arose and gathered with the fog,

Shantsy stood proud ground, behind his visions in logs.

First he sold a carving of a whale and baby calf,

His next was of a torso, just the naked upper half,

A mournful part, yet a rousing start,

Goodbye to good work done, hello to cash for art.

Noon rushed in with the wind from the bay.

Time out for a snack and to breathe in the day,

The sculptor relaxed and took in the scene,

Surrounded by artists, living his dream,

He admired paintings hanging near, by the painter on his downhill side,

A man walked past to do the same, this man caught Shantsy's eye,

Disheveled clothes and dirty face,

This perusal of art seemed out of place.

The carver took steps back, to be with his sculpted wood,

His eyes never left the spot, where the old art lover stood.

Holes in his misfit pants, one shoe yellow, the other red,

A wine box transformed to a tacky hat, sat atop his balding head.

He crouched and he squinted, he shuffled about,

He studied the paintings with critical doubt.

The painter regaled the ragged man, with story of his craft,

Many were inspired he said, by long rows upon his raft.

What happened next shocked painter, sculptor, all who watched in awe,

The homeless man reached pocket deep, came up with cash in paw,

He chose the largest painting hanging on the artist's wall,

With yellow shoe in front of red, he strode past, proud and tall.

The art collector teetered, tottered, swayed against the wind,

He clutched the painting close to chest and carried home his win.

Intrigued beyond belief, the sculptor followed close behind,

He had to soothe the logic in his shocked and boggled mind.

Where would a man, without a home, hang large expensive art?

A pocket full of money, in his pants that fall apart;

A mystery in broad daylight for those inclined to ponder,

Down the slopes and up the hills, the art lover and artist wandered.

The painting shook the worn man's arms, as he neared his humble abode,

Careful not to scrape the frame, he strained as he stumbled and strode,

“There's no place like home”, he coughed, mumbled and droned,

“This art will bring joy to my life here alone”.

Shantsy tipped and he toed, his walking paced slowed

As he neared the thin home, with its roof oddly bowed.

A cardboard box, strangely protected by locks,

The homeless man's home, on the homeless men’s block.

Shantsy climbed some stairs, salty air billowed his buttoned blouse,

He peered down through a hole in the cardboard house,

With hand on roof, he fought the relentless sea air,

The writing on the box said, Family Sized Frigidaire.

He could see the man. He had scissors in hand,

Could this really be his masterpiece plan?

Shantsy gasped as he witnessed the scissors tear through,

He pressed his face against the hole, to get a better view.

Snip-snip went the scissors tip, the painting cut in tiny squares,

The man inside the box snipped on, as Shantsy hovered and stared.

In a shoe-box lacking space, the painting squares were lovingly placed,

The man cut with precision, a smile on his withered face.

When the painting was boxed, he kindled the frame,

Arms flailing away with uncanny aim, he rubbed sticks together 'till bursting a flame,

The sawdust settled, he put on a kettle, to boil some minty tea,

New art to display, cut up and packed away, in his city by the cold, thirsty sea.

Knock-knock on the cardboard door, two steps across the living room floor,

“Welcome to what I call my home, forgive me but I'm terribly poor”:

“My name's Shantsy O'Day, I have followed you today, to see where your painting would rest;

When I saw what you did, I cried like a kid, those scissors cut deep in my chest":

“Excuse me please; intruding sir, I'll explain if you'll have a sit,

Stack those two crates, that phone book, but wait, now sit on this catcher’s mitt;

Art gives me the will to rise up each morn,

To gather cans, to save coin, under onlooking scorn.

Then once a year, the third weekend of May,

I buy a new painting to brighten my way,

As you can see, my wall space is brittle,

My only resort is to cut my art little.

“This way I can carry my treasures away,

Should happenstance leave my sad dwelling disarrayed.

Life on the streets for collecting elites,

Leads to outside of box thinking, I'm fast on my feet”.

“I'm sorry to accuse”, said Shantsy, begging to be excused:

“My name is Clansy, my friend you are excused, your welcome company has amused":

Shantsy cowed, "My eyes are open wider now, I understand your ways and how,

Good day to you, I'll now part ways with you, you'll see me soon, that is my vow.”

Over bridges and foggy bay, the sun set and rose, adding pink to another morning gray,

Shantsy danced toward the Fridge-box in a stealthy display,

A sculpture in one hand, sharp new saw in the other,

He laid down his art offerings to his new art loving brother.

“You truly appreciate what we artist's do, for that, this creation, a gift just for you,

To lighten the darkness of all you go through.

Enjoy your box of paintings; take my carving on your run,

Home is where the art is, and art makes living fun.”

Such is the story of Shantsy and Clansy,

Two kindred spirits part rough and part fancy.

Lovers of art are never far apart,

The artist and the art lover forever heart-to-heart.

BEING ONE

Universal Poem #25

A fore-gone, coupled, journey through life, delicious,

To learn the tasty delight of being one,

Fears of loneliness wash down, and out,

Like a clown’s tears, born of joined at the hip years,

The triumph of singularity shocks my assumptions,

A superior pride follows the lead of my new gumption,

Standing alone, above the compromise,

That soothes the pair yet cripples self-wise,

As two we flourished, never would I take away,

Those days we two were one,

As one, I am a man today,

As one until life is done.

THE PALM TREES DANCED

Universal Poem #50

Fierce and piercing blew the wicked wind,

Flying debris, babies crying, breaking glass, people dying,

Straight from hell, the wind tolled the bell,

And the palm trees danced with glee,

Power outings, substantial pouting,

Gale blew the wind, with a loud and angry din,

Determined to cleanse the earth of rotting sins,

And the palm trees danced with glee,

Mighty was the wind that day,

Palm fronds dismissed and cast away,

Natures wrath on full display,

And the palm trees danced with glee.

DAUGHTER I NEVER HAD

Universal Poem #53

Little pink piggy’s and tiny orange socks,

Learning to braid your shiny gold locks,

This poem I write for you, my precious Cindy,

Daughter that I never thought I had within me,

First flirted steps, first blurted words, lullaby’s and singing mocking birds,

Answers from pink Muppets, questions of Miss Muffet’s wheys and curds,

From my heart, to your unknown soul, my little Blair,

Daughter that my nose will search, yet never smell your hair,

From the days when your hand would clutch my finger,

Our love would glow, then forever linger,

I'm sorry that you never came to be, my sweet Marie,

Daughter that I knew too late should be the life for me.

BETWEEN THE LINES

Misc. Poem #61

From soiled roots to storied highs, the bark is where the story lies,

The muddy seed fights for the opportunity to be free and alive,

Springing towards bloom, trying to fit in,

Yet bursting, to separate and feel the warmth of the spotlight sun,

Full bloom, branching out, leaving behind old needs, looking for new webs spun,

From soiled roots, to storied highs, the bark is where the story lies,

The crevices in the craggy bark,

Tell of squirrel dashes, of woodpecker lashes,

Of surviving the children, when they learned to spark old matches,

Tales of rats and bats and axes thrown,

Melodies etched, engrained from song and saxophone,

From soiled roots to storied highs, the bark is where the story lies,

Decaying roots sap strength from the tired core,

The wind, once cherished, sweeps in with promise of demise in store,

Born from mother earth, sprouting, springing, singing with the skies,

The final chapter is in the bark, the fallen tree is where the story lies.

SOLEMN BELLS

Universal Poem #68

Home of the free, born from mighty drum rolls,

This solemn bell we toll, for the lost soldier’s soul,

They fight for our right,

They fight through the night,

Guided by the flame of our forefather’s light,

Home of the brave, the U. S. of A,

The lost soldier’s soul, the proudest of graves,

Their lives for our freedom saved,

Their lost lives for the freedom that all humans crave,

This solemn bell we toll, for the lost soldier’s soul,

Their lives, on the line for US,

Their deaths, with peaceful rest, in god we trust,

Home of the free, because of thee,

All of our country, all of our love,

With this solemn bell we ring,

For the soldiers who rise above.

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