Be gone Old Man Winter,
You’ve had your prance.
I’ve already put away
all my corduroy pants.
April is half gone now,
the green grass is showing,
so much that I can hear
folks down the street mowing.
Baseball has returned,
we’re all thinking spring
nobody has interest
in one last icy fling.
You’re in this year’s rear view
as we head forward,
away from you Winter,
and the hot summer toward.
After the long, drab winter, popped lilacs are like purple pyrotechnics. (Photo: PaC)
UPDATED 3-26-16: To read this poem as a STELLER STORY, click on the photo below.
Last year’s Easter egg hunt
was in the old cornfield.
Now it seems that day
not every egg was revealed
and that from those left back
are this year being born
acres and acres of stalks
sprouting tiny eggcorns.
Nature’s packaged each one
in a shell in a husk,
so cracking the eggcorns
is a rusty padlock fuss.
But once their outer layers
are opened up and clean
the cob yolks deep inside
are like nothing that you’ve seen:
Purple, pink, and yellow,
orange, blue, and jade,
all the prettiest pastels,
every springtime shade.
Just how nature made this magic
Science is still figuring,
but one thing learned so far:
is mighty omelets
from the tiny eggcorns spring.
Eggcorns are the kernel of a colorful Easter breakfast. (Photo: PaC)
“No one likes a fly,”
said the Fly with a sigh.
“No matter what I try,
they shoo me into the sky.”
“Hogwash,” said a voice, followed by a tap.
“Come tell me your story, come sit on my lap.
Sounds like you, Fly, have received a bad rap.”
“Who’re you?” asked the Fly. “Why, I” the voice said, “am the Venus Fly Trap.”
MUNCH!
Red is dead,
Green can’t be seen,
Blue’s invisiblue,
Orange is gone, too.
Yellow, fine fellow,
And Purple have failed.
So the last working part of my markers
— sniffle –
The caps
— sniffle, sniffle –
are for sale.
ALL THAT YOU CAP LEAVE BEHIND — In the world of markers, caplessness is next to colorlessness.(Photo:PaC)
When our Toaster refused to even warm bread
we were going to throw it away.
But we changed its name to a Noaster instead.
Now it works perfectly, every day.
NICE COOL BREAKFAST – One small apple juice and a freshly Noasted English Muffin. (Photo: PaC)
Whether your trough holds milk, water, or pop,
Drink a gallon before spilling a drop.
How I wish I could draw
something more than a saw
or a hammer’s blunt butt
or its backside, the claw.
My paintings are messy
and sculpture all lumpy,
the sweaters I knit
make their wearers look frumpy.
By far my sketchpad
is my art at its best
and at best it looks like
a burnt scrambled egg mess.
The needlepoint, woodwork
and origami I’ve tried
Have not earned even one
complimentary lie.
So I’ll stick to my pen
and make it make words
and stop drawing things like
flocks of V-line birds.
FLOCK OF V-GULLS : A failsome foursome by The Art School Flunkee
Pickled pig knuckles
have a smell like none udder
except the stinky feet
of my big brudder.
So though he stays up late
and that makes me jelish
I don’t envy how his
toes reek of bad relish.
Q is a letter
that sounds like a word
spelled without it:
c-u-e,
That looks like an O
with a little pigtail
hanging down from
its little Q booty.
Q rarely is seen
without U by its side
(but don’t make a big deal,
Q, too, has its pride)
A dependent letter
with an independent mind
is Q.
Jimmy blames the neighbor’s dog
Janie blames her sore toe
Billy blames the creaky floors
Brenda blames El Niño.
Katie blames tectonic plates
Kurt blames daylight savings
Paul blames operator error
Pam blames riboflavin.
Who knows for sure which blame is real
and which is full of fizz,
or why so many folks get kicks
from the finger pointing biz.
DUTCHFINGER – A very close look at a hand on one of the statues that depict in three dimensions Rembrandt’s “The Night Watch” – Rembrandt Square: Amsterdam, The Netherlands (PHOTO: PaC)
If you see a weed pull it
out of the ground.
Help keep the weeds
from owning this town.
Most fresh greens are healthy
but weeds are not.
On the Big List of Bad Greens,
they rank right next to snot.
I’m painting on our housebricks
even though I’m not allowed.
But I don’t think Mom or Dad will mind,
they’re gonna be so proud.
Why I do things like this sometimes
I guess I just don’t know.
But tell me, have you ever seen
a better brick rainbow?
Whatever you are, be a good one,
Unless you’re a cottonhead,
Unless you’re a Q-Tip.
When she brought home
my new kid sister
Mom said,
“Say hello to Carrie.”
I thought that’s what Mom said,
but am I certain?
Well, no.
Not very.
Because Dad calls the kid
“L’il Chicken”
or
“Queen of Sheba-Geneeba Sleuth.”
While Mom says to her,
“Just look at you,
My Sweet Precious Little
Houndstooth!”
Gramma sings
“Hi Boo-ga-loo,”
while strolling baby
‘round the block.
Grampa asks Dad
for pictures of
“My favorite l’il
Cuckoo Clock.”
Me?
I’ve learned:
forgetful silly tongued grownups
can be scary.
Lucky for my sister
I for one
will be sticking with her real name:
Carrie.
Tweed Typewriter 