hosta, barbie doll, socialite, Wesley Kime

updated January 22, 2015

README AT YOUR CONVENIENCE Poetry, even mine, comes in different flavors of seriousness, From CheeryOats™ for kids to angst and mystical dreariness So sweaty Hallmark would reject it, good for only hippy readings. The kind that on this page you see are no such bleedings, But somewhere in between a sob and chuckle, and suitable For your ordinary literary kind of pretty casual perusal. To write the stuff I have no choice. It just keeps coming out, that noise, that tortured voice. But to be known as a poet I am loath. Poets I know in person are sweaty and boring, both. Another thing annoying About my rhyme Is that I wind up, every time, Just cynical, sarcastic, cloying. If that’s what poetry is, The stuff’s not worth bothering wiz. I really wish I didn’t do it, But do, so keep it secret, I’m a poooohet EDGAR ALLEN POET When I was a high school student, But never since, and I can prove it, I was required to appreciate Edgar Allen Poet, If his raven is poetry, take it and stow it, I decided, but a new poet I have found On my own, Ogden Nash, adorably profound. Nowadays in my dotage, For muse high voltage I Google an Ogden ode. I'm in the Ogden mode. I paint like Sargent, don’t I wish; Poems like Nashy Ogden do I dish Out, Linseed oil I relish Greatly, rhyming mine is hellish. More kitschy yea more Nashy Ogden, Hardly sublime my trashy rhymey pogem. Hasn't that soaked into your head even yet? To flush-faced Halmark poets I’m no no threat AN ODE TO THE GOADED MODE For at least an hour or two, maybe three, From out of the blue, unaccountably, I’m smitten by this dumb paroxysm -- I can only think and write in rhythm. Couplets and quatrains, all iambic, A case study of all that’s psychiatric. Get over it, sleep it off, damnation! Count me out, I’m useless for the duration. THE ODD COUPLE My Sonja has a tiny toy she-pooch, And a humongous shaggy bad-boy cat, Devour poodle puppies like a hawk a gnat, He could. In fact they’re in cahoots. O Zig and zag and zag-zig they go, Big Zig and iddy-biddy Zoe. Hellbent feline beeline blur Goosed as often as not By a canon ball of poodle fur. Poke and jab, whap and whop; Leap, and pounce, and levitate; provoke and pester, titillate, Frustrate, exasperate, reciprocate. O Chase! O Race! Reverse and race and chase, Uppity puppy, macho cat, all over the place, Cat tail burgeoning, regal, Egyptian, Stubby cotton ball, a vibrating conniption. Agile as a humming bird, as supple As a noodle, that poodle, against cat's statuary dignity, Maw and paw, that cat and poodle – an odd couple, Keystone Cops, a situation comedy. O Lion and Lamb shall lie together In that Peaceable Kingdom up beyond. Yawn… O far more fun to yank each other’s tether, And with adrenaline and upraised hackles respond. THE CHILD'S PRAYER "How beautiful, the child's prayer! How cherished!" That's the parents' praise. Is this praise a cliche which asks not where The beauty lies? Is it in the prayer's phrase And word? Somewhat, but these the child got from older folks by rote, and if they Praise perpetuated robotic argot, They praise the way they, the parents, pray, Not the child. So then where the beauty? In the child's voice, not his words. In his love not yet shaped by duty Yet already fully stirred, unblurred By hazed minds of wrinkled, wrinkling men Et cetera. Also beautiful, to me, the raucous Clearing, appended to the prayer's amen, Of a glob of greenish nasal mucous. MEANING IS WHERE YOU FIND IT From something every man derives a worth. Some find meaning in imagined mirth. Some find meaning in reading before a hearth. Some their meaning in just the screaming. Some find thrills in gasps. Some, clinching fists, determine to relax! Some in having answers down pat. Some in questioning this and that. Some find meaning in a lapse. Some in a lover's lap. Some find meaning in a task. Some behind a mask. Some find it in a jewel or an ale cask. Some in a sumptuous repast. Some in a fatal fast. Some in fertilizing the grass. Some celebrate the Latin Mass. Some celebrate a fecal mass. It's all just laughts, none lasts, Except perhaps, alas, the fecal mass. ON CERTAIN DAYS THE GRASS LAUGHS On certain days when you tell it the proper joke Grass laughs Gently, at the humorous thing you spoke To it. Ask The grass to whisper next, and it will -- Secrets known only to you, it, and your hill VICTICISION A shaved head shows sympathy For a cancer victim. Circumcision is for eccentricity, Like ‘em or lick ‘em. SHISH-KABOBBED A liberal undergrad, that’s now the only kind, Addressed on campus and in lecture, “dude,” Blogs and brags of being broad of mind, Of possessing within his cranial salad bowl A salad tossed of escargot and caviar, kale and cole.. Actually all those socially diverse conceits Are fused fast to academic iron teats. Matrixed in cement, welded to an iron rod, Less a smorgasbord, more a shish kabob. SKY AND EARTH Sonic boom and chthonic bloom. From stratospheric highs and underworldly lows. From the rarefied air Crashing down, or seeping up like dew or doom, Cuffing your ear, or curling your hair And awakening your nose.
GREAT AMERICAN CHALLENGE EATER Behold the Great American Challenge Eater, A chromium coated, ulcer-guted, figgity twitchy Horatio Alger-Eeyed, wiry, wired creature Boasting printed circuits beeping victory And emitting pre-recorded statements to the press: "It was a great challenge!" He will always stress The Challenge. Do not hesitate to feed the creature. Feed him some plumbing to be orbited; Wars to be made on hatred; Oceanliners to tow; Nations to get financial aid, Or nations to be laid low; Cornerstones and various women to be laid. Feed him a challenge and watch him jump on command, With Pavlovian salivation, and snap it out of your hand. The challenge! He thrives on challenge, The game grin, never the cringe, The Great American Challenge Eater Is a biologically curious creature, Possessing a digestive fistula Terminating just beyond his uvula. The gulped challenge, hardly chewed, Plops out onto the ground, food Wasted. No wonder he is always hungry. DOUBLE OVERDOSE So now we have them both, Substance and government dependency. Somehow they seem to go together, And for the rest of U.S., despondency. CELEBRATIONAL CHURCH ATTIRE As actually witnessed, experienced, by an old saint, And as sworn upon a stack of ecumenical blogs: I'm so old I remember when The faith-based dress code Sleeveless dresses excluded. Way too much skin, The inscrutable sin. Now the sexiest cocktail skimpies With tits almost extruded, Open down to Timbuktu, Are hardly frowned upon, By me, no hypocrite, not hardly. I suppose the cocktails are still taboo, Or are they? The cocktail dresses young things now wear When the cathedral narthex they are prowling, In my day, the days of yore, no hooker’d dare. What the young things now display, devoid of cowling, my dudgeon high and mouth ajar, Were ne’re so bare, not even there Inside our parked and steamy prewar car. Oscar-night cleavage for Hollywood or Christian drama team, Not quite de rigueur for our geriatric choir, Is just simple maidenly celebrational attire Suitable for outreach efforts, not necessarily of sacerdotal mien. So what's left to confess or, whichever, to divest? Whether at home or on stage or in the pew, not much left. What little's left to the consecrated imagination? Hardly a dreg from the incense vial that could be poured. Behold, our ecumenically naked young hostess a cocktail, The Temple Virgin Vegan Special, doth bring to us old geezers, Clad in our old stogy hermeneutical sneakers, Decrying such Old Testament style degradation And while we're at it, it's also present truth, women's ordination, All televised from our Klieg-light-lit BACK TO YOU, BARBIE It’s not news that TV news is anything but. It’s a totally filtered extreme make-over, Wigged and rigged, reassembled, re-boxed, All the issues and wrinkles equally botoxed. Calamity, corruption, pot and Republican pratfalls All are chirped by waxen Barbie Dolls Into e-tweaked Pantone pink-toned iPods. All were trained and polished at Madame Tussauds HIGHLY BRED HYBRID She is a socialite socialist, Expensively coiffured and really pissed. Astride both dollar and dole, She occupies Zuccotti Park and Hollywood Bowl. Puts on incense, perfume, and airs, Holds many a party and many a black-tie soiree In her penthouse on the 80th story. Turns her nose up at church and Salvation Army, Gives her all to the Socialist Party. Gay Awareness Marches and Marxist activities, Petitions against Christmas Nativities. A doctor of urban affairs and uber-doctrinaire. Both haute and freaky. Wall Street Journal and Green Leaf Weekly. The elitist Mayflower Matron inner orb; The, the, A seriously pathological schismatic? OMG say not so! Just a perky pragmatic. A shrink she sees, de rigueur, Because shrinks are cool chic, not for cure. IN REVERSE Nowadays in everything from bed to verse We’re emancipated and exclaim we’re free. If you rhyme it that is literarily perverse, To tell the truth is literally worse, it’s stupidity  A BLOGGED OGDEN ODE Being a rebuttal poem of a poem on a blog out there. What ho! Who cometh down the hall, Bearing gifts of frankincense, demur, And empiric iambic pentameter, Gut gestalt and extrapolated parameter; Peddling virtual faith bereft of reason fer, With widely opened yet blinkered eyes And cultured mind wherewith to philosophize – Who? Who but suddenly poetically polemic Paul? My frail aging heart your poetry doth win over, Like Schulz’s Lucy bowling over Shroeder. When proof and reason simply can’t, will not go, I’m subsumed by trope, synecdoche, and by rhyme. Please, Ogden Nash not Kant or Edgar Allen Poe, And buddy can you spare the paradigm? If for faith you’ve forsaken Galileo for sure, Kiss me quick you fool, I’m all yours, My funny little provocateur. Faith, O faith, trope and temerity, These three, the greatest being disparity.






If it comes to air or gasoline,

 Hostas or the deer,

 Activists will save the atmosphere

 And forget that hosta’s also green.


You can’t have your cake and eat it too.

You can’t have your hostas and a Bambi zoo.


If there’s one thing sure to send me into dudgeon,

It’s beholding Bambi nibble hostas into nubbin.



While the endangered piliateds flay

     The redwood timbers of my home,

While my hostas disappear into

     The maws of state-protected deer,

I am granted recourse to naught

     But sigh and tear,

And so I sigh and eject another poem.


While Rome went up in flames

     Nero fiddled.

While hosta disappeared into deer

     I pouted, rhymed, and dwiddled.


I think I shall never see

Any hosta under any tree,

Now that deer range free

To rampage suburbanry.


Our pioneering forebears cringed

As wolves consumed their flocks, fleas and all;

We suburbanites become unhinged

As deer devour our hosta, leaves and all.




Previously given over to crops of corn,

     A deer dairy

     I never intended

     Our Ohio prairie to become.

But beneath the Ohio haze,

All too contented,

Deer herds now there graze.


Once just dappled woods

For Indians and forest frogs,

Then fields of corn for pigs and hogs,

Now but suburban Bambi farms.

I Sigh for Ohio’s long-lost charms.



The bad-rapped racoon cavorts

But never molests a single hosta

But thanks to pious Bambi’s kin and cohorts

Not a single hosta's left when once were lotsa.




 • Epitaph: “He went to the brink, And now beyond.” • Epitaph for a sucker: “‘twas not booze, ‘twas schmooze that ‘twas his downfall.” • “Here lies U. Burns, who hopes he isn't.” • Spin-itaph: “Here lies the spinner of lies. Go and spin no more.” • Epitaph for New Age lady: “She valued all natural ingredients so much that that’s what she has become.” • Epitaph of the day: “Once a hyper-achiever, Now just another grave old geezer.” • Epitaph as highest worldly honor Here lies J.R. Ewing. He may not have known where he was going, But he sure knew what he was doing.” • Epitaph for a mobster: “He beat the wrap but not the shroud.” • Epitaph for an Epitaphist: “Just for fun he wrote epitaphs galore, He's done now; just let him snore.” • Epitaph for a TV game show Host: “His vital signs became trivia.” • Epitaph for a broker: “He wanted to make a killing in the market and wound up jumping out the window.” • Epitaph: Here lies Joe Blow. Sex didn’t do him in, but it was his undoing • Epitaph: All his life he looked for himself in various guises, then went underground. • Popup Epitaph: “He was just a dirty old man, now returned to dust.” • Pop Epitaph: “Dust thou art/ to dust return/ — all right here in this earthen urn.” • Trek-itaph: “Once he went where no man went/ Now where every man goes.” • Med-itaph: “Here lies poor cachectic Paul/Victim of a cancer chemotherapeutic protocol.” • Activ-i-taph: “Here lies the activist named Michael, Duly recycled.” • Witch-itaph: “A New Age Witch, Now séanceing from this ditch.” • My epitaph: He mistook snark for wit and wondered why he was never a hit. • He went where no man had gone before but didn't live to talk about it. Nobody else will either. • She was so good at what she was good for -- nothing.




If ObamaCare’s redoubtable rollout

     Is any clue

To how the rest may well play out,

     It’s redux Waterloo.



If love is free,

BC ought to be.

Hippies brought in the first,

A Sandra Fluke, the perks.



Whether it's ISIS or ISIL,

It's a crisis damn dismal


The Egyptian god of domestic niceness, Isis.

ISIS isn’t.



Hillary didn’t actually say,

“What difference does it make?”

But rather, “What does it matter?”

Schmake, schmifference, or schsplatter --

Either way, she doesn’t much, anyway.



“You can make a difference!”

The innocent chant of idealistic adolescence.

Or was, until the famous Hillary outbreak:

“What difference does it make!”



Ababa Ahmad Abu abounds

In automatic weapons and rounds,

And spends his days

In various murderous insurgent ways.

Abu been at’em.



In her regulation burka, beard, and turban,

Clutching Koran and hooka,

Grenade and regulation bazooka,

Ahmad Amanda's suitably garbed for warfare urban.



There once was an unbeatable pol named Kasich

Who Trumped all nine with caboodles of  Kasitsch.



Though endorsed by Bill O’Reilly

And by folks of such diversity

As gentle Ben, Palin, Putin, Christi,

Donald Trumpsey I regard not highly.



O let the Trump be Trump showbiz and all,

And never never play by his baneful rule.

Promising young Marco tried to, eyeball to eyeball

And wham! Became naught but sweat and drool.



I cannot forget that at Obama's inauguration

The buzz was that he was clueless

Devoid of clues of any hue, simply clueless.

But nobody says that now, damnation!

The man had promised change galore

And delivered his promise and too much more.



I think I shall never see

A long-haired implanted tranny

Who endured expensive surgery

Just to be a sweet old granny