One hundred percent of people mentioned in statistics are not numbers.
I wouldn’t put total reliance
Into statistical science.
Behind the numbers lie
People who slumber by
With out knowing where they fall
In a graph or a spread sheet.
When numbers start to sprawl,
Where do stats and people meet?
Bacon
What’s better than makin’
up some more bacon,
That’s up for the takin’
When no one has stake in
The slow cookin’ bacon.
‘Cause inside the kitchen,
Those who don’t pitch in
Come in for snitchin’
And though this might be stressing
There’s no real point in guessing
The culprits aren’t confessing
Who’s stealing bacon blessing.
Lemonade
I don’t want to make some lemonade,
Or meringue pie, or anything I
Can think of to make lemons fade
From a melancholy existence,
A soury fruit-filled persistence.
So I save myself the strain
Squeezing this fruit would be moot
As I’d rather complain in vain.
Coat Rack Reactions
You are the coat rack where I hang up my reactions.
I look to you to see how I’m doing.
Did you like the whole poem, or just fractions
Of an idea I was pursuing?
Both suits and holey jeans as well,
Aligned and hung upon the torturous rack.
Reacting verse that’s taking time to spell
Out situations otherwise held back.
I leave my clothes to hang suspended
In time you’ll pick up a hat or a glove
From an outfit left out, intended
For your wear. To hate or to love.
I wrote the following poem the weekend before my wife and I started dating.
(Breathe)
I smile at the thought of you seeing me
praying poetry
for our relationship to be
gracefully
led by He
who created both you and me.
I pray that the Spirit’s grace
will lace your thoughts,
trace your skin,
and chill your spine
to intertwine
God alone
with your own
thought’s pace.
Walk towards Him,
and I will walk with you.
Allow His Spirit to wrap you
Clap you in His hands
He understands your need for a blanket,
Thank it,
this warm swarm
in the spirit of prayer
where He traps you, wraps you,
and slaps you
upside the head.
You’re alive.
Rise up from this dead heart of stone
you are not alone.
You’re with God.
You and He are now We,
and I see you two
singing and Dancing together
whether or not you notice me thinking
“So this is your drinking the spirit,”
How beautiful to be near it
that spirit that she sits and emits
by saying yes.
How beautiful it is to be near you.
whether or not you notice the thinking I do,
How beautiful it is to be near you.
hear you singing,
bringing His spirit into my ears
as it nears the time
when I’m
going to say yes again
when the spirit in you
will shine on the spirit in me
so that I can’t even see
anything but the spirit of He
who made both you and me.
From Baby
Don’t listen to my voice, ‘cause I can’t speak
I’m in amniotic fluid upside down.
I know that if I kick mom here, she’ll leak
I’ll wait though, till we’re driving through downtown.
Upon Gmail’s Return
Gmail, my buddy, why were you down?
I looked for my mailings but none could be found
Not even your logo appeared on my screen.
Your nothingness leaving my mail all unseen.
Your finally back up and I’ve checked out my mail
And it looks like you’re running as if without fail
Except for the fact that I’m missing bold text
Of new mail, telling me others were hexed.
Greener
I notice new windows on a house and wonder how much they paid
The cost of a new roof too, I wish could be relayed
Through the end product prominently displayed.
Landscaping, The flowerbed’s they’ve made
While my grass remains grubbily grayed.
One neighbor’s out there hand trimming each blade.
I pander blessings misconveyed
Sitting in my porch’s shade
And wonder when the green will fade.
Throwing Out Memories
My kids are both big garbage fans
And like their favorite garbage men
They got to move the garbage cans.
Creating a remember-when
My kids took up the garbage cans that night.
And I’m sure this will become somewhat less cute
When they’re older and their chores become a fight
But tonight I let their smiles leave me mute.
In my refrigerator, I disperse
A line of bottles balancing inverted.
My experience and training is diverse
As seen by bottles ready to-be blurted.
My knife enters a jar ready to scrape
The scraps of jelly left along the sides,
As stained glass preserved in sugary shape
Or jammed along that curved lip, it resides.
My P B and J’s are growing thinner
But there’s always just enough for one more lunch
There might not be enough for a beginner,
But this expert scraper’s scraping out his hunch.
And when I’m finished, I’ll return the jar
Back to the fridge to find tomorrow’s knife,
I’ll angle, pry, and slowly raise the bar
Until someday it’s thrown out by my wife.
BonjourPoetry 