Tag Archives: rhyming poetry

“My Bowling Green”

owling-100dpi_6x11_4c_0615-copyIt’s hard being Bowling Green, /
To see the things I have seen, /
Bodies piled high as friends lean /
Upon the bars in my Bowling Green. /

The reckless came to town one day, /
Said we had all gone away, /
Gone away, no more to say /
In this place now unseen, called my Bowling Green. /

Jihadist from a foreign land /
Had come and massacred us so grand, /
Wiped us all out where we stand. /
O’ the tragedy was so mean deep in my Bowling Green. /

They say none of us were spared, /
That these terrorist did not care. /
We were lost to great despair /
That day in memory serpentine in my Bowling Green. /

The media did not take note. /
Little was said and less was wrote. /
We were left with but just a sad note, /
A sad note it would seem about my Bowling Green. /

Fredrick Douglass had nothing to say. /
Nor Oliver Wendell Douglas about that day /
When Green Acres were turned red with dismay /
O’ that sad, mean, vile scene in my Bowling Green. /

We cannot remember what we do not know, /
Though alternative facts tell us so, /
That lies and lives come and go. /
There is little we can now glean from my Bowling Green. /

They erected a sign to the non-event /
And many a word has long been spent /
In song and poem and prose unbent /
To say what can’t be seen of the wrongs in my Bowling Green. /

It’s hard being Bowling Green, /
To see the things I have seen, /
Bodies piled high as friends lean /
Upon the bars in my Bowling Green.

–photo and poem by David E. Booker

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Filed under 2017, photo by David E. Booker, poetry by author, political humor

Relate

Bloviate, expectorate
sniffle, drivel
prevaricate.

Chronic hate, cheat on mate
snivel, quibble,
not so great.

Reprobate, a tyrant’s slate
uncivil, drivel
expropriate.

Disassociate, oh too late
swivel, shrivel
unsubstantiate.

Violate, grope a date
piddle, riddle
desecrate.

Obviate, end of state
cripple middle
subjugate.

–by David E. Booker

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Filed under 2016, poetry by author

Photo finish Friday: “Ode from a deliquescing pumpkin

Ode from a deliquescing pumpkin

Ode from a deliquescing pumpkin

I was once a pumpkin:
Now I am a mess.
The party night is over
And I wait to deliquesce.

The treats have been handed out
Some to children too bold
Who think that a cigarette
Is not a sign you’re too old.

They came in hoards and cars
As if the end of time was near
From close by and far way
Some with the scent of beer.

I was once orange and in my prime
Round and succulent to behold.
But now I deliquesce
As I grow a little mold.

I will not make Thanksgiving
Which I hear is a special holiday
Where pumpkins become pie
And make taste buds say, “Yay!”

I hope you will remember me
As I slump into the earth.
Don’t think of me as too scary
But with a little mirth.

And next year at this time
Decorate one of my kin
And the season of the spooks
Can once again begin.

–by David E. Booker

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Filed under 2016, photo by David E. Booker, Photo Finish Friday, poetry by author

Photo finish Friday: “Heads up”

Inspiration can come from anywhere -- even someone else's photo.

Inspiration can come from anywhere — even someone else’s photo.

Heads up

Oh no, many heads will roll
After these twenty years so droll.
After ten their eyes rolled back
And such they uttered: “Poor ol’ sad sack.”

She married wild and much too early
And outside her station, “Oh, most surely.”
There is very little we can do now
Except shake our heads and wonder how.

She’s stuck around like a head on a pike.
She has given him pain, but much delight.
But the naysayers still shake their heads
As if that’s all that need ever be said.

Oh no, many heads still roll
After these twenty years so droll.
After ten their eyes rolled back
And such they uttered: “Alas and alack.”

He’s such a goofball, they did deride
And these were friends on his side.
“He’s weird and crazy and even a dope.”
Still she never once gave up hope.

These twenty years have been quite heady
Even those that weren’t quite steady.
The days have passed in the blink of eye
Even for eyes perched way up high.

Each moment has been like a stone
In building a castle called a home.
Few are left who say nay to them
And their chances grow ever slim.

Oh no, all those heads will roll
And that rolling will take its toll.
Heads now are perched high up on lances
With eyes blank, no longer giving glances.

–poem by David E. Booker

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Filed under 2016, Photo Finish Friday, poetry by author

Oh, Mom

[Editor’s note: inspired by a neighbor’s actual event, as reported on Facebook. Happy Mother’s Day to all the mothers reading this.]

Oh, Mom,
I did it again, like when I was ten
And then, in the middle of the night
In panic and fright I committed the sin
Of turning your bedding off-white.

Oh, Mom,
I was queasy then and I am again,
And once more I stand at your door.
Too much to drink, this time I think.
I should’ve stopped instead of saying, “More.”

Oh, Mom,
As I now look in, the light is very thin.
I hear the roar of a brain-jarring snore.
Is that you or Dad? Oh, my achy breaky head.
I pitch in too soon, onto the bed — ka-boom!

Oh, Mom,
I will try again. Oh, where to begin?
I did not mean to do or repeat anew,
But my head went in, like when I was ten,
And turned white into red, white, and “Ouuh!”

Oh, Mom,
I did it again, like I did back then,
When, in the middle of the night,
In panic and fright I committed the sin
Of turning your bedding off-white.

–by David E. Booker

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Filed under 2016, poetry, poetry by author

Photo finish Friday: “Lights out”

Traffic indecisive.

Traffic indecisive.

There once was a light in town
that folks just couldn’t get around.
Red, yellow, and also green:
all colors could be seen.
It glowed all day and night —
strong was the town’s light plight.
They couldn’t get anywhere
with that light hanging in the air.
Stuck at a standstill they were;
no thought or action could occur.
Nobody knew what to expect
or which color light to select.
Green meant they should go,
yellow meant I don’t know,
And red meant do no more,
keep your brake down to the floor.
So there were wrecks and bottlenecks
and people who couldn’t trek.
The town was in full mess.
What to do was anyone’s guess.
Then one day in the dead of night
with hoods on to block the light
people stumbled and bumbled around
until they cut the light Hydra down.
They hung it in the town museum
where folks now can come and see them:
all three bright lights —
glowing both day and night.
But they attached a timer switch
so even those caught in its twitch
have a chance to get away
on this, April Fool’s Day.
So, if you ever come to town
and feel life has you down,
go where others have already gone
and watch the lights shine on and on.

–photo and poem by David E. Booker

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Filed under 2016, photo by David E. Booker, poetry by author

Photo finish Friday: “Sax man”

The Night Before

by David E. Booker
With a nod to the original

The Sax man.

The Sax man.

‘Twas the night before Christmas and all around the place
Not a customer was left, then in popped his face.
Cash was counted — We were almost out of there
Santa Claus was coming, so we had no time to spare.

The face had a sax and music on his mind.
We didn’t care; some of us had presents still to find.
He floated about the room, from the front to the back
As if he were looking for a place to lay his shiny sax.

The manager stepped forth and tried to shoo him away.
“Go on, be gone. It’s almost Christmas Day.
“We’ve fed all our customers. We have nothing left to give.
“Then you float it as if our walls were a sieve.”

He seemed not the least bothered as he continued to float
Then he brought the sax to his lips and played a few notes.
Then out came a song: kind of mournful and slow
And when he was done, the manager said, “Go, go, go.”

But the man did not stop; he continued to play.
And he played and he played until it was Christmas Day.
Though he had no lungs, he could belt out those tunes
“White Christmas,” “Silent Night,” the notes filled out the room.

“Frosty the Snowman” and “Rudolf” were next.
Soon we were all listening and the manager was perplexed.
“We can’t leave you here. The Health Code won’t allow.
“You have to leave us now or else I’ll have a cow!”

But the Sax man kept playing on up to the light of dawn
And somewhere along the way we started singing each song.
If we had forgotten the lyrics, we hummed our best
Or some of us made up words or took our best guess.

The room was filled with magic as our voices cracked about:
Off key, out of sync, and one of us sang like he would shout.
Still the words and music filled the room with a new light
That carried us to places long forgotten on this night.

Then sunlight snuck in, signaling it was Christmas Day
We watched golden light through glass doors flow our way.
We tuned back to the Sax man, but he was already gone
Back into the magic moment which comes with every song.

We put on our jackets and said our good-byes.
We hugged and sighed and few of us had dry eyes.
The manager smiled as he wished us Merry Christmas
And we all felt a bit of renewed kindness within us.

What happened next has been only speculation
But the sax lay on a table, to the manager’s consternation.
He scanned the room for the head that went with it.
The sax had ribbon round as if meant for gift, give it.

He picked up the saxophone and placed it to lips
He blew a short note; it sounded like a quip.
He blew again and again, doing his very best.
As they say, it is history, so we’ll let the story rest.

Except this extra note I now will propose:
Some say it was the manager the Sax man choice.
I say it was the manager who choice to pick up the sax
And the music he now makes fills something that he lacked.

Either way, that’s our story of music on Christmas Eve.
You can take it or not; it’s up to you to believe.
But if you come by this Christmas Eve to get a bite to eat,
You might find your voice moving to the Sax man and his beat.

The face had a sax and music on his mind.

The face had a sax and music on his mind.

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Filed under 2015, photo by David E. Booker, Photo Finish Friday, poetry by author