Tag Archives: rhyming

Photo finish Friday (photo and poem): “The Big Bang”

photo of gun deaths in US versus other developed nations.

Thoughts and prayers

Thoughts and prayers

Are like underwear —

They can keep some crap from spilling.

But when they fill

There is no thrill

When no one does any repairing.

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Filed under 2019, Photo Finish Friday, poetry by author

Writing tip Wednesday: “Flush with success”

A simple writing tip to start the New Year. /
I will say it once, so gather round here. /
Whatever you may do about beginnings and ends /
When sitting on the throne do not hours spend. /
Your poem you will not complete before other deeds are done. /
And your legs and your feet will be the slumbering ones. /
Your audience, too, may have abandoned you. /
They may find what you have done not the best you can doo-doo.

Simple tip to start out the New Year. Do not write a completed poem while sitting on the commode. Before you’re finished, your legs — if not your audience — will be numb and asleep.

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Filed under 2019, Writing Tip Wednesday, writing tips

O’ this Problematic

O’ this problematic /

of all that is quite antic /

stands in ways dramatic /

at the lover’s front door. /

 

But it would be most ecstatic /

and even a touch fantastic /

to touch your life elastic /

once upon a time once more. /

 

Though time be a bit erratic /

and full of senseless static /

like a radio set to bombastic /

’tis you my heart adores. /

 

And though life is all to plastic /

with desires trifling spastic /

my mind trips the light romantic /

in wishing for amour. /

 

So, redact moments miasmic /

and reach for ones orgasmic /

and travel beyond the didactic /

until we reach each other’s door. /

 

–David E. Booker

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Filed under 2017, poetry by author

Random Acts of Poetry: “O’ Motivation”

O’ Motivation, /

You lost gyration /

Of agitation /

And sometimes vituperation, /

Why can’t I overcome /

This constipation, /

This consternation /

And subjugation of mental triangulation /

That I feel /

Keeping me from my goals? /

O’ this usurpation /

Of my concentration /

Is no vacation /

But abdication /

Surreal. /

Must I face with total resignation /

The certain and declining titration /

Of the limpid constellation /

That is my soul?

 

–David E. Booker

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Filed under 2017, poetry by author, Random acts of poetry

Photo finish Friday: “Arrival”

First snow

First snow

First snow came to visit today. /
Did you come from far away? /
Drifting softly from gray clouds, /
Landing where the cold allowed. /
You came to rest upon my glider. /
Was that your plan, your desire? /
How long do you think you will stay? /
Can I touch you, use you like clay? /
Mold a snowball or a snowman, /
I’m not sure yet what is my plan. /
Will more snow be coming soon? /
Falling by the light of the moon. /
Drifting down and all around, /
Landing without making a sound. /
Yes, first snow came today, /
But I know you will not stay. /
The sun too soon will replace the moon /
And sweep you away like a big, yellow broom.

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Filed under 2017, photo by David E. Booker, Photo Finish Friday, poetry by author

Photo finish Friday: “Chicken”

A special delicacy, if you can stomach it.

A special delicacy, if you can stomach it.

Chicken

by David E. Booker

Boneless Skinless Children’s Thighs.
Picked up a pack and to my surprise
The taste just hit me right between the eyes:
chicken.

Didn’t matter how I had them made:
Sautéed, fried, or in a marinade.
One small taste did all to persuade:
chicken.

I even tried eleven herbs and spices.
Mixed in rice, lettuce, and tomato slices.
It did not matter what culinary devices:
chicken.

I consulted a cannibal from a foreign land.
Who said such boneless thighs would not stand.
Children were not on his diet plan:
chicken.

Boneless Skinless Children’s Thighs.
I saw the ad right before my own eyes.
I handed the neighbors’ kids over with no good-byes:
chicken.

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Photo Finish Friday: “Air Apparent”

A piece of the sky.

A piece of the sky.

The blue fedora

Try as he might;
try as he will
it became apparent
there was nothing for him still.
He worked to the bone
and then he worked beyond.
When one day somebody asked
he was already gone.
Air apparent to a world
that had passed him by.
With his blue fedora
he took off for the sky.
Maybe some day he’ll make it
up there to one of the stars.
Some say that’s far enough;
others say it’s much too far.
Maybe some day you’ll see him
chasing dreams or chasing a cat
the air apparent man
and his blue fedora hat.

–David E. Booker

The blue fedora man and the world he left behind.

The blue fedora man and the world he left behind.

In honor of National Hat Day.

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

Photo finish Friday: “Flower plea”

"Oh, please, don't pick me."

“Oh, please, don’t pick me.”

Flower plea

Oh, please, oh, please, don’t pick me.
There’s only a short life within me.
Leave me so others can see me.
Let me be so I can be me.

Come by as often as you like,
Be it in a car, on foot, or a trike.
I’ll be here for all to delight.
To pick me would leave only a blight.

I’m here for only a short while.
Let my bloom help others to smile.
Do not give in to temptation or denial
And leave nothing but a joy defiled.

Oh, please, oh, please, don’t pick me.
There’s only a short life within me.
Leave me so others can see me.
Let me be so I can be me.

–photo and poem by David E. Booker

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

Photo finish Friday: “See your point”

The eyes have it.

The eyes have it.



New eyes

Oh, doc, give me new eyes
You know, like those of spies.
Ones I can see into anywhere
Even clean through your underwear.
Eyes that they used to advertise:
“For a dollar you’ll never be surprised.”
They were in all the comic books
Before comic books got their “adult look.”

Oh, doc, I want some new eyes.
In case you didn’t yet surmise
I seem to be bumping into things
And there’s no joy in what that brings.
The other day I bumped into a man
Who threatened to send me to a faraway land.
It is a place I’d prefer not to go
’cause if it freezes over nobody will know.

Oh, doc, can’t you see the mess I’m in?
All the beauty I’m missing, it’s a sin.
Pretty ladies keep passing me by.
They drop money in my cup and then sigh.
Some say they used to know me before
When their beauty I’d spot and adore.
They wonder if my eyes were put out
By a jealous lover’s punch round about.

Oh, doc, what else can I say
That will enlighten you about the way
That my life has gotten very small
Because I can see no one nor nothing at all.
I promise to keep my new glasses clean
And turn away should I see something obscene.
But I’m a lawyer so I hope you understand
“Obscene” depends on the law of the land
And like some crazy, quixotic Spaniards,
We of the law are still groping for a good standard.

–poem by David E. Booker

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Photo finish Friday: “Rusted truck”

The world as it might be.

The world as it might be.

Rusted truck

The day the world went mad.
The day we ran out of oil.
It was day just like this one,
A day full of madness and toil.

First there were high prices
Then rationing of the fuel.
The people decried that government
Was making them feel like a fool.

The army tried to quell the unrest
But it was no match for the madness.
Still the pain it inflicted
Spawned much hatred and sadness.

Then a great leader proclaimed:
“I can fix this issue.”
But all he had was graft and lies:
A house of cards and tissues.

Civilization ceased having meaning
Truth and justice went down the drain.
Militia’s came out, guns about
And that’s when the world went insane.

And to this day, no one can say
Who committed the bigger sin –
Those who started the dying now
Or those who failed back when.

Back when they had the chance to save
Some for the next generations,
They used it all up instead
As if it were their only libation.

I write this by dying fire light,
Scribbling on old yellow paper.
Some day you may still read it
Or it may have crumbled into vapor.

–photo and poem by David E. Booker

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