It takes a village to mulch a park.
Pick up a pitch fork and come pitch in.
Bring a rake — we’ll show where to begin.
Bring a wheelbarrow to move stuff around;
there are weeds to pull and mulch to lay down.
From 2 to 4 come down to ONK park.
We’ll work some, but not up to dark.
Stop by on Sunday with your pair of gloves
and show this little park a lot of love.
Filed under Photo by author, Photo Finish Friday, poetry by author
[Editor’s note: both of these poems I wrote in quick fashion, a bit of silliness, a bit of fun. Taking maybe 30 minutes each, at most.]
Minister of the dart
O’ minister of the dart
whose aim is true,
sending the dart flying
threw and through.
Toward the bull’s eye
your throw did wend
with an aim so perfect
your foes became friends.
O’ minister of the dart
whose aim is true
I’ve never seen a bull cry,
until now. Have you?
Written on March 5th in response to a Facebook posting by Chris Buice, minister at the Tennessee Valley Unitarian Universalist Church in Knoxville, TN, in which he wrote about throwing the winning dart in a game that gone so long that even his opponents cheered.
_____________
That four-foot long
Put that four-foot long
back where it belongs —
don’t leave it out in the aisle.
Put back that four-foot long
with the smell so strong —
don’t leave it in a public pile.
Put away that four-foot long
you silly ding-dong —
even at Fellini we have a style.
A code we relate
no need to masticate
or pretend to be in denial.
So, put that four-foot long
back where it belongs —
don’t leave it out for public trial.
Written on March 9th in response to a Facebook posting by Brian Griffin about being in the Fellini Kroger in Knoxville, TN. If you don’t know, you can use Google and find out all about it. There is even a Fellini Kroger Facebook page and another for Friends of Fellini Kroger. As far as anyone can tell, the Italian director never set foot in Fellini Kroger … at least not in this plane of existence.
And in case you are wondering, the four-foot long is a sausage, not a snake, though who knows, someday that may happen in Fellini K.
Filed under poetry by author, Sunday silliness
Yo, dig my shades?
Yo, yo, I don’t know
but I’ve been told
mean ol’ homework
will rot my soul.
Yo, yo, I don’t know
but I’ve been told
mean ol’ chores
are an empty bowl.
Yo, yo, I don’t know
but I’ve been told
walkin’ to school
is hard on the sole.
Yo, yo, I don’t know
but so it goes
I done counted
and I have ten toes.
Yo, yo, I don’t know
and may never be told
when this silly rhyme
starts to get old.
Filed under Photo by author, Photo Finish Friday, poetry by author
A neighborhood child asked to pose for a photo before going to his first day of first grade, decided to “Jaws” the camera as his mother, in vain, attempted to capture his good side. But, wait, maybe she did.
by DAVID E. BOOKER
Molar, molar
will destroy ya.
Eat your toys
I will annoy ya.
Molar, molar
I’m your boy, yo
Cast you about
to and fro, yo.
Molar, molar
where’d you go? Oh
I ate a fat crow
and now you know, oh
little’s bros a go
for eattin’ so slow, oh.
Molar, molar
will destroy ya.
Filed under Photo Finish Friday, poetry by author
by DAVID E. BOOKER
Said the lama to the llama,
“I know not where ewe stands.”
Said the lama to the llama,
“To know would be rather grand.”
Said the lama to the llama
As they stood under the ewe tree,
Said the lama to the llama,
“O’ beast, can’t you tell me?”
Said the lama to the llama,
“You’re not like the little ewe.”
Said the lama to the llama,
“I could tell her what to do.”
Said the lama to the llama,
“Won’t you please enlighten me?”
Said the lama to the llama,
“To enlighten is to set free.”
Said the lama to the llama,
“Just one simple, single sign.”
Said the lama to the llama,
“One little sign would be just fine.”
Said the lama to the llama,
“Oh why, oh why, oh why?”
Said the lama to the llama,
“My patience you do try.”
Said the lama to the llama,
“I want an answer now!”
Said the lama to the llama,
“I should have brought a cow.”
Said the lama to the llama
After the llama spit in his eye,
Said the lama to the lama,
“I guess this means good-bye.”
Filed under poetry by author, Sunday silliness
There once was a woman named Joy.
All her neighbors she did nothing be annoy.
Such a termagant!
Her hours were always spent
Haranguing all who came into her employ.
Filed under limerick, poetry by author
Feeling insipid today
by David E. Booker
Feeling insipid today.
Side pain won’t go away.
My workload’s here to stay.
Yes, feeling insipid today.
Co-worker asked me out
So she can just re-spot
The things this place is about
That only make me shout:
Feeling insipid today.
You’re a pain that won’t go away.
My work life should here stay.
Yes, feeling insipid today.
Her offer I did decline,
Being of a simple mind
That re-living this place confined
Is ridiculous beyond sublime.
Gallbladder must come out.
Sits under my liver and pouts,
Feels like it’s putting out grout.
The pain just makes me shout:
Feeling insipid today.
This pain in my side’s Grade A.
My gallbladder should go away.
Yes, feeling insipid today.
If one part of the body is enlightened, is all enlightened?
Of it, I’ll make a shrine.
Next to my Buddha you’ll find
Its new home in the brine
With spirituality refined:
I’ll feel less insipid that day
Surgery will have taken away
The pain that’s made me say:
“Yes, feeling insipid today.”
Vita absurd est
That’s just my best guess
About this entire mess
That I try to digest.
Work is rife with strife
My gallbladder has a new life
Due to a surgeon’s knife
And yet it won’t suffice:
Feeling insipid today
This pain won’t go away.
My overload’s here to stay.
Yes, feeling insipid today.
[Editor’s note: been feeling a bit under the weather these past few days, so have not been at the blog entry writing as much. I hope to feel better soon. And if wondering, it is not a gallbladder issue. A draft of this poem was written long before today. I was only thinking that for the one or two people who read and enjoy (or at least tolerate) my posts, I needed to post a piece of work of some sort.]
Filed under cartoon by author, poetry by author, Sunday silliness
This is a note to tell you
that Wall Street has taken away
the things I really needed:
my workshop, my reindeer, my sleigh.
I now make my rounds on a jackass;
he’s old and crippled and slow.
So, if you don’t see me come Christmas,
I’ll be out on my ass in the snow.
Santa mounts a new challenge.
Filed under cartoon by author, Christmas, poetry, Silly Saturday
I edit, write, design, edit, even do some the photography for a neighborhood newsletter for the historic neighborhood in which I live. Below is what I am working as part of the newsletter. I did not take the photos, but have cropped and processed them. They were color. They are now black and white, because the newsletter is printed in black and white.
Some of my neighbors went on rafting trip a couple of months back and the photos are from that day trip. The poem, “The Captain said,” is mine.
Neighbors Lauren Rider (left) and Pete Creel (right) head into some rough waters.
The boat is fine, the captain said;
he said it to our face.
The boat is fine, the captain said,
the river sets the pace.
The boat is fine, the captain said,
and then he said no more.
The boat is fine, the captain said
as we sailed away from shore.
The boat is fine, the captain said,
as the river tossed us about.
The boat is fine, the captain said,
as some of us wanted out.
The boat is fine, the captain said,
steering for the roughest part.
The boat is fine, the captain said;
he’d said it from the start.
The boat is fine, the captain said
as the waves thumped into the boat
The boat is fine, the captain said
as some of us tried to float.
The boat is fine, the captain said,
Come back again next year.
The boat is fine, the captain said —
but captain, I hope you’re not here.
Pete Creel takes an unplanned dip in the river.
Pete said the best place to sit on the raft was in the center, but two people had quickly seized those seats before he and Lauren could get in. He said he also felt that at times the captain / person steering the raft, aimed for the roughest patches of water to make sure he and the other members of the crew got their money’s worth in experience.
Filed under neighborhood, newsletter, poetry by author, writing
A pillow here,
a pillow there,
a pillow skyward
into the air.
A cloud up there
it may not be
nor a marshmallow
for me to see.
A pillow here,
a pillow there,
off the bed to
the floor I share.
I wrestle nightly
with my pillows.
At times they feel
like armadillos.
Curled tight as
if to protect
many dreams and
a few regrets.
A pillow here,
a pillow there,
if you ask nice
I might just share.
But my dreams
are mine to keep;
they bring comfort
while I sleep.
A pillow here, a pillow there. If you ask nice, I might just share.
Filed under cartoon by author, Freeform Friday, poetry by author
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