Tag Archives: rhyming

Photo finish Friday: “Fit”

One size rarely fits all -- except possibly to entice all to fits.

One size rarely fits all — except possibly to entice all to fits.

Fit

Yard Sale – we have hot pants!
Stop! Buy today and take a glance.
Try a pair – they’re over there
Under the bicycle kit for repair.

“Women’s Plus Size Petite Pants”
Marketing words meant to entrance.
That’s how they’re being sold online.
They can be yours: they once were mine.

Wore them once and put them away.
“Petite, my ass,” is all I’ll say.
But they’re a treasure beyond all measure
and they’re here today to give you pleasure.

Yard Sale – we have hot pants.
Stop! Buy today and give them a chance.
You want a pair, I know you do.
Make that two or three or quite a few.

–Photo and poem by David E. Booker

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Photo finish Friday: “13 divided by pie”

What did the guru say?

What did the guru say?

I went into the woods today
a question on my mind.
I did not expect it,
but a guru I did find.

Young and fair of hair,
she sat in the eye of a thatch.
Bright were her clothes,
brightest thing in the wooded patch.

I approached with care
afraid I might frighten her away.
She bade me come closer,
“Do you have a question today?”

I said that I did
and proceeded to try to ask.
It was about triskaidekaphobia,
but she said that would simply pass.

“It’s a silly number
falling on a Friday.
If that is all you have,
then you have no reason to stay.”

I turned to leave her,
feeling suitably rebuffed
when she said she had a question
if I thought I had the right stuff.

Then she paused a minute
and I told her I would try.
She said she wanted to know
about this day they called pie.

“What types of pie,” she asked,
“will there be on pie day?
If I come out of the woods
can I taste whatever I may?”

I thought it through a minute
then realized what she meant
but if she were looking pie
this might not be her event.

I told her 3.1415 was
what this day was about.
She looked up to the sky
and then I heard her shout:

“Just another lousy number
when all I wanted was a slice.
Take two radii and form a wedge
of blackberry would be nice.

“Add a scoop of ice cream
to this little wedge of pie.
Is that too much to ask?”
and then I heard her cry.

I quietly left the woods
tiptoeing over roots and rocks
vowing never to complain
to a guru with golden locks.

–photo and poem by David E. Booker

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Photo finish Friday: “Time’s up”

The spring has sprung Savings Time has fell and here comes idiocy cold as hell.

The spring has sprung
Savings Time has fell
and here comes idiocy
cold as hell.

Daylight Savings Time

by David E. Booker

Time to lose an hour

What else can I say?

It’s coming March 8th,

Early A-M that day.

Clocks will spring forward

Even though I may not.

An hour will disappear

But in my body, not forgot.

Charge ahead we must

Into this time-warped fray.

It is a stupid thing

to give an hour away.

‘Tis a great shenanigan

A political cluster duck

That has led us to this day

With which we now are stuck.

So when you go to vote

Remember who took away

This hour of sleep or fun,

And all without any pay.

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Random act of poetry: “Knitted beard”

The knitted beard.

The knitted beard.

O’ knitted beard
you feel so weird
strapped up against my face.

My neighbors point,
get their noses out of joint,
and say I’m out-of-place.

I’m a circus freak
but cold air can’t leak
up onto my chin.

When warm weather hits
I’ll remove this mitt
and be clean-shaven again.

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Random act of poetry: “Evening”

Oh, heaven in my bed
I lay me down when enough is said.
It has been a tiring day:
with bills and chores and problems that stay.
Now I lay me down to sleep
I pray my slumber be not too steep.
For if I die before I wake
there will be hell to pay, make no mistake!

[Okay, so it’s not a writing tip. Been a busy day, including an unexpected bill for $600. And now I’m in the middle of baking a Valentine’s cake for my daughter’s class tomorrow. –Poem and commentary by David E. Booker]

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New Year’s Eve & Me

[Editor’s note: we interrupt the regularly scheduled Haiku to you to present this bit of rhyming poetry for the new year.]

by David E. Booker

New Year’s Eve and me

Aggrieved I must be

Because you won’t hear my plea

And let me be free.

Be free on this last day

This last day I must here stay

Trying to “make hay”

While others are out to play

Out to play and party

I must be here and be not tardy

I must work and be not lardy.

O’ why am I so dumb and not a smarty?

Not a smarty and be not free

Not free and here I must be

Must be here, being me,

Being me, being me, o’ woe is me

The not-so-life of the not-free party.

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Throw up

by David E. Booker

I throw up for no good reason:
any time and any season.
A piece of lint is in the air.
It floated up from my underwear.
It is there now; it frightened me.
I’ll either throw up or go pee pee.
I can see now my sensitive ways
cause my parents problems many days.
When we travel for hours in a car
they have wonder just how far
we can go before I begin
to say, “I’m sensitive to throwing up again.”
I take a deep breath and feel the bile.
Has it only been a little while?
My older brother sits next to me.
He hopes I’ll hurl on my DVD.
We still have many miles to go
but I don’t have that much self-control.
A bug goes SPLAT against the window.
I can feel my tummy start to billow.
That bug’s guts are the color
of what I’ll throw up from my supper.
I throw up for no good reason:
any time and any season.
Even when I feel I’m okay,
my stomach throws up just like I say.

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Photo finish Friday: “Gate”

Is the label (Gate) to help those coming or going?

Is the label (Gate) to help those coming or going?

Gate

Heavy lies the head
of the man whose heart is stone
Heavy lies the head
of the man who has no bone.
Heavy lies the head
of the man whose fate awaits
Heavy lies the head
of the face so out-of-place.
Heavy lies the head
whose face is in the clouds
Heavy lies the head
with cumulus for a shroud.
Heavy lies the head
when over my shoulder I look.
Heavy lies the head
in his hands he holds a book.
Heavy lies the head
seeking only mother’s love.
Heavy lies the head
a resting place for doves.
Heavy lies the head
whose shoes are granite bound.
Heavy lies the head
for they make yet not a sound.
Heavy lies the head
of the man whose spirit is light.
Heavy lies the head
you see it both day and night.
Heavy lies the head
his burden is my burden too.
Heavy lies the head
his words help me know what to do.

–photo by Beth Booker
–poem by David E. Booker

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Photo finish Friday: “Women with weapons”

Anderson house at beginning.

Anderson house at beginning.

Women with weapons.
O’ those tarts with tools.
Doin’ the Restoration Rumble
Beatin’ back the blighted blues.

A lonely hovel up on a hill —
A seven-year pain, a bitter pill
A rundown house but not a home
With little left except the loam.

But with hammer and with heart
They start saving by taking apart.
Battered boards go away
And neglect can no longer stay.

They build up by building back
Foundation first and clapboard cracks.
Sanding, shaping, mantel making
New kitchen for cookies baking.

Tiles being cut for fireplace.

Tiles being cut for fireplace.

Women with weapons.
O’ those tarts with tools.
Doin’ the Restoration Rumble
Beatin’ back the blighted blues.

New stairway up, new flooring down
New windows in against air and sound.
New doors in place, uplifted face:
Cabinets, tiles, and counter space.

TV crew comes round to tape
To share and show its change of state.
Hollow house brought back to life
Ending ugliness and all its strife.

Women with weapons.
O’ those tarts with tools.
Doin’ the Restoration Rumble
Beatin’ back the blighted blues.

Exterior and interior work.

Exterior and interior work.

[Editor’s note: so see more photos of work done on this house, go to https://www.facebook.com/The.Anderson.Project.ONK It’s amazing what women (and some men) with the right “weapons” can do to bring things back to life rather than take life away.]

Woman with caulking gun working on new window.

Woman with caulking gun working on new window.


–Poem by David E. Booker; photos taken from Facebook page.

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Photo finish Friday: “Pitch in”

It takes a village to mulch a park.

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.

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