I Am Limericist :)

I Am Limericist :)

There are billions of blogs, mine twinking in the anonymous fray of internet monotony. I write to air out. There is much to say. Thanks to everyone who reads my poetry blog.

Why do I use the nickname ‘limericist?’ I took it when I was on MySpace. What a season that was! I never did so much writing in my life. I let it all hang out. I was discovering my voice.

What does the word limericist mean? For some reason, it’s not in many dictionaries. Of course, it is someone who writes limericks. A limerick is often a bawdy rhyme. I like limericks that are catchy and have a kind of punch. I find my thinking gravitating to limericks. I write limericks like others write haiku. To craft a good limerick is a challenge.

I remember a short story written by Harlan Ellison called The Harlequin. In the story, a big timekeeping machine regulates everyone. Humans became like the machine that controlled them. The world’s leadership demanded uniformity. The hive-mind ruled.

The Harlequin is a story of civil disobedience by a person who pours colored jellybeans over everyone. He tries to encourage them to stop following the timekeeper in cringing lockstep. He shouts at them with a bullhorn. Of course, the timekeeper foreman called The TicktockMan commands the Harlequin to ‘repent ‘of his time-wasting ways. The Harlequin is a story of resistance to totalitarian authority. The way I use the meme of the limericist is similar. Conformity to anyone’s bullying opinion is not my cup of tea. I feel another limerick getting ready.


Posted by on September 23, 2014 in About Me



And it begins, the great parody follows, violins 
with watery-eyed hyenas 
who never truly cared, 
claiming they were best of friends
who were always "too busy" - 

Now the impostors say, 
"If there's anything at all we can do .."
(I want to soil their face, 
to retch my dying barf on them)

Their false looks are so bloody melancholy- 
Their empty show curls my lips into a sardonic smile. 

Unbearable fakes! Fly from my fading face - you frauds! .. flee!
--or I may foam on you.

The witness of my wasted shell
is well aware that I withdraw while being alone--

Only a mute granite will mark my melting memory.

for my friends and fans:
(If you visit, please leave behind 3 Daffodils 
and a 6-pack of Busch).

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Posted by on May 17, 2021 in Poetry


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stop. pause. breathe.
before you engage your mouth,
engage your mind and heart.

before you stoke your hating rage
stoke your memory with 
what makes for actual identity

before you deploy the missiles of your
words like patriot or scud, deploy

first, think. question. reflect.

do you want revenge?
do you want an I-told-you-so moment?
does more hatred satisfy hate?
will payback gratify your soul?

the "counter" always becomes what it countered

should the generation of today be responsible
for the atrocities of their parents--grandparents, great-great, etc.?

first, pray. suspend judgment--rethink the narrative

no one wins a prize by gloating.
no one is a hero by murder.
no one becomes more human by dehumanizing anyone.

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Posted by on May 17, 2021 in Poetry


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Hiding from what's now
mine back of a shivered mask.

Owned revenant concurs
after his image.

Renouncing the tongue-weeds--
their volunteer creator

unnatural seeds--
my crime, the bigger

yet, the root is alike,
and may be utilized 
other children to bear;

The unsullied mirror of choice.
After multiple dyings
nativity recovers--

Again, a commencement,
another day discovers.

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Posted by on May 15, 2021 in Poetry



Haiku #11 2021

Without two, no flight--
Our feathered friends are balanced,
left-wing needs right-wing


Posted by on May 13, 2021 in Poetry


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If Only

Miniature lilac tea-candles
in the bathroom, on the john
are symbols of the teardrops
from the bathtub, they burned on.
And that spray of ivy hanging
from the candelabra on the wall
with pictures of dark-brown oak leaves-
reflect you, & to me call.

Our Christmas tree is stripped now
without the tinsel and the balls--
lies naked by the hall door;
mistletoe-kisses, it recalls.

The coffee maker sleeping
all cold, and empty too,
but still is full of coffee-grounds;
my morning roused with you.

When I sprawl out and try to sleep
on our pleasant queen-sized bed,
the smell of you potpourris the sheets;
Your absence fills my head.

Our dream was cruelly shortened
when you left that squalling day,
the streets were thick and icy~~~
If only you had stayed.
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Posted by on May 11, 2021 in Poetry


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I've broken the bolt from the fence's gate. 

For we were the first on this vast land, 
though your insatiable selfishness would prevent us.

I've removed the latch with my crowbar. 

You pretended you'd share the open vistas as far as the sun-painted mountains, 

where my people roamed the sierras 
for millennia honoring the land, buffalo, sky, and sun;

But now, I name you robber and liar.

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Posted by on May 10, 2021 in Poetry



Those Other Streets

Those "other" streets downtown, 
where the real "downtown" is found, 
and the human condition is all run-down. 
where the classes clash, 
and the rat-racers smash, 
thugs rob, beat, and bash, 
And children get trashed.

Downtown, where some think it's fun to visit. 
They say, "We'll be cool, legit...., 
We're just going downtown 
to clown around a bit," 
but the piranha downtown 
don't clown around.
So, if you're the clown, 
you will be found face-down. 

There, its streets are like another planet 
for man-made concrete 
has displaced nature's trees,
like a frozen heart of granite,

Where it's easy to admit
that you might want to quit
going downtown.
Go there and see the dead-eyed stares, 
and the road-rage glares, 
bus-jingles selling Pringles 
and booze, 
and we all really lose 
because every single thing
about downtown 
with inequity mingles.

There I'm lost, 
you're lost, 
we're all lost. 
Because there's no parking
without a cost - 
for downtown, we're ticketed to a number, 
next to the park-bench bums 
who in their fridge-boxes slumber 
and try to pan-handle 
with every kind of swindle. 

For downtown is also the American scandal 
of homelessness, carelessness, bread-lessness, ... 
For we've fouled our own nest
from the plight of the homeless dispossessed.

There, people easily get locked in 
because the financiers of downtown's sin 
melt human beings into a low-income bin - 
a statue en masse 
whited gray jointly 
under a pigeon's ass.

Many forced to live downtown 
to the city's vice, become addicted. 
A lethal overdose is predicted 
because like heroin, fentanyl, or crack 
if you try to game downtown, 
there,  you'll find no lack, 
but only if you have the smack, 
or else you may
get a cap in the back.

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Posted by on May 10, 2021 in Poetry



On Your Marks, Get Set….

Ideas dazzled humans. 
Anecdotes propelled missiles. 
Plastic explosive stories constructed 
straw dog-monsters

Chat, and it grows. 
Preach the earmarked vision. Deluded,
with vestigial eyes. No ears to see--- 
No eyes to hear. Philosophies 
produced a viral strain of mind-mold 
scattering collateral damage:
"The outcome necessitates whatever measure."

--- Saying, "Give us your sons and daughters." 
Tanks of presumption clinked along opinionatedly, crunching 
~~~ adulating yielded skulls lined the course. 
The juggernaut goes bulldozing by 
~~~~ with canines and tongue spitting fire like venom.

Publishing, "Chop off the offending limbs!" & 
"Be at one with the cooperative!" 
When an idea became a devil ... 
spinning the head all around.

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Posted by on May 9, 2021 in Poetry




About 9PM, a walk began filled with restlessness. Claustrophobia pushed every step with the urge to escape.

Off of Johnson Street, a block behind the house, there’s a dirt road with a placard saying: “No motorized vehicles allowed.” Seeing this, adventure presented itself, and the toes turned into it.

Picking up the pace, the town passed slowly out of sight, opening up to another world where trees, crickets, and frogs sounded their background uproar.

The moon was so bright its light enveloped everything with an aural glow overwhelming the feet to continue. Giant trees imagined the walls for ancient wood-folk castles–fields were charged with dancing fairies who rejoiced in the open-faced moon.

The heart swelled like one in love. Discerning a zest for life reigning at the moment was recreating a being unencumbered. Bullying thoughts fell off like a worn-out shell reborn in the cycle of youthful creation, timeless as the stars singing the moon.

The Big Dipper hung low and was twinkling down its magic dust. Every step on the Amish buggy path unveiled a new & more phenomenal beauty. The smell of Amish wood smoke, the silence, the rock formations, the hills, and trees–Every last moment was jealous of the next.

How did such a paradise exist so near to home? There is rapture here. It must be a star-gate to another parallel dimension.

Hours passed, which seemed only a minute. The light of the moon now hid behind some haunting trees.

Shadows leaped out from everywhere, with a dog’s howl in the distance. Fears jabbered within- what if? what if? –But, rejecting those fabrications, the realization arose that there was nothing to be afraid of. The dark stretch was just another kind of beauty to be enjoyed and embraced as part of the whole adventure.

Being alive seemed to take on a new sense of meaning, listening to those night sounds & to the darkness. The earth’s odors were spicy as an overpowering balm filling the nose and lungs with wholesome delight; mint, maple leaves, and muck combined.

Where the road concluded seemed impossible, for it was several miles away. Somehow, over 5 miles passed under exploring feet. The return journey was just as spectacular. A spectator in what seemed to be an elaborate dream finally arrived home a little more than an hour after setting out.

In the house, a reoccurring childhood dream came to mind. It was about finding a hidden path that was the shortcut to a distant Shangri-La.

Now that dream felt like it had become a reality. Imagine where feet were headed the following day?


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Fiends & the hosts of Hades seek a battleground within the disintegration of the human image. If the idea of "desire" fractures the concept of "process" (this has become synonymous with the eroticization of the screen-fixated gaze), then the lack of poetics of the specular vision will undermine the expression of true autonomous selfhood; this, in turn, will reduce essential "souls" to commodified objects. 
Thus, the outcome: the delegitimization of the natural. This disintegration embodies the mechanistic culture's emergence with the sublimation of narrative authenticity to enlightenment rationalism. This reduction is erroneously substantiating the exaltation of humankind to an unattainable equivalence annihilating the possibility of their very existence.