Monthly Archives: January 2021


a boy and girl played
under cotton clouds & blue sky–
felt so good to run wild,
to yell unrestrained,
to make-believe.
a grassy rise was
a mountain climb,
& they’d both bound up
that high place to be
King, or Queen
of the mountain
while the other tried
tickling to usurp–
It was tremendous fun
as long as the royalty
didn’t swell the head
of the one who wore
the daisy-chain crown


Limericist 2007

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Posted by on January 31, 2021 in Poetry


The Limericks of Brian

A limericist named Brian,
tends to think his thoughts in rhyme
thoughts occupy him
trying to rhyme
no time for a rhymer like Brian

Brian should get help, many say
for therapy, Brian won’t pay
some suggested a shrink
to help him un-kink
but he thinks his kinks are okay

Limericks have gotten a bad wrap
they represent a cultural gap
offensive they are
to make you har-har
but many forget how to laugh

There was a limerick-minded buffoon,
who resembled a thoughtful baboon
with chin in his hand
he’d do a head-stand
it’s how with himself he’d commune


Limericist 2021

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Posted by on January 30, 2021 in Poetry


Jack’s House

say that
you’re unlucky in love
because you played it like
blackjack on the Vegas strip,
five-card stud with studs,  felt
the deck was stacked & reshuffled
enough to play those players, bluff
those big boys who conceal aces up
sleeves & shaved cards, those proud
Jacks who use naive Jills at their will
knowing how  to cut  imperious queens
of hearts into wee deuces and threes
you refused to wise up that you can’t
flim-flam when your soul’s tell stains
your sleeve — but you’ve become
a chancer, a sucker for the game
even when it cheapened you to
a bust who never caught on:
you’re playing the house’s
“table” where jokers
are always



Limericist, 2007

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Posted by on January 27, 2021 in Poetry


Enigma Mine


I was exotic once
like brie and oolong tea
like pinot noir from France
I made a rare appearance
I was exotic once

I was quixotic once
devoted to romance
not afraid to take a chance
adventured with my lance
I was quixotic once

I was erotic once
like Don Juan, I’d dance
with heated tumescence
I’d often lose my pants
I was erotic once.

I was idiotic once
with pants full of ants
going on my rants
like a St. Vitus dance
I was idiotic once

I was dogmatic once
with air-tight defense
so sure of my stance
pronouncing my sentence
I was dogmatic once

I am enigmatic now
as my years advance
not so bothered by the ants
but finding new expanse
I am enigmatic now


Limericist, 2006/2021

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Posted by on January 26, 2021 in About Me, Poetry


Almost Entered

O moon, why are you vain tonight?
inflated with yourself so bright
I walk this forest meadow lit
by your luminescent grin

You cause the trees to cast about
as giants stumble when they doubt
from shadow creatures thin and stout
the crickets make a din

I see a chanted castle grand
upon a misted hilltop stand
it’s stretching out a ghostly hand
that tempts me to come in

The vision dimmed, the nightshades grew
your swollen face turned black and blue
eclipsed your glare, I lost my view
the portal closed within

I groped along the stone-toothed road
now dark as muck, though once it glowed,
and felt as if I should have slowed
to wait for you again.


Limericist, 2008/2021

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Posted by on January 26, 2021 in About Me, Memoir, Poetry


Already Written

The aged book filled with leaves turns to unveil a man, Atlas-like – bowed, broken, & torture racked on a wooden frame. In the book, crushed down and up again.

Millions say the words live. Entertain, and watch stony hearts become flesh. Others blame. And this way, remain the same: habitations of corpses. Who, rather than listen, rage. Saying the book’s aim is insane. Thus, death’s reign is their only domain.

They are like cheeky poems that said, “our poet is mad; kill him!” The master poet’s words became bloody tears weeping for these, his uncompleted works. Yes, it’s already written in the book, all there, between the eloquent leaves leafed with gold.


Limericist, 2008

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Posted by on January 25, 2021 in Poetry



questions thud
the edges of my mind
when upon
an undecided whirligig
sparrow met
a glass, and pop–

but why should today
vacate its place?
The wee one’s right to be?
thump, & feathers
lay twitching in death’s mort
nevermore to hop, play, sing,
to flutter-ride a breeze

because a fatassed realm smashed
against its frail twigged frame
& claimed
a broader right to exist?

it’s said
if only one of these tiny dancers fell,
the creator’s eyes shed a tear–
did I?

sorrow its puny scream
in that snappish impact?
a point of history
written in force, hushed,
reckless, and blase.

judge how sudden
ambush may strike.

Will thwack mean
anything loftier than
dung on the street?


Limericist, 2008

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Posted by on January 25, 2021 in Poetry



I lost the trail I was on
can I return, or is it gone?
must I blaze a newer one?
I run and run and run.

the ax-head fell into the swamp
because I strayed far from the camp
and now I see myself a tramp
the handle slipped my grip.

thorn trees gore me bloody red
black clouds break upon my head
a cardboard box is now my bed
I stink. I need a change.

I spin and spin, but backward go
I try to swim but sink below
a loser fills my tattered shoes
until I go back home.


Limericist, 2008/2021

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Posted by on January 25, 2021 in Poetry


Window Frame

All of life is poetry
a half-baked layered poem
my window is the picture frame
that calls my eye to roam

frozen silent evergreens
with dark serenity
they’re preaching self-reliance
but hide mendacity

November leaves dead yellow-brown
swirl littered on the road
their song tells of an aging dream
that failed to unfold

a needled pine stares blackly down
unwilling to release
because the winter brawl is near
the generous decrease

All nature is lamenting
lessons painted gray
that cruel decline must have its way
in seasons of decay

pieces tumble crushed to dust
into the icy mud
the drama of the dance of death
that poisons every blood

& all of life is poetry
a layered twisted poem
the window is the picture frame
to fetch my lyrics home


Limericist, 2009

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Posted by on January 25, 2021 in Poetry



When Captain McFee
slapped his knee
and the men lined up for a beer
you could tell who’d kissed
the Blarney Stone
by how they’d fill your ear

and though the tales
were but half true
and shaggy ones were bred
from withered eyes
flowed many a tear
“did you hear poor Ned was dead?”

or that Kilkenny’s daughter
run off with some pirate lad
and this tragedy had happened
Before the dowry had?

but my favorite yarn remembered
told of the Kelly family wake
of how Tom Kelly wakened
from a drunken nap, he’d take

that night he tied on a big one
and was the last one from the pub
he’d passed out near some garbage cans
like he croaked, struck by a club

So they dragged him to O’Malley’s
the mortician of the town
but O’Malley was a little tanked
and his judgment wasn’t sound

he prepared old Tom for burial
in the quaint old Irish way
by pouring in more whiskey
Tom’s kin would have to pay

The people came from all around
to mourn Tom’s sad demise
but after several hours
Tom Kelly did arise!

“its a miracle!” they all shouted
the priest fell in a faint
and now the church is considering
to make old Tom a saint

so the fellowship of believers
is growing day by day
it’s why the captain slapped his knee
and for another round, did pay


Limericist, 2008

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Posted by on January 24, 2021 in Poetry