Nowadays,
people don’t
'get'
the real Blues,
they have
blue-funks.
The funks
makes a person
glare
and simmer
like a radio-active sunflower.
The Blues
don’t come at anyone
with a rabid face, or any
bad juju.
Blues songs
don’t club at you
with a baseball bat,
they won’t yell in your ear.
If you got the
Blues
you have a dog and a guitar,
even when you don't.
If you got the Blues
you have a whole range
of sad little chuckles
and each one
is another shade of blue.
Nowadays,
folks don't know
the difference from the
Blues
and the blue-funks,
in which case
Tennessee Whiskey
(or just the thought of it)
might help.
Just because someone isn’t wearing a bandage or shows no outward sign of illness doesn’t mean that they are not.
Quote by poet.
Sam lived two doors down and kept to himself, some thought him strange,
I found out he'd been in the marines and was suffering from PTSD, he always acknowledged me with a nod and a faint smile but Sam rarely spoke a word.
I felt sorry for him as he lived all alone with no one to share his problems with.
On one dark December night before Christmas I was walking home from work,
I was fifty yards from home when three thugs appeared and surrounded me,
"Your money and phone" one said, I froze on the spot and reluctantly put my hand in my pocket, then out of nowhere Sam appeared, baseball bat in hand, he swung at one of the thugs who went down with blood pouring from his nose, one of them then lunged at Sam and stabbed him repeatedly, Sam collapsed and the cowards ran off, I quickly dialled 911, “I’ve called for help" I told Sam, he looked at me smiling and said ,"Peace at last" then his eyes closed and he was gone.
A baseball bat has a ball.
A basketball has a bucket.
A volleyball has a net.
A book has a cover.
A card has an envelope.
A shirt has a hanger.
A flower has a vase.
A bottle has a lid.
A finger has a nail.
So what do I have?
I don’t have a person nor an object.
I have nothing but air.
Air that leaves me when I breathe out.
So what does that mean?
There’s a peace that whispers soft
when I step beneath the open sky,
trees stretching in green prayer,
branches swaying like the hands
of a thousand saints, lifting their weight
toward something higher.
In moments when I’m alone,
that wide sky pulls me in close—
a blue blanket tucked around shoulders
on a night lit only by stars.
Crickets keep time, their gentle song
finding rhythm with my heart.
I think of the quiet crack of a baseball bat,
the ball arcing high, a promise carried on the wind,
a flight so clear it feels like love.
In a way, it's the same—a swing of hope,
the reach for connection,
the leap toward something more.
And isn’t that like a prayer, too?
Those small moments when I feel Him,
like sunlight slipping through autumn leaves,
or in the crisp warmth of pajamas fresh from the line,
or the sacred stillness of a Sunday afternoon.
Nature wraps around me like comfort,
reminding me I am never truly alone,
even when no one’s near—
because in each bird’s song, each gust of wind,
each blade of grass bending beneath my feet,
there is something holy, something here.
A beastly man and his wife had a spat
The savage hit me with a baseball bat
What a despicable jerk
But my bowl and spigot work
Still capable of holding water... splat!
In these days of austerity
It’s getting to be a treat
To go out for a few pints
And have a bite to eat,
So, Please Mr Pub Landlord
Grant me just a little wish
Bring back the vinegar bottle
So I can splash me bit of fish.
Those little plastic sachets
You’ve generously placed there
Supposedly have perforation
But they just refuse tear.
I need that essential liquid
Over me chips and cod
To transpose it from wonderful
To meal fit for a demi god.
I sit there by the mimute
Growing more and more tense
Looking at the pile of sachets
That just won’t dispense
In despair I eat my meal
Before it grows cold
But it’s just not the same
Without that liquid of gold.
I shall add that designer to
That list of those folk that
I’d like to meet in a dark alley
When I’ve got my baseball bat
A pox on the plastics industry
Once thought a packaging solution
Now a source of anger and despair
And the growing oceanic pollution.
I’m just a simple type of being
So many modern things I hate
Just give me fish and taties
Hot, served on a real plate
And I reall dont think that
I’m asking rather a lot
For vinegar in a real bottle
And salt and pepper in a pot.
Twilight has set me free
To this feeling I must cling
Then from the heavens descended
A window on a string...
My view now slightly obstructed
By soul sucking muntins.
Perhaps it is a prank done by
Some snot nosed heavenly munchkins
A vision once so sublime,
Is now sullied by the glare
That mocks me wholeheartedly, my reflection
Was donned with the blankest of stares.
I walked through the field to
Make my way back home
It would stay in front of me,
No matter which direction I would go.
I got my baseball bat, gripped it tight
Got to make sure I hit it just right.
A tidal wave of a swing was greeted bluntly
With a sad song, the faintest of dings
How will I ever rid myself of it?
I am still stuck with this cursed thing!
Perhaps I am just cursed forever
With this window on a string.
The Cost of a Human Life
I sat as an observer
in a state’s superior court.
First-degree murder was the charge.
Cold blooded calculated murder was the act.
One teen on a sleepover was beaten to death
from behind with an aluminum baseball bat.
The teen pled guilty and the sentence
before final plea bargaining was two years.
The mourning wail of the dead teen’s mother
rose far beyond the failing plastered court ceiling.
What is two years?
two visits to the CPA to pay taxes
twelve tire rotations
two World Series
four dental cleanings
two spring plantings
how long I have procrastinated
sweeping out the garage
twenty car washes
two work performance evaluations
for one human life.
I sat as a witness
in a state’s superior court
as part of society
guilty.
On Saturday night,
I was watching a movie
Till I fell asleep.
All of a sudden,
At around twelve forty-five,
I heard a loud thump.
"Who is that?" I asked.
I waited for a response,
But there was nothing.
So I asked again,
"Who's there? Quit fooling around
And show yourself now!"
There's still no answer.
"This is SO not happening,"
I said to myself.
I grabbed my flashlight
And my lucky baseball bat
To investigate.
The entire house
Was checked from top to bottom:
I even went outside.
Then I said, "Hello?
Is anybody out here?
Anyone at all?"
But again, nothing.
It's only a distraction
To keep me awake.
I went back inside,
Washed my hands, and proceeded
Back to my bedroom.
When I locked my door--
"BOO!" My girlfriend just scared me!
It's Spooky Season.
While filled with rage and madness near,
I made my wife disappear.
'Cause I found out love is fleeting,
With my friend, I caught them cheating.
Both giving me lame excuses,
Tried blaming me for abuses.
So, thus to hand out tit-for-tat,
I beat them with a baseball bat.
Then took them on a moonlight drive,
Were close to death, but still alive.
My heart is pounding, both hands shake,
I dumped their bodies in the lake.
They slowly sink, my head then drops,
Startled unaware by the cops.
With little time for reflection,
Lethal end comes by injection.
Pitty Pat the wonder cat
Ate more than a gutter rat
A wonder but really fat
Beaten with a baseball bat
Now there's no more Pitty Pat
I wonder wonder where she's at
Under ground or in a vat
Or eaten by that gutter rat
To build the perfect mousetrap
You must be smarter than the mouse
They're such clever little rodents
They could rule most any house
It may take a bit more effort
Than placing cheese atop a trap
With some imagination
You can do it in a snap
I wouldn't recommend a gun
Or even a baseball bat
But if everything else fails
You should get yourself a cat
I have this friend, a regular
gallivanter who frequents thrift stores.
He was always searching
with compass and intuition.
He had a North Star
for a heart, a beacon
I can follow on dark,
dull nights, when boredom
and redundancy permeate
the air like a warm mist.
When that mist comes
to rest, like Sandburg’s cat,
rubbing up against my legs
tangling my limbs in melancholy,
he comes like a swift breeze,
blowing away the fog
with a thrift store, ten-dollar trash can
and a little league baseball bat.
With a sly smile and firm
swing, metal reverberates
in the air and my skin
dances a merry foxtrot.
My hand grips the grainy
wood, I swing hard,
laughing in the clear night air.
Once upon a time there were two jesters,
they didn’t survive but produced the storm;
Wildcats need to roam and will not reform
adding their potency to disasters;
Crazy to caress a wild tornado
try to level it to fall and lay flat;
As lethal as a swinging baseball bat
running through the streets a desperado;
Nothing felt better than a combined purr,
cluster bombs exploding with a climax;
Pranksters prowl along undiscovered tracks,
and the madness came tumbling after.
My April Fool Horn Haiku
looked and saw loose stool
had been found in swimming pool
produced by cruel fool
had brought baseball bat
would want to knock someone flat
found him to be fat
is no Einstein
did like fruit that died on vine
so he should resign
small hands looked like claws
character had many flaws
grabbing at loose straws.
what we had believed
by maniac was conceived
he should be reprieved
really and really
is stupid yet still silly
played with a filly
distinguished Democrats
Rude Republican Spoiled Brats
on head need some pats
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