A Poem or so 'they say'

I think I am a liar, no, I know that I am one,

and innocently enough fibber,

the Fibonacci of lies,

but I do not think of myself as evil,

I think of my fellow liars as evil,

I am white... so I like spouting off random white lies,

The most innocent type of lies...maybe.

All In a Summer's Day

Those fries aren't burnt... just add some salt they said,

thumb smudged saucers wait as the coffee slowly drips,

brewed with paper towel filters and a few boiled eggs on the side,

grizzled bacon fried shirtless underneath a dim light,

yesterday's reprise was in this morning's juiced beets,

by noon all the jerky had been cured,

three in the afternoon kicked off the oldest craze.... napping,

they awoke only to close their eyes so they might feel the
sunset's warm surmise,

assumptions roll down from dusk through past midnight,

and only some of them danced after dinner,

the rest relaxed on their concrete verandas,

as peace grew rampant in the summer's breeze.

Pastel Chatter

Poetry for the Molasses, not the Upper Classes.


The colors are changing on Saturn's north side,

but all they care about is eating peanuts at the circus,

the old colors will be swallowed up and spit out into their dreams,

as electrical storms delight in all the floating nonsense,

hexagonal jet streams force the chatter to pastels,

one day Leonardo DiCaprio predicts global warming on other planets,

he recognizes photochemical hazes in the atmosphere that Elon Musk couldn't fathom for some

oddball reason........ I think it may be because in my my mind's eye Saturn is painted mostly purple anytime I take a power nap.

Strings fastened blue crass,
pink sands whisper pretenses,
animal crackers.

Softly divided,
where fantom moon's collided,
grassy knolls lay down.

ONE

If only I was funnier,
but then the sun might burn me up,
if only I was stronger,
but then the wolves might want to eat me up,
if only I was kinder,
so I may always see the light that never fails us,
if only I was gentler,
so I would never have to worry about being right.

Buffalo grasslands,
soft dew gleams from the crevice,
a languid free fall.