* On this page, I’ll write my ditties
They might be trite they might be wittys
They may not follow rules or rhyme
Even still they are all mine *
* On this page, I’ll write my ditties
They might be trite they might be wittys
They may not follow rules or rhyme
Even still they are all mine *
* Ribbit Rubbish Rue
Deadly did a dabble-do
Cast a spell down on you
Enter Edgar ego dolt
Found a feather in his throat
Sprinkle speckles in blue flame
Making him forget his name
Newt and bat, eye of toad
Plus something rotten from the road
Used a blender for modern day,
Mixed it in his curds and whey
Now he sits upon a log
Thinking he’s a big bull frog *
**~~**~~**
Angry and happy finally had it out it almost came to blows.
Happy swore to make his day better than he knows.
Angry spat onto the ground and cursed him once again.
But happy stopped and bent way down and gave that man a grin.
Angry sat exhausted a scowl upon his mug.
Them happy sat beside the man and gave his bud a hug.
So when angry jumps upon you and tries to get you down.
Call upon a happy friend to take away your frown.
**~~**~~**
Cross-worded puzzle “Author Stalled”
Waiting for the words to flow
Reaching past the one we know
Into the darkness all around
Till lighter dreams will abound
Either bless this hour as friend
Restricting not this stories end
Saddened by the hollow sight
Barren paper isn’t right
Looking for a spark to fan
Obliquely falling from my hand
Curse this hour and wasted day
Kami take my blues away
Brokenhearted Violin
I pray thee forgiveness, as your heart is breaking.
Your cry of anguish fills my soul with the sweetest tear.
Mournful longing crushed in the blackness of pain.
Yet for the long drawings notes that echo, filling the air with gentle caressing, they do lift me.
For you were blessed to have once known that which we can only dream.
The greatest of loves that destroys you in vacant shadows.
Surely, God himself hears you’re grieving as a prayer for peace.
Your sorrows are the melody of angels in my ears.
I swear to hold this precious in memories yearning for the day that I too might kiss the love before it passes from my grasp as well.
Tumbling the Quail
Glowing passions harkened, lifted mine heart, finding eagles yearning slight measures of like song. A treasure known only in the depths of a single gleaming eye.
Jagged tongues hex thee. Shame upon thy unguarded splattering, frayed about in quills blood.
This great hall of single mind, suffers not the lowly beggar failing test of linen or flowered waters.
Yet for thine own sake alone, I banish not a single strand beneath finely worn crowns.
Stabbing gazes beneath fainting shadows near mornings light.
Adieu Richard-Cranium, adieu Sphincter
‘An ass in the grass or a butt between lines’
I sit and write to ring and rhyme
He scoffs at others all the time
Fun and giggles is all it’s for
But poison pen will slam some more
Helpful hints to fix the flat
Gentle nudges for you is where it’s at
Try it for funny, try it for grins
If it ain’t right then try it again
You’re words will lift you and give him a fit
While you’re having fun he’s just being a twit
Scribble did me in
A heart full of words so many again
So how do I get them to jump in my pen?
I could strike them with anger?
I could bathe them in love?
I might get on my knees praying to God up above
I might show them a memory one sad and alone
If I ask someone else then the words aren’t my own
I could write something corny or sharp and with wit
If I can’t think of something I might as well quit
Never I chant I can do this I swear
It must come as natural as breathing in air
The folks at the Circle they’ll cheer and they’ll jab
If I take up hard drinking I’d land in re-hab
I know what to do it’s a poem I will scribble
Oh hell what have I done nothing rhymes here but kibble
For this ditty I will hang
I read a poem that didn’t rhyme
I went back to read it a second time
With wrinkled brow I tried again
The thinks I thought I know as sin
Turning the page I saw another
With wrinkled brow I found its brother
I read a few I thought were cute
But most resembled the King’s new suit
I received a blue note, for that poem I wrote
Stating I was being a total butt head.
I sat in my chair, my face was a scare
Wondering just what the hell had I said
The note said look dude you are being too crude
Knock it off and please go away
But I’m telling you now so you won’t have a cow
I plan to keep writing my way
I sat and thought the other day; about life in general you might say.
About the time we have on earth and about how much a soul is worth.
Is there something beyond the veil? A place called heaven or a hell?
And when at last our race is run, is there something more beyond the sun?
For what would be the biggest shame, I think a nothing when it came.
So here’s a toast to you I send, an eternity with thoughtful friends.
-Skip Slocum-
Double-Sword Marks His Fate
Some may see a scrambled mess,
When they gaze upon a game of chess.
Squares of black offset by white,
Armies poised prepared to fight.
Alternate from him to me,
Inside his mind, I try to see.
When thereon, formations set,
Trap is laid, unseen as yet.
Knights’ purpose is a shielding path,
Disguising bait and Queen’s sure wrath.
Silent scream when trap is sprung,
Numbered count until battle won.
Still moves before the point of mate,
Failed general will concede his fate.
Faltered King, dispatched of hand,
Lies splayed upon checkered land.
One Candle Flame
The flame atop wax candle burns,
A single power where light’s concerned.
And when alone in dark of night,
The single flame lives glowing bright.
Shadows cast on rock face wall,
Show crescent moons beside them all.
With guarded hand and blowing kiss
Flame disappears in blackened mist.
On pillow rest in dreams delight
Yet still I see the candlelight.
The Mirror Lied
When came morning, as clock did sound,
My duties put my feet to ground.
Piercing light closed sight to shield
Awaiting razor my hand to wield.
In basin splashed first cooling touch
My towel drying in as much.
For grinding fast, the breath of time.
The face I see cannot be mine.
My eyes are bright not droop and cold
My skin is fresh not rot or old
Lips that kiss the ladies fair
Not quiver dry in morning air.
My hands of strength force irons yield
And work with honor in labors field.
Not withered aching in twisted shame
Or trouble penning ones own name.
So mirror curse thee, be gone your hate
My duties call me I can’t be late.
Shades of grey
Parched photo there, of yesteryear, in garden swing she flies.
Angel soars with rosy cheeks, a twinkle in her eyes.
Her lips so soft with ruby’s hue, yellow flowers in her hair.
Her velvet skin with beauties youth, in summer sun so fair.
Alas, I never knew her, divided by the span of time.
And fell my heart when at last I stayed, mere colors in my mind.
No ruby red, or gingham blue, or yellows in her hair.
No grass of green or summer gold just faded shadows there.
Pale grey forever holds her in that place in time,
Yet in my dreams, she wonders, with her hand in mine.
The Gateway Into The Abyss
An aged man, worn of years,
refused to write because of fears.
He said with terror in his eyes,
he’d found a gateway in disguise.
Lad, heed my warning when you write,
there is a danger, an awful plight.
Some time ago, I wrote a tale
about a writer born of hell.
In my story, with pen in hand,
this spawn of hell wrote about a man.
The rush of muse had taken flight
as I scribbled lines about demon’s write.
And when I read what he had wrote,
his story in mine was of this old goat.
It’s true my hand had invented him
and let him write with creative whim.
Then by chance, our stories crossed,
a flash of light, and my soul was lost.
Drawn into hell, I was damned,
releasing him as mortal man.
After eons of pain I did wander,
but found his script half burnt asunder.
I wrote my way back to my wife
and blotted out his sinful life.
The Room Where Time Stands Still
In the parlor stands a China hutch, crafted late, eighteen fifty-four.
Around the room, three Chesterfields, stood proudly on the floor.
The flowered drapes and portieres pulled, their billows lashed and tied.
Revealing pleated scrims of white to soften Summer’s bide.
Beside the door to garden’s path, Longcase marks the time,
and hidden in its hull of pine, striking bells begin to chime.
Beside his chair a book half read, Ben Franklin’s wire thin.
And tuffet stool where I once played or sat listening to him.
Old man how I still miss you and wish that you could see,
the little boy that calls me Ol-Da-Pops and now plays upon my knee.
Skip
Old Cowboy’s Stormy Night
From the hills of desert mountains,
just this side of Mexico,
an old cowboy watched the setting sun
and dreamed of long ago.
Thunderclouds were building,
great anvils in the sky,
and fire-streaks of lightning flashed,
brilliant in his eyes.
The scent of raindrops rushed him,
on hot breezes from below,
and he leaned against his pickup truck,
to witness nature’s show.
Quietly he hummed the tune,
Ghost-Riders in The Sky,
and wished he could ride with them,
as they thundered by.
~*~
Between Old Photographs
The shifted sands of many years,
Have covered countless memories,
Caught us up with the here and now
And things that are to be.
I see my daughter’s faces,
While visiting their mom,
And muse at laughing chatters
As they go on and on.
The little things between photographs
That time had blown away,
Came back to me all at once,
As I join granddaughter’s play.
She’s still too young to say hello,
And struggles with bye-bye.
But smiles big for grandpa’s kiss
And the way he makes her fly.
I help her chase the puppy
And share stolen M&M’s
We love the sounds that pans make
While pounding sticks on them.
It seems I’ve done this all before
And hopefully will again,
Looking forward to more visits,
From my new best friend.
Seeing Past The Shades of Grey
Back then, I was too young to know,
what grandpa saw between the snow,
of that old withered black and white.
His eyes began to sparkle,
then grew misty dim,
when he gently touched the photograph
of grandma kissing him.
He just sat there smiling,
then he looked so far away,
as he described the crinoline,
she wore that summer’s day.
He said her eyes were baby-blue,
her skin was snowy white.
Confessing that he shamelessly,
kept her out all night.
Years later, I found that photograph,
and I think I just might see,
the colors Grandpa saw that day
when he first showed it to me.
Skip’S
I Thought Space-Time Mattered
Today my world was blown apart
by things I cannot see,
by quantum strings and principles
and what they call infinity.
I found out, thought, matter, time and space
are all one in the same
and quantum rules have screwed with me
but they are not to blame.
They told me space-time energy
exists within reality
And information has a mass,
in short, it is 3D.
So when I thought that I was born
and someday would surely die
according to the scientist
that might just be a lie.
Come to find out we are holograms
racing through a big black hole
where the rules of light are fractured
into particles untold.
Quantum shades of reality
exist as two in one
this means when we have mastered thought,
time travel will be fun.
Skip’S