the topic of conversation
always ends up the same
it seems we’ve become
the experts on
ailments, aches and pains
which type of treatment
works for what
which drugs work best
for this or that
which ones leaves
us constipated
which ones will make
us splat
the when, where and what
of pooping
some say it’s a science
some say an art
which foods
give us gas
and how bad
it makes us fart
the one subject
that is guaranteed
of this there is no doubt
the person
not at the gathering
is the one the gossip
will be about
~I’m No Poet~
I know the best
poetry is
suppose to live in
broken love,
death, regret,
and fear of facing
another tomorrow.
Those things
that drag emotion
across the heart,
or stab
you in the brain,
with
pain and
sorrow.
But has there ever been a poet
that’s not known
such tragedy,
has no knowledge of heartbreak,
been hurt or wronged
because he didn’t fit a mold.
Whose stomach
is always full,
never had to
sleep in the cold.
One that has loved
without regret
never had to beg
or borrow.
Call me a
presenter of possibilities
mediator of metaphor
encourager of exaggerations
implementor of imagination
or facilitator of fakery
but
I am no poet
~My Dad Taught Me How to Drive~
Purely a work of fiction my friends. In reality, I learned to drive from my brothers, David, Paul and Phil. In an old beat-up Ford pickup truck on the gravel backroads of Wakenda.
It took an hour to get ready,
even to just drive around the block.
First, he would check the oil, kick the tires,
tune the radio and set the clock.
Then he’d adjust all of the mirrors,
check the wipers and wash the head light.
Not sure why he’d worry about it,
cause he could not see to drive at night.
He could not start any adventure,
and not stop at the liquor store first.
Had to grab a six of Budweiser,
he’d say, “so he did not die of thirst.”
He’d stop at the bottom of the ramp.
trying to get onto the freeway.
Then set his cruise control at forty,
his signal light flashing the whole way.
You know he could not drive fifty-five,
but stayed right there in the passing lane.
Traffic backed up for about a mile,
wave his finger at all who’d complain.
Before he could make a right-hand turn,
he had to come to a complete stop.
Drove around the lot for an hour,
while mom went into the store to shop.
Friendly Folk
try to make sure each person you meet—
walks away happier than they arrived
I admit it. My philosophy has always been, "There's no such thing as a stranger, just a friend I haven't met yet." So, yes, I'll start a conversation while waiting in line at the grocery store. I'll help old people across the street, though most times I'm the one that could use the help. I say 'Thank You", "Please" and "Have a wonderful day". I try to have a smile even though I'm sad. It comes from being raised by parents that had next to nothing, but was always willing to share what they did have. A mom who showed only love and a father who gladly shared his gift of gab.
I'm not saying that my temper never gets the best of me. When it does, it flies out of my mouth like a sailor on meth. but usually it fades quickly. Now that I'm a little older and I hope a little wiser, I try to keep it hidden. I am trying to look at things from the other person's perspective.
Many times I've been told by my children that I am too friendly. But I don't think that's possible. A smile, a tip of the hat, a friendly wave, holding the door, letting someone merge onto your lane all cost nothing. Yet the rewards might be more than you can ever expect. Besides, who couldn't use another friend.
I Solemnly Swear
universal truth
when politicians promise—
the poor always pay
Jerry Brotherton 