Life’s too short
Tooth’s too long
Horses snort
Answer’s wrong
Eyes too bright
Pool’s too deep
Bra’s too tight
He’s too cheap
Sky’s too high
Feet too smelly
Words can lie
Too tight belly
Stream beds trickle
Chewing gum sticks
I’m in a pickle
Up to old tricks.
Lost my keys
This won’t do
Down on my knees
Should get two.
Don’t say pome
Only a verse
Come on home
Could be worse.
1899. John Brown. (USPD.pub.date, artist life/COmmons.wikimedia.org)
On a path two 
interplanetary
beings meet:
human animal and
animal animal.
Is one food
for the other?
Who will move
first, and where?
Whose fear is
that in the air?
Reason has instinct
by the throat, or
is it the other
way around?
Tethered by memories
of other meetings on
other paths, the two
step cautiously by.
The horse should ideally pull
the cart. Agreed? But if the horse
is not in sight you’re left with
the cart part, and must envision
what kind of horse will pull your
poem into the light of day.
Problem is, most cart-pullers are
tired, worn out and hacknied, lacking
sufficient strength to bear the load.
Love, death, flower, tree, even Trump
won’t do it today. The backside
of an eyeball? Ingrown toenails
seeking freedom? The charley horse
that sets you dancing? Or the rat
poison under the sink?
What’s common to all of us?
Hate? A drag. Sorrow? Too close.
Hope? Delusional. Denial?
Not me! Revolution? Not yet.
Pain? Love my oxycodone.
Truth? But doesn’t that depend on
where you’e standing? Reality!
Let’s hear it for reality!
Really? I’ll vote for Make Believe:
Two golden butterflies pull my
cart through rainbows in the sky.
Oh my! Curly tresses, rosy cheek,
music charms when ere I speak.
Dank
rhymes with
thank
and after he
drank
it was a cinch
that the wench
on the cable
had succeeded
to enable
him to do it again
on a whim.
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