Poems

Sunset’s brief stillness
Wind and birds quiet
Evening sets in
Cools the sunny day’s
Breezy warmth
Venus and Jupiter
In the western sky
Mars rosy opposition
Orion crosses the night
Spring’s first day ends

In the easy afternoon light
Accompanied by tumbling waves
Left behind from a beach walk
She crosses the lawn
Gathers wind blown plumerias
Among the lengthening shadows
She climbs the porch stairs
Enveloped in the sweet smell
He turns and smiles
At the shared memory

You've plotted your plots
planned your plans
dreamed on it a good while
until the dreams
take on the annoying cast
of routine
tacked photos of
your destination up
to the walls
so it's always in your sights
you repair the canvas
replace weatherworn sheets
prepare the colors
and on the chosen morning
the tide at full flood
you step to the gangplank
suck in a lungful of salt air
like you'd bite off a mouthful
from a fresh hot loaf
and then you see
the lovely lady
beckoning you
from the five-course banquet
opulently appointed
on the grounds
of the manor house
the colors flutter
in a breeze
the ship creaks
anticipation
but there sits the lady
and you wonder
just whose game
this is.

One time, I convinced my writing group to hijack a haiku slam, delivering only haikus about flying Orcas.
Another time, my poem was a knock knock joke.
I prefaced a poem based on Springsteen's Thunder Road by singing the song in it's entirety. Imagine my singing voice. It's worse than that.
My poetic nemesis, a local retired professor, does not even know who I am. But many of the open mic poets think of him as nothing but my nemesis. In fact I inspired several poets to name their own nemeses. It was very thereputic.
If I like another poet's piece, I will sometimes parody it.
I read one particular piece every week for a couple months until it was parodied by another poet.
Among the long standing poets in town, I was known as the guy who coined the phrase: "Like standing on kittens."
The first poem I ever read at an open mic began, "When Lisa leaves me it will be for a plumber." Several years later...
True story, once on a drive to the Seattle Slam, with a nationally known poet who has since passed away, we stopped for Vietnamese food. Getting back into the car afterward, he turns to me and says, "Now how do you get to the Slam". I replied, "Practice."
More truth, I made him repeat the question when the other poets came out of the restaurant so I could say the punch line again. His reaction: "Bellingham poets are crazy.
I wooed my sweetheart with a series of bawdy limericks sent via cell phone.

I would give my right arm for you
I want you to know that.
I would rather go blind than to see you cry
I would take a bullet, walk through fire,
Crawl over broken glass.
For you.

And then, of course,
You would have to feed and dress me,
You would need to rearrange my house so I would not trip
Make sure I didn't burn myself on the stove
And change the dressing on my bullet and glass wounds
Because I love you that much.