An American Street of Censorship, Cherry Pie, and Politics

Sally’s poetry contains some riveting lines

Every now and then, but somehow she

Never quite manages to get the ending right

Aunt Judy has been known for baking a perfect cherry pie

But her Spanish omelets contain

More ingredients than one requires or desires

Paul, pity the poor fool

Loves to take his constitutional morning walks

Outside in the sweet dew, all naturel

Even though the community standards dictate

He must cover or quell those questionable parts

Deemed unsuitable for the public's pallet

And then...

At the end of pristine Victoria Boulevard

We find, Mrs. Bastille’s caged Neo-Fascist Cockatoos

Who can be heard singing songs about straight razors                                  

Health care reform and Climate changes                                                                 

In both perfect pitch and three part harmony…

2009 © TS

I Live Next Door To A Madman

I live next door to a madman....                                                                                   

he has been known to stalk the mail carriers                                                  

especially the ones in short pants;                                                                            

late at night he whistles 'My Eyes Have Seen The Coming Of The Lord'

completely out of key and without major accompaniment                              

as he sets butt naked in his plastic Adirondack chair                               

smoking a Cuban cigar which was mailed from his friend in Canada;         

the one who sends him pictures of the Queen when she was between      

 the ages of seven to ten.                                                                                                       

he walks around his house peering from window to window               

checking to see if someone has been digging up his flowers...                        

we think his wife is pushing them up as she claws her way out from below.....

I live next door to a madman.....                                                             

he has an ugly and mean Pit Bull

that came complete with spiked collar                                                

it is the same collar I saw his wife wearing                                                           

 the day before her disappearance.                                                                            

the Pit Bull is the culprit who is always digging up this madman's flowers;

my wife said she saw it with a bone in its mouth

chewing the marrow and red meat from the shank,

paying no attention to the rankness of dirt and flies      

and the dog started growling as she approached to investigate

she thinks the dog helped bury the evidence

as no one really believes his obedient wife to still be alive

or at least above ground so to speak;

I may live next door to a madman...... but he lives next door to me

© 2009 T.S.

My Love Is Forever The Critic 

My Love Is Forever The Critic                                                                                  

She packs the dark bags under her eyes                                                                  

that have become her trademark®                                                                  

 crying copyrights© on every word                                                                           

she has ever spoken                                                                                                         

 She leaves you with nothing more                                                                          

than corrections of all the beautiful poetry                                                        

you composed so lovingly and for no one else but her___

© 2007 T.S.

There Is A Communist Under Her Morning Bed                                                                                                                                                                                                                      She can't find her teeth...

she remembers she left them by the sink       

but they aren't there...                                                                                                 

And the possibilities as to their disappearance

and their new location are as endless as the dust bunnies and mites

collecting underneath her bed next to her lover's bones...                            

She, for but a brief moment ponders...                                                                    

then once again tries to remember why it was                                                      

she lost them in the first place.

Blast that dreadful man she wishes she could forget him......

©2007 T.S.

Our Tendency to Hate Happy People 

The weatherman is laughingly happy

Over the development of a new tropical depression

His smile brightens and his glee abounds

As the storm approaches and then runs aground

This started me thinking as to why we tend to hate happy people?  

We hate them because they're not like us....

Miserable son of bitches

2007 © T S