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Hey There, I’m Jessup

Hey there, I’m Jessup.
Just an ugly old Burnet paddock hoss;
Caint hardly speak clear so I ast this
Jackass, Clem, across the way to git my thoughts down.
Yeah, a jackass, but at least he agreed, he being a poet and all.
I told him no rhymin, but who knows—
He’s a jackass after all, so sorry bout any rhymin.
Twas a time passed when I ran with the best
But my ever teener haid said go ahead, run,
but my geriatric apoplitic knee said uh uh and here I am,
On this old farm. Hay is good.
Caint say much about the company. Jackasses all over. [Oh, sorry Clem.]
Yeah and so I was thinking about Pan Wren, my one time heavenly.
Ast me if I was on her Friends list.
Gosh, I wanna be on her Lover list, but that aint happnin. Bad knee, worse ‘tude.
Anyway, thanks fer listning to an old paddock hoss. You been so nice and all.
Next time yer this away, come on over and I just might surprise you
With a
Hey there, I’m Jessup.

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Sky Too Green

Sky so green
Grass too blue
What I may tell you
May not be too necessarily true
Poets often wrinkle
And scurry over the rhyme
So sue me tangential
Versification has never been a capital crime
Riddle me plastic
Cauterize those peeps of joy
Life tarries aslantlike
I hope they have a baby boy
Roses be red
For her with eyes so too blue
Oh, another butterfly release—
Could you free me one day too?

Am I Close

I would like to be a poet
Am I getting close?
Metaphors mixed and tenses slashed
Imagery by a nose
Broken hearts and thanes slain
Damsels worshipped ever again and again
Perhaps a cheery rhymester
Bereft of similes orange
Sunsets abandoned
By courageous estrange
Does my poesy suffer to suffice?
Are you moved to a nether coast?
Or do you need more fodder
To render the lonely heart closed
Pay for my lines
Don’t you dare wonder?
Most of the good stuff
Passes thru the penchant blunder
Like me stuff—
Or turn to a kindred page
Drinking the lines ethereal
Is all the millennial rage

Another Poet’s Power Trip

7pm Friday evening:
The loner ponders a new blank page;
You’d think he’d have better
At his now advanced presenile age.
But no prospects permit,
And no leads present,
All in all
He remained a proper gent.

7:08pm Friday evening:
Some words managed to flow
Out of prompt sinus gyrae
And across the page, to and fro.
The rhyme lofted well,
The context sufficiently obtuse,
Pondering current lost lovers
[As usual TV fare was of no use].
But no prospects permit,
And no leads present,
All in all
He remained a proper gent.

9:30 Friday evening:
The night’s offering to WordPress Publish—
He’d not edited much,
Twas all a spot of heartache and sly rubbish.

10pm Friday night:
Off went the power strip.
Another headache for morning,
But for now: another poet’s power trip.
But no prospects permit,
And no leads present,
All in all
He remained a proper gent.