A selection of short poems published 11 November 2012
From a paper cup
dangles a sign with tiny print –
some teabag’s cry for help.
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Restaurant ads – pictures of food
don’t make me hungry, but somewhere
probably a picture of me
is hungry.
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Double Spoonerism
Sand gets on condoms
By the sea shore.
Sue yelps as Don comes –
Ooh, is she sore!
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Hannibal’s Strategy (a palindrome)
Plan A: an Alp.
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End of the day,
left heel bickering
with the parking garage floor.
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Hundreds of channels,
always some movie on I want
to want to see.
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Spring – the leaves
are where whatever lives in trees
lives.
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Summer –
the trees
well-hung.
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Your Best Friends
The old ads for deodorants, breath-freshness, etc.,
claimed “Your best friends won’t tell you…”.
Tens of millions believed this. Is it possible
there are so many who have never had a friend,
been a friend? So many who mistake friendship
for the chameleon smiles that appear with words
and vanish with thought?
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When she shook her ass,
it was music—both bass and
tremble cleft.
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Meanings inhabit my word structures
as mice or termites infest a house,
seldom seen, but there are noises
at night, scats, detached wings…
TURNING THE OTHER CHEEK—NO EPI-FANNY
Centerfold-bound, a model named Stephani
Was auditioned, but wouldn’t show Heff a knee,
Much less parts more notorious;
Though her cleavage was glorious,
She, to pleas (“Show me more!”), turned a deaf fanny.
From Womb to Tum-
Eric
It’s too easy, composing a lim-
eric on a young fellow named Jim.
Eric’s harder: Two syllables,
Which increases my billables
(If by syllables paid)—hence this gim-
meric.
GOVERNMENT TACTICS
Too many attacks
On a tax
Will require a tax
On attacks.
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I keep writing,
even with nothing to say—
it drives Silence nuts!
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SIN CITY
Vincent: Best-dresssed man in Cincinnati—
He had robbed, raped and slain. Sin Vin had. He
Had been taught by his dad,
“Sin with style’s not so bad.”
Dad said, “If you must sin, Vin, sin natty.”
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RACIST THOUGHT
Pig-
mentation.
ANTI-TYRANNY PROGRAM
More mores,
Fewer Fuhrers.
PURPLE-DOMED GOLD PIMP-IMPERIAL
The crowd-proud primped pimp,
a one-man, bling-arrayed parade,
on the road, crowed,
in his pride ride,
so rowdy loud you can
listen to the glisten.
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Slant winter sun
runs its marathon,
makes it though our window,
delivers its message and
collapses at our feet.
copyright (c) Dean Blehert 2012
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