There's an old mosu tree
In front of my mother's house
It must be shedding its leaves
Right about now

In the evenings I close my eyes
And I can almost hear her singing
As she rakes the dry leaves
She'd mumble to herself once in a while
About how she hates the damn tree
Hates its leaves that leave the yard dirty

Not very hungry,
I ordered the smallest
meal available
at my favorite
fast food restaurant.

It’s called a
happy Meal
consisting of a
burger, fries, a drink,
and a prize.

A piece of plastic,
it is not a prize.
A jewel,
cash, or
a car…
all can be prizes,
but none were in my
Happy Meal.

as his stronghold diminishes.

Sorrow
Feelings inside
Grabbing at my heartstrings
Remembering those that have passed
Despair

On a bright, morning in March
all joy evaporated
Disappeared into the gloom
There just me sitting in silence
Here in god’s waiting room.

There was no fancy sarcophagus
Or a tomb fit for a queen
They will bring a black body bag
And a stretcher to take her away.

I placed fresh flowers on her body
And a card by her side,
Standing there like a dutiful servant,
While they put her into a private ambulance
Off to a chapel of rest.

She was whiskey and rain,
with no allusions about their nature.

Two or three ounces
kept the world at bay,

but the storms were always a cascade
of water and spray without redress.

Buba Sarah
had a small black elephant
made of ceramic
placed on a high shelf
in her unit.
I took that elephant
and placed it
near the TV flatscreen.
Mistake!
It fell
and broke into
several small pieces
which were impossible
to glue back together.

Broken fence panels, sitting in wait.
Butchered hedge, in a hell of a state.
Hungry fox relocation, changed his fate.
No children playing, where's their mates?

Parked cars all consuming, in my view,
Fancy apartments, all shiny and new.
Pavements need a council crew,
And those roads, could use some glue.

Rubbish thrown, blooming heck,
Dog poop reminder, on owners neck.
Mouldy discarded sofa , looks a wreck,
Where's my parcel? I must check.

Life's meaningless, the bitch don't rhyme!
So poetry's a waste of time,
but still the poison pumps and pours,
and bares its breasts like worthless whores.

Love's languishing, and faith's no more,
mere mindlessness from shore to shore
sails on, with junk, containers crammed
with costly crap: we’ve all been scammed!

Life's fading fast, for me at least,
so soon, this shit will all have ceased
to bother me or piss me off:
at least I've one more beer to quaff.

The easy to handle
sticky sided material
made of a variety of materials, including
cellulose acetate, polypropylene,
PVC, and adhesive
(alluded to in the title)
applied in an innovative manner
allowing, enabling, and providing me
the means and ways to affix paper bags
artfully, carefully, and gingerly
paper folded over school books,
which requisite book covers
(Trader Joe's bags supremely sturdy)
lasted the entire school year,
and offered an opportunity
to flaunt my creativity