-a poem written by Mickey and pasted on a picture.
Category Archives: poetry
Re-Minders
Lately I have been having memory troubles. You know what I mean, when you walk through a doorway with a definite purpose in mind.and then, on reaching the other room, you have no earthly idea what that purpose was. It happens to me regularly. In fact, I can even start writing a sentences, and then I… What was I talking about? Oh, yes. I need to practice writing some more spectacularly bad poetry, before I forget how to do it.
Re-minders
Sometimes…
My mind slips out of my left ear…
And I can’t remember things.
So, I have to search under the table…
To find my mind…
And then I remember that that’s not how a mind works.
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Forgetfulness
Tell me now, before I forget…
What was I supposed to remember?
Was it something religious, important, and good…
That comes towards the end of December?
Was I supposed to buy something for somebody then?
I wrote a note to myself in September…
Oh, gosh! How could I ever forget that?
Now the fire is nothing but embers.
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Finding Fairies in my Hair
Why do I have elflocks all snarled up in my hair?
Surely some fairies have been twisting it up there.’
But if I can catch one and make him confess,
He claims I don’t comb it, and that’s why it’s a mess.
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Doofy Me
If I forget everything I ever knew,
Would it be possible that I am still smarter than you?
Old Socrates said he knew nothing at all.
And so he asked questions from Winter through Fall.
I hope I retain enough brain to remember
That everyone needs to wear clothes in December.
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Yep, I still obviously remember how to write spectacularly bad poetry. It is my contribution to literature. Virtually all poets will be able to say, “At the very least, I am a better poet than Beyer.”
Filed under autobiography, goofy thoughts, humor, Paffooney, poem, poetry
In the Outhouse
In the Outhouse (a poem by a terrible poet)
So, here I sit for a while to ponder,
While I’m taking care of needs down yonder.
I read the paper’s news-less ruses.
And think that here, at least, the thing has uses.
The Reds and the Blues (revisited due to Covid)
Lord, grant me peace
In times of great violence
Grant me wisdom
As everything around me burns in ignorance
Let the cold blues
Be tempered with warm reds
Let me juggle life’s fortunes and misfortunes alike
Red balls over blue balls
Yellow, purple, and green
Over and under
The spiraling path
I’ll keep written records
In journals with pictures
And share my discoveries
With any who’ll listen
And I’ll always keep close in my heart
The people and places and memories
That mattered and shattered
The whole color wheel
Because Shakespeare once showed us the whole color wheel
Is necessary for magic to form on the page
And though yellow is also a primary too
It’s the reds that warm life as the color of blood
And the blues let us chill as the deeper color of ice
But let there no period be
To stop the color progression
Of this warm/cold blank verse
Nor rhythm or rhyme sully
The Reds and the Blues
Who Am I?
“Who am I?” the Walrus said,
“I have to know before I’m dead.
And if the Cosmos will not say,
I’ll ask again another day.”
“You are a simple Disney clone,”
Said Cosmos when we were alone.
“You draw and color with your brain,
And tell some stories despite the strain.”
“You taught a while in the Monkey House,
And learned that students like to grouse,
But in the end will love your class
And will give you medals made of brass.”
“And your poems are filled with Angel words,
Both quite profound and yet absurd,
Because your mind soars far away
On winds of wild romantic play.”
“I guess that I can live with that,”
Said Walrus as he grew quite fat.
“And Mickey is the name I write
To sign my pictures in the light.
And that is all I have to say
To write myself in the crazy way.”
Filed under humor, Paffooney, poetry, Uncategorized
66 Life is Awesome… but Painful 99
Life is a dance that you keep dancing while you live.
The steps are difficult and hold your attention ransom.
So, often, you do not see the beauty of its pattern and flow,
Until you are so old and slow that you can barely take the next timely step.
Life is an exercise of making meaning and value of all that you are given.
The factory in which you make that life is only rarely comfortable.
Loud and grouchy managers provide the materials unfairly and with austerity,
And they constantly interfere with your work and make your hammers dull.
Yet, at the end of the job, you will marvel at what you have made.
Life is an operatic performance, full of color, flashy swirls of movement, and arias hard to sing.
And you will strut and fret your hour upon the stage, terrified you’ll miss the high note,
And fear of your inevitable solo will freeze the butterflies in your guts into sharp and painful fears.
And some fat lady in a Viking helmet and chainmail flits about trying to sing the notes that bring the opera to its end.
And when you belt out the song at center stage that is meant to bring the house down, and the audience applauds,
You will fall back exhausted, confident that it was your best possible performance, and worth your life to perform it.
Life is awesome… but painful.
Ta-Da-Ra!
On the mantel
Of our home hearth
Sit the objects
That give life worth
A candle lighting
The dark of earth
A cup once painted
With paint and mirth
A Snoopy plaque
Announcing birth
And ceramic doll
Smiling o’er the hearth.
Re-Minders
Lately I have been having memory troubles. You know what I mean, when you walk through a doorway with a definite purpose in mind.and then, on reaching the other room, you have no earthly idea what that purpose was. It happens to me regularly. In fact, I can even start writing a sentences, and then I… What was I talking about? Oh, yes. I need to practice writing some more spectacularly bad poetry, before I forget how to do it.
Re-minders
Sometimes…
My mind slips out of my left ear…
And I can’t remember things.
So, I have to search under the table…
To find my mind…
And then I remember that that’s not how a mind works.
******************************************************************************************************************************************************************************************************************
Forgetfulness
Tell me now, before I forget…
What was I supposed to remember?
Was it something religious, important, and good…
That comes towards the end of December?
Was I supposed to buy something for somebody then?
I wrote a note to myself in September…
Oh, gosh! How could I ever forget that?
Now the fire is nothing but embers.
******************************************************************************************************************************************************************************************************************
Finding Fairies in my Hair
Why do I have elflocks all snarled up in my hair?
Surely some fairies have been twisting it up there.’
But if I can catch one and make him confess,
He claims I don’t comb it, and that’s why it’s a mess.
**********************************************************************************************************************************************************************************************************************************************************************************************************************************************************************************
Doofy Me
If I forget everything I ever knew,
Would it be possible that I am still smarter than you?
Old Socrates said he knew nothing at all.
And so he asked questions from Winter through Fall.
I hope I retain enough brain to remember
That everyone needs to wear clothes in December.
******************************************************************************************************************************************************************************************************************
Yep, I still obviously remember how to write spectacularly bad poetry. It is my contribution to literature. Virtually all poets will be able to say, “At the very least, I am a better poet than Beyer.”
Filed under autobiography, goofy thoughts, humor, Paffooney, poem, poetry
Wrapped in Sunshine
Wrapped in sunshine, things are always better.
Artificial light simply does not compare.
Nudists like me are happiest when the only clothing we are wearing is sunshine.
Kids are prone to love being naked outdoors,
But they do tend to think what their parents teach them to think.
And their parents usually think nudists are dangerous…
Or just plain crazy.
But Sunshine can be an idea. What we former English teachers call a metaphor.
Having sunshine in your mind is a way of thinking that can benefit you better than you know.
Sunshine in your mind can simply be happy thoughts. And, remember, happy thoughts could make Peter Pan fly!
So, wrap yourself in Sunshine… And light up the world!
Filed under battling depression, foolishness, goofy thoughts, healing, health, philosophy, poetry
Weirdie Poetry
The Man Who Had Bird Knees
I once knew a man…
Who had knees…
That bent backwards, like a bird’s…
And this man…
Could only walk…
Like a limping, lame old duck.
The children all laughed…
And pointed at him…
When he passed them in the park…
And it made him smile…
And laugh to himself…
That his handicap made them happy.
Every single night…
He oiled his weary knees…
And tried to fight the pain…
And every single day…
He used his silly legs…
To do the Chicken Dance for kids.
And then there came a day…
When the bird legs came no more…
To be noticed by kids at the park…
And the parents all learned…
That the poor man had died…
And the whole world brought him flowers.
The next day in Heaven…
St. Peter saw a man…
Whose knees bent backwards like a bird’s…
And all of Heaven laughed…
As he did the Chicken Dance…
While angels clapped in Heaven.
The thing I find to be most witlessly true about both poetry and life is that things can be funny, and make you laugh, and at the same time make you cry on the inside. Humor is hard to write because it can be both happy and sad at the same exact moment. How do you define that quality? The bitter-sweet nature of nature? That’s saying it in a way that is both contradictory and odd. It can give you a wry smile at the same moment it both confounds and confuses you. So better just to shrug your shoulders and tell yourself you know it when you see it… and this either is or isn’t it. Sorry if I made you think too hard, cause I know that sometimes thinking hurts.
Mickey at the Wishing Well of Souls
I found a country well, and I thought I had a quarter,
But I fished in pockets hard, and found nothing for the warter,
And since I had to warp a line to make the poem rhyme,
I figured I would just look in, because I had the time.
I looked into the warty water which sat there still and deep,
And could not see the bottom, and I began to weep.
The water was clear and dark and black,
And the only thing I saw… was Mickey looking back.
And nothing of the wishing well, its magic could I see,
For only there just staring back, the secret thing was me.
I apologize for inflicting poetry on you when you probably came here looking for goofy stuff to laugh at. But my poetry is just like all my word-mangling and picture-crayoning. It tends to be goofy and weird and walking a tightrope over a shark tank between chuckle-inducing and tear-jerking. You probably can’t even tell which is the poetry and which are the burbled brain-farts of commentary that pad this thing out to five hundred words. Four hundred and ninety six, actually.
