Tag Archives: poem

Little Red-Haired Girl (A Poem and Paffooney)

 

Little Red-Haired Girl

 

You never told her that you loved her, Charlie Brown

That little red-haired girl, so cute, so nice

You only looked and looked from afar

You never told her that you loved her, Charlie Brown

You could’ve held her hand

You could’ve walked her home from school

You never told her that you loved her, Charlie Brown

She never got your Valentine

At least, you forgot to sign your name

You never told her that you loved her, Charlie Brown

No hope of marriage now, nor children for old age

Happily ever after has now long gone

You never told her that you loved her, Charlie Brown

Now every love poem is a sad poem

And the world is blue and down

You never told her that you loved her…

You never told her that you loved her…

You never told her that you loved her, Charlie Brown

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Sleeping Beauty (a silly poem of love and illusion)

Image

Sleeping Beauty

In the dark and in the light

In candle flame and purple night

The beauty sleeps and fails to heed

The young man’s life of lust and need

What happens next is often sad

The want, the hope, the love so bad

And fluttering faery wings of light

Carry life and love and fuel the sight

With never a thought to what could be

If only love would call to thee

And wake the sleeper from her dream

To make the two but one to seem.

Love poetry is basically nonsense.  Fueled by hormones and lust, dreams and assumptions, it is never real.  It is only a vision, an apparition, and fools you into believing what could never be real.  So why write it?  Because it is in our nature, in our stars, to love.  Just because something is foolish, or impossible to pin down, there is no reason to give up on it.  That’s what the Paffooney faeries are for.  They cast faery light on what you should never believe, but always, always do. 

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Little Red-Haired Girl (A Poem and Paffooney)

 

Little Red-Haired Girl

 

You never told her that you loved her, Charlie Brown

That little red-haired girl, so cute, so nice

You only looked and looked from afar

You never told her that you loved her, Charlie Brown

You could’ve held her hand

You could’ve walked her home from school

You never told her that you loved her, Charlie Brown

She never got your Valentine

At least, you forgot to sign your name

You never told her that you loved her, Charlie Brown

No hope of marriage now, nor children for old age

Happily ever after has now long gone

You never told her that you loved her, Charlie Brown

Now every love poem is a sad poem

And the world is blue and down

You never told her that you loved her…

You never told her that you loved her…

You never told her that you loved her, Charlie Brown

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Chicken Soup Time (a twelve-line poem of recovery)

There comes a time when life really stinks,

A day when the life force grows green-brown and sinks,

Yes, I am ill and my every breath kinks,

And I cough and I burp and the end of the nose pinks,

So, I gather together under the covers,

The rotten parts of me over which the fly hovers,

And cook them in heat of the dreams of old lovers,

And fantasy dreams, whose richness discovers…

The stories that make the sum of my life,

And memories of people who’ve hurt me with strife,

And good things and great things and details all mixed,

And stew while I’m sleeping til things are all fixed.

Blue birdsxxx

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Chances Are…

Postable Paffoonies

Chances are… I could wear a foolish grin, like a Johnny Mathis Moon in the sky…

I could waltz… all alone in a dark room, never seizing on the chances to fly…

But there’s a time… meant to let the summer in…

And love songs… all make me wonder… Why?

Silly, I know.  But silly and surreal is how I go, how I deal with the time.  A song in my head leads to rhythm and metaphor and rhyme.  And it takes me from old winter and the waning of the moon… to the silly month of June… And my dancing shoes were never quite so spry.

Chances are… if you really read this, you will know I am depressed.

My life is all unfairly messed.

And I barely can get dressed…

To go tripping cross the floor, dancing awkwardly toward the door, ’cause I’m in need of so much more.

But in a poem I find it… the very reason that I rhymed it… like the crooning song that’s stuck in my old head…

I will catch it, and I’ll bind it, like a fool who hopes you’ll find it, and the treasure will be revealed before we’re dead…

Chances are… that you hear that silly tune, as it reels across the page in silent spread.  And the song will slowly stop, as I dance a final hop, and the answer is brightly shining in my head.

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Filed under Depression, feeling sorry for myself, finding love, healing, humor, magic, music, Paffooney, poetry

My Dreams Have Wings

Wings of Imagination

My Dreams Have Wings (a poem)

Sometimes when I fall asleep,

I don’t drift down to slumber,

I grow great red wings,

And I take to the air,

To soar…

To escape…

To live…

Or simply fly away.

Adolphe-William Bouguereau Paintings 50 (1)

Adolphe William Bouguereau

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Chicken Soup Time (a twelve-line poem of recovery)

There comes a time when life really stinks,

A day when the life force grows green-brown and sinks,

Yes, I am ill and my every breath kinks,

And I cough and I burp and the end of the nose pinks,

So, I gather together under the covers,

The rotten parts of me over which the fly hovers,

And cook them in heat of the dreams of old lovers,

And fantasy dreams, whose richness discovers…

The stories that make the sum of my life,

And memories of people who’ve hurt me with strife,

And good things and great things and details all mixed,

And stew while I’m sleeping til things are all fixed.

Blue birdsxxx

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Rainy Saturday Blues (a poem about depression )

Blue Dawn

I must make a confession about crippling depression,

Cause today I have the blues.

It requires a concession of time for regression,

And dark days enveloping all views.

There is no progression in a working profession,

Cause clouds leave me missing all news.

I start the procession of blue notes in session,

And all melodies tend to be blues.

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Filed under Paffooney, pessimism, poem, Uncategorized

So Grumpy

Grumpy (a poem about Grumpy life)

Dang it, you old grumpy man!

You annoy me as only a grumpy man can.

You grouse and growl and sometimes howl,

And pace the house like a cat on the prowl.

You worry me, weary me, and generally nasty be,

And of course you are… yes, you are… naturally me.

So why do you worry me, weary me, moan and make bother,

Now that you’re old, and you sound like your father?

Because you are cranky now, creaky with age,

And know you now, soon, the book’s turning its page.

And, though you complain, you do love your life,

And, loathe you will leave it, and your sweet-smiling wife.

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*Footnote*  I was in a foul mood when I wrote this poem, but my favorite team, the Cardinals, won a football game with a last second interception by Tony Jefferson in the end zone.

*Double Footnote*  Yes, my wife will be smiling when I am gone because I am so GRUMPY!

*Triple Footnote*  Yes, I was talking to the mirror in this poem.  I took the picture in the mirror and then reversed it on my laptop.

*Fourple Footnote*  Yes, I know.  Too dang many footnotes.  Dang it!!!

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The Doorway at the Top of the Stairs (A silly rhyme of Paffooney making)

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At the top of the stairs and the end of the hall,

Is a doorway to wonder and the pith of it all.

I have lived a long life, and I’ve lived it well,

But a life isn’t over with a story to tell.

So I set to work justly with my ink and my pen,

And I draw and I write and remember when…

But there has to be more to this door in the hall,

A studio’s not just a hole in the wall.

I write about Seuss and his silly red rhymes,

And I think and I write and remember the times…

And the verse can come faster, or the verse can come slow

But the verse is about all the things that you know,

And you must pass it on to them that come after,

And you post your ideas on door, wall, and rafter.

And when the long day finally comes to its end,

There will be a sharing with a good ear to bend,

And a book, or two books, or three they can read,

That reveal all the secrets that they’ll ever need.

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the Clarkes

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