Author: Roger Mugs

quality poetry? for the first time in weeks

poetry

rime:
fabled lake of western lore
blue, green moss of sandy shore
joy and smiles none the more
laughing at my face of bore

hike you:
loss came to me once
with blackened raven – ed poe
he stabbed it dead

limb er… rick:
although i never kicked him down
along the river did he frown
by brook and stream of moon so bright
bore he my burden in pants so tight
and smiled as he ran aground

cup lit:
epics are oft too long
to ever be made into song

tripe lit:
carp on log
and cooked with frog
smells like bog

and fine all lee:
on discovering chuck norris could whoop my ass
i discerned my calling was not to ask
him if he could or not.

hymn

poetry

the darkness of my blackened soul
what fear of love
and shame of loss
that i should forth my self its lame
but wallow in this earthen fame

you grace my heart rejoice my weakness
given my pride
and forthright guile
if i should seek myself once more
you should turn your face and me abhor

oh life of loss
so filled my fears
that i called out in shame and tears
to know my life a passing shame
to know your son for me he came

here’s to you mr. and mrs. r.c. ribay

poetry

seems like only yesteryear
you wandered on to a field
of tall uncut green
to join us in a game
while wearing your fatigues
thrilled you had fulfilled
your calling to the ROTsomething or other
and hoping for a future

music and poetry
made you dream of
leading young pupils
to find the truths you were taught
did not exist

but you dreamed big and up you went
in status and down you went
in location
from mountains to crime
you found your home

and in teetering on the edge
of destruction found something better
perhaps even smarter
(spit out of harvard afterall)

but i still remember
you asking if i had seen the turtle
you found by the lake
and thinking you vulgar

but friendly
as we toured the scum of the earth
and dreamed of better times
you no doubt
have found.

of leeches in my secret spots

poetry

yesterday we picked
mud from our tires
after an hour climb
through wet jungle
mounting the summit of dup thoi

go back the way we came?
or try a new single track down

remember good decision bad decision?

mud and leaves
my brake fully locked
as we sledded down the hill
on thousand dollar mountain bikes

hopping fallen trees
and waiting for the fog to clear
sliding and slipping
and more mud in our tires

a joy until
i picked leeches from my legs.
imagine a forest so thick
so moist and so warm

i found a leech stuck to my
unmentionables
on the ride down
and still have a large red bruise

man scar or not
that was stinkin’ fun
dup thoi

vocationally i could see myself being a man…

poetry

of edible wooden colored planks
and beaches of white powder sand
of grainy office carpet in brown and tan
and tile of white porcelain
of sunshine without any sunglasses
and eye gouging pain from squinting
of air conditioning, freezing cold bedrooms
and pounds of blankets while fighting sunburn
of mexican, italian, barbeque, pizza, burgers,
and beer, whine, scotch, gin, margaritas

of joy
of rest
of fun

but not so much of fame
i think it would go straight to my head
evening out my clown-esque feet of
10 gallon floppy enormousness
keeping me humble in my inevitable
slow mopey gait

–
p.s.
i’d call it my vacation vocation
and i’d walk tall and straight
proud of my disproportionately dense torso

a tribute to you – Robert Matthew Van Winkle

poetry

okay cease from moving
work with me and hear what i have to say
the frozen water has returned with
something completely innovative
there is a force which grips me firmly
i rap like an underwater hunting device
both in the sunlight and at dark (because it’s late)
i ask myself if it will cease
but i cant be sure eh?
to the hyperbole i roll the recording device
like a person who steals
illuminate the performance area
and cover in paraffin the suckers
like a times-past lighting device
move your body
use your booty to run at the noise making device that
has good solid bass.
i’m broiling your thinking organism
like peyote
death causing
when i create marijuana like music
at all subpar can send you to jail (on a federal level)
like it a lot
or dont
you had best make up a path
hit the middle of the target
the child wont have fun with you

if there was a disaster
eh, i’d be the relief
dig my groove while my
disc-scratcher turns it in circles

frozen water frozen water infant
frozen water frozen water infant
frozen water frozen water infant

(next week tune in for a tribute to Stanley Kirk Burrell)
cannot place your hands on said area
cannot place your hands on said area
cannot place your hands on said area
cannot place your hands on said area….

thoughts and fears on the cusp of digestive breakdown

poetry

AKA: on my upcoming 3 day absence from the sieve

tight in my tummy
tight in my thoughts
i prepare myself for travel
with stomach knots

flying makes me grumpy
but new places i enjoy
thought control i’ll attempt
thanksgiving i’ll employ

i wish i could drink whiskey
without the stomach rot
i know it’d help me relax
and help me forget thought

thirty six hours is too long to travel
no matter where you go
but thankfully it wont take three months
like by an old boat – slow

i’ll put my head down and get there
no matter what i do
arrive there eventually
I WILL I WILL I WILL

indiscriminately edified against all odds

poetry

they set out to take on the
massive evil beast, grabbing hold of
tail
torso
back
neck
then the head

gasping for air
it blew forth fire

they searched for the fabled
weak spot between four
scales

but his strength outdid them all-
talons of six inches, eight inches, more
he grabbed them each and took to flight

flinging them against a mountain

but it was made of jello
this was their goal.