Poetry - silly - tinalee

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here are some old favorites from the "silly" collection of poems:

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I need someone to wash behind my ears.

Not that behind my ears gets dirty.

I am clean and wash often
so no oily grease builds up in the crease
behind my ears.

And though my feet and hands and knees
get grubby gardening,
I do not dig with my ears
So no dirt grows in rows along my hairline.

So though I know I do not need
someone to wash behind my ears

because I can wash behind my ears myself.

Still,
I want someone
who wants to wash behind my ears
precicely because

I don’t need someone to wash behind my ears.

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Wait for me!

I have to pee!

This cup of tea

Is through with me!
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I will die
Or grow old.

And if I grow old,
I will get up as early
Or as late As I want to.
I will wear my nightey all day
Or sleep in my clothes.
And laugh at private jokes
At inappropriate times.

I will have Medicaid
And worry about prescription drug coverage.

And if I die,
I will wear a robe of brown earth
And a crown of green grass.
And, being dead,
Have no deadlines.

And if there is an afterlife,
I will find out
whether or not there is an afterlife.

And if there isn’t,
I won’t.

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He wants to fix the driveway.

To crown it smooth and straight and high
to shed the rain, to keep feet dry

so when my cup is too full-filled
on driving out, tea won’t get spilled.

So children’s clothes right up the back
won’t be all spatter-spotted black
from muddy puddles they’ve bike sliced.

This gravel-ground for them sufficed
to add in its uneven way
a challenge to the children’s play.

This ragged way of pot-holed pits
stakes claim to added benefits.

It has proved useful in the past
as, when the grandma drove too fast:
the gravel scraping her oil-pan
said, “slow down!” better than words can.

If these reasons are not enough,
Let me think of some other stuff:

Because of ridges, dips, and ruts,
I noticed that I needed struts;

Quiet puddles reflecting sky
won't happen if the ground is dry;

If that won't do, then don't forget,
this lumpy ground has done its bit
to make sure that this poem gets writ.

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Wait for me!

I have to pee!

This cup of tea

Is through with me!

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(The following was written in response to an assignment to write "a rhyming poem about creating visual art." The difference between common discourse and art is this:
art is a lie.
It is best read aloud. Can you find the rhyme pattern?)

What color is a lie and why?
What is it that is so compelling that telling
a colourful fabrication of imagination
becomes our discourse? This, our art, apart
from taste or sound, from word, movement or touch is much
too fanciful for me. I cannot say what way
it leaves me cold. So old
and lonely I might gaze for days.
Yet with paintbrush in hand, I stand
enthralled, enchanted, mesmerized. I sweat and let
some untamed and unholy urge to purge
my life of all its dross… No loss.
Yes, this would feel so much the better, to let her
out, running wild and free, this me
which still must hide inside.
And like an Angel, find contentment as a slave: behave!
But sometimes I still feel a glow below
my halo. So, know:
it’s art, The Arts, that free the child. My wild
enslaved insides may slip out…no doubt
to shatter sharp, all shards and intense fragments.
Lying pretty, glittering, littering
all the ground around -
yet dangerous to all I meet, the feet
of the tender-foot may bleed. Indeed,
I’ve bled enough. This stuff
that we all hide inside
corrupts our soul, our heart. But art,
The Arts, can fit the bits
and pieces back together as no glue would do.

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It took several tries before the final "art" poem was done. Here are two rejects:

Why does it take so long to start
when I begin a work of art?
Finished product is much much less
than the doing! I love process…

I love process in every art.
so Why does it take so long to start?
Something rebels. What have I missed?
Process defies impressionist…

The art I choose is - in some sense -
art’s actual experience.
In process-arts I still excel:
recite, dance, love, and sing quite well.

How can I bring to visual art
this silent singing in my heart?

No sound. No touch nor taste nor smells.
Here’s naught to do but hope it sells
and is wall-hung or placed on shelf.

But when I dance, I sell myself.
For, dancing, twirling ‘cross the floor,
embracing, gazing (faux amore),
I smell and feel my partner’s sweat
and, as when painting a portrait,
We fall in love and then we part.

Dancing, you see, is a shared art.

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What color is a lie
And what have we to hide
that we must say it with a color, not a word?

Blue is used for distance,
so at your insistence
I try it. But it still turns out absurd.

Never any motion.
Even the crashing ocean
has no salt spray, it's only pigment on a page.

The king must die, you say.
Is all art just foreplay?
Nevermind. I’m just going through a stage.