When White Men Mow Their Lawns

Nature’s bounty is sustainably managed;

Transparency and sincerity meet at the grassroots

Children play, shrieking with laughter in 1957

Your parents or grandparents or great-grandparents

Meet and remain married

While beatniks scream in stupefied rage

The fog of war subsides

As you purchase a new sofa

The gold-backed dollar grows greener

Silver shines truer and brighter

The free market surges

Entrepreneurs create new goods and services

The grass is forced to reach a pleasing uniform height

Weeds are suppressed

American women grow more alluring

Church and state

Support each other symbiotically

Underdeveloped nations improve their infrastructures

Shamans smile cryptically in exotic lands beyond the U.S.A.

Twenty-somethings improve their Yoga asanas

Chickens begin to sing, from every pot

When white men mow their lawns



produce a poem that meditates, from a position of tranquility,
on an emotion you have felt powerfully.


Feline Frenzy


Put on your pussy hat, grab your Kibbles—

Let that cat out of your bag

Celebrate your business, Womyn

Whether you be sprite or hag . . .

Which is which? You make us wonder

(as you hate on the head-of state)

What you’re packing. Woman-thunder

Promises to titillate.

Lead us men into our future

Show us where we’ve gone astray.

Shine that light of Matriarchy

As we stumble on our way.

Pure emotion lights your gender.

Superficial party-lines

Tie us up. A pussy-bender

Just might straighten out your signs.

Talking-points at intersections

Promise to inflame the game.

Seeking brave new world directions

Ought to shift some blame.


PROMPT #23: write a poem about an animal.

Plebeia Ovulation-Jones takes on America @ Walmart

Hi-fructose drama-nation (AKA Plebeia Ovulation-Jones), clad in a rumpled football shirt and golden sweatpants, rolled her bovine eyes, burped, then plunged into battle in the Walmart parking lot. Overweightia U.S, looking on, gestured rudely while blabbing on her phone. America herself, standing by, talked loudly, swiveling her fat neck around with a menacing gesticulation involving her two-and-a-half-inch poisonous green fake fingernails studded with tiny rhinestones in the shape of well-known designer logos. Witnesses claimed that the altercation started when America could not find her own thong, which was lost between mountains of cellulite-rippled sweaty rolls of flesh. Splendora Obeeze, her BFF, trying to get America away from the fight scene, mooed like a feral heifer, then barked at her ex, who proceeded to taunt her while filming with his I-phone:

Woo ooh-ooh baby Ima get wit chu den do like u cause we rollin, we rollin . . .

Plebeia suddenly snarled at her 3 year-old daughter strapped into a car seat to leave her shit alone and then re-entered the store where she proceeded to sing to herself in the brassiere section until she bumped into her 4th toddler’s baby-daddy who was mumbling into his thick beard RE tha lightweight herb he smoked wif his boy as he checked his text messages for the freestyle lyrics by “L’il Murgatroid”. The entire affair ended badly when Plebeia spilled corn-dog flavored popsicle powder all over America’s thong-retrieval device. WW IV warning apps were triggered. They beeped, were ignored, failed and then were deleted. No one shouted World Staaar—u see dat? Oh shiiiittt !!
Plebeia O-J was oblivious, in any case, and strode boldly into the Walmart pharmacy section as the predatory drones prophesied in Revelation were released from the bottomless pit by Abaddon, Lord of Destruction. Fabulously overweight as well, I was, nonetheless, underwhelmed by the thong itself, when it was finally retrieved from the depths of America’s rumpled sweatpants, on the buttocks of which was emblazoned the final terrible message: PINK UNIVERSITY: BITE ME.



PROMPT 20: write a poem that “talks.”
While it isn’t a monologue, it’s largely based in spoken language,
interspersed with the speaker/narrator’s own responses and thoughts.
Try to write a poem grounded in language as it is spoken –
not necessarily the grand, dramatic speech of a monologue or play,
but the messy, fractured, slangy way people speak in real life.
You might incorporate overheard speech
or a turn of phrase you heard once that stood out to you –

The View from Hair


I fell hard for the head of that Isaac
(note the gravity of my event).
Over Tombstone I soared, on the winds of the Lord
Until Holliday’s bullets were spent.

Floating iceberg, I challenged Titanic
Single raindrop, got lost in the storm;
Genghis Khan’s mongol horse had ideas, of course
Stalin’s mommy kept baby Joe warm . . .

Perspectives from lesser-known players
May improve the morale of the team;
But a view from the edge of the forty-fifth ledge
Will compel true progressives to scream!

Have you noticed the wave on that wizard,
Washingtonian mage of the West?
You may dislike his ways, but it’s only a phase;
Now admit it; his hair is the BEST.

He’s the Cheeto in charge of your nation
Chief constructor of all that is Great.
Though you’re peeved at your loss, Mr. Drumpf is the boss
And there’s no more excuse for your hate.

I’m the roof on Melania’s husband
Call me carrot-top, call me toupée . . .
You can whine all you want, but I’m here to be blunt:
I’m the night after Democrat day.

I’m the hair on your wonderful leader
Driving liberals mad—and beyond.
The Deplorable’s turn: feel the heat, feel the burn;
Oh hilarious orange!  (No . . . blonde.)

PROMPT #17: write a poem that  presents a scene from an unusual point of view.
Perhaps you could write a poem that presents Sir Isaac Newton’s discovery
from the perspective of the apple.
Or the shootout at the OK Corral
from the viewpoint of a passing vulture.
Or maybe it could be something as everyday as a rainstorm,
as experienced by a raindrop.