March of the Smart Simian

I am re-posting previous work during March.
Since 2014, I’ve published 30 original poems
for National Poetry Writing Month every April.

You can read more by clicking the NaPoWriMo widgets to the right


Planet of the Smartphones

A signifying monkey grunted
(keyboard-clever, morals stunted)

from his perch in a digital tree.
And next, did text, quite rapidly:

Courtship rituals won’t suffice.
Face-to-face can’t break the ice.

Instagram me! Tweet me up . . .
friend me, like me, buttercup.

Sentences are so outmoded—
take too long to get decoded;

primate sexting hits me faster,
steers me towards your hot disaster.

Female monkeys: send an image.
(Ain’t got time for useless verbiage.)

if your snout just might unseat me,
tweet me, greet me—don’t delete me.

Then, unpeeling fresh banana,
searched his screen for Vox Humana . . .



Moby Rises from the Void

Enter ye in at the strait gate:
for wide is the gate, and broad is the way, that leadeth to destruction,
and many there be which go in thereat:

Because strait is the gate, and narrow is the way, which leadeth unto life,
and few there be that find it.

[from: The collected poetic works of Jesus C.]

These Young Folks Today

RCA doggie

I tell you all they do is text on their Walkman transistors
and spin platters on their jukeboxes.
Why in tarnation do they need those newfangled victrolas
with the dag-gone puppy dog a-sittin’ there
listnin’ to the telegraph?

Today’s youngsters are neither responsible nor ready for adulthood. Why, all they ever do is download that devilish syncopated ragtime boogie-woogie into their damn touch-tone telephones. You think the Good Lord meant for them to live like this? Doing the Twist all night long? Flapping their wicked pearls to the “Charleston” and smoking pipes with Brylcreem in their hair as they tap out racy messages in Morse Code to savage heathen peoples in the jungle-land? Why some of them have no shame at all, I say. They display their brazen midriffs and tempt the young men when they go a-courtin’ in the kitchen parlour. Yes sir – these young folks are in need of a good old-fashioned hiding.
With a thresher’s flail, yesirree-Bob…

My granny Jehoshaphat would have taken me to the woodshed for FAR LESS than that .   Now you kids put that cat down and pull up your pants RIGHT NOW or I’ve half a mind to call the constable.