Here is sum Pomes
Title: Some poems about hair.
Penelope was a glorious lion,
Combin her mane of gold fur she was tryin,
But her persistant combing was slowly dyin,
For her comb wouldn’t budge through the knots it was tyin,
And no matter how hard and how long she was pryin,
Her fur was a mess to the point of her cryin,
She enlisted the help of a burly hawaiian, a bone nosed mayan and a
strong uruguayan but all they could do was comfort her sighin,
and stand by her side all stoic n’ undyin,
Soon the lion stopped her tangled mane defyin,
and a carefree attitude she began applyin,
she forgot about her disastrous fur denyin,
and her expensive fur conditioner buyin,
and decided to set her sights on flyin,
which was really what she had always and forever been eyein.
Why are beards so elfin sweet,
is it cuz they’re a place to hide a treat?
If I had a beard I would brush it daily,
I would write it a song on my tenor ukelele.
If I had a beard I would Love it so HARD!
Every single day, I’d buy it a hallmark card.
If I had an elfin beard it would be so hot!
I would work real hard, I would buy it a yacht!
Please grow dear beard, my face is a nice home,
would you rather live on a fricken chrome dome?
I’ve tried all the tips from spain,
the berry pie and the organ.
And don’t forget the times I’ve prayed,
I prayed and prayed and got no aid…
I felt betrayed.
But its ok I’ve grown and weighed,
the options of my beard crusade,
now I’ve found the answer clear.
I’ve got a beard now, it’s homemade.
Tolkien said that cellar-door,
is the most beautiful word in english lore,
but all these words I have in store,
are much more beautiful, I would implore.
Warm rain, fell on the accordion key,
the fire licked the dew.
I see the lion’s yawn said she,
It reminded me of you.
Heels clicking on the cobblestones,
eyes closed to bright sunlight,
Passing by the sky bleached bones,
the shore has found the night.
The notes in the margins, the windy views,
the wrinkles around the eyes.
The smell of smoke on your golden hues
the buzz of the fruit store flies.
All these words I’ve wanted more
to hear than a darkened cellar-door.
But maybe the memories tied to the words
are what make cellar-door seem poor.
Bob Denver was a magnificent man.
His friend Alan Hale had a radiant tan.
Two more skilled captains there never have been,
they sailed the blue ocean like the water’s their kin.
Over hard crashing waves their vessel did burst,
this was only a tour but the storm did its worst.
On an island they crashed with passengers in tow,
and what of their fate? they did not know.
But Bob Denver was a hero,
his smile brought their fears to near zero.
Inverter of the coconut phone,
many tools and island cologne.
With whom the professor and Ginger knew they were safe,
with his banana leaf pants they were free from chafe.
did save them, the whole minnow crew.
Gilligan they called him and the skipper too.
In the end they felt their leave premature,
though originally ‘twas only a three hour tour,
a three hour tour.
-Griffith Jones 2010
Dedicated to Robert Osbourne “Bob” Denver (January 9, 1935 – September
2, 2005) an American hero…