Angel Song

I emerge from my cocoon, born upon the shore of a small tree surrounded lake. A late evening light glows in the sky as tree swaying wind moves delicately through branches, and gently touches my face. The sound of water trickles itself through the threshold of quietness. Before me, you lie petaled with blossoms by your side. I approach, and you smile open to me. Taste, I hear. So I taste, and find myself at large in the immensity of a womb seeded with stars, then once again descend into being. Glorious Angel.

Get Small

I’m thinking about some of the things that I’ve said, 

so as letters I’m writing form words in your head,

it’s possible that they may not make much sense,

perused here and now in your own present tense.

Thus, their reading can cause you to ask yourself, why?

Then, while searching for answers, to look to the sky,

 the planets, the stars, and the expanse of it all,

so that when you look back, you might find yourself, small.

So small, in fact, that you can stand on each word,

as soft sounds found pleasing resound, and you’ve heard

all the words and the sounds that resound when said 

by those, one supposes, who live in your head.

Consider word rhythms, and what they can do 

in terms simply written, and rhymed just for you. 

Consider rhymes written, with words in between. 

Consider this content like you know what I mean.

Then, as you consider these things in your head, 

perhaps you'll take one more thing yet to be said

into consideration, as our course has been set. 

A plan has been hatched, and a wager is bet. 

Invest yourself now, and the attention you pay, 

to laughter hereafter, then be on your way.

Go Fish

Imagine yourself on a bay, in a boat; 

riding each swell as you sway while you float;

fishing and wishing away with each cast

that lines will soon find fish you’ve wished for, at last.

And when, now or then, such a fine fish is landed, 

imagine how far, if StarKist was your brand, did 

that one sorry Charlie, your fish, have to swim 

for you to catch on, reading this rhyme of him.

As you will see, there will be more suggestions 

regarding retarded things, like stupid questions.

Take them to heart, in friendship, and in jest. 

Well, that's just one more thing I'd like to suggest.

With respect to love, and why some people hate, 

there’s this one little thing I've been thinking of late. 

When I say 'in jest', do you hear, and ‘ingest’

the content, exactly, of what is confessed?

Can we still be friends, or will it end our beginning 

when you find something fishy is wished for by sending

essences in questions, suggesting the same, 

lest they cause indigestion by invoking their name,

like the fish, or the brand, or the stand that you take 

on the boat, still afloat, in this rhyme as you make 

your way through sea spray to the last pinned in line

to see if the sea has your fish yet defined?

 If you tell your friends about me, tell them how you think I am.

 Describe me like Angel would, “Frootloops, like Toucan Sam”.

 Then, tell them what I said when I say, “Who do you call friends

 when you are calling all your enemies, anemones with fins?”

 as if that means clownfish aptly describe who to oppose, 

and by suggesting, invest them in thought that means you chose

to wish those fish their endings by bending words in line 

like this. Of course, the mission of these fishy words is mine,

and what I mean by writing is to invite people to cast 

their lot, all that they’ve got, into an ocean of thought, vast 

and endless, saint and sinless, as each universe is made.

In essence, the quintessence of a children’s card game, played.

So, having played the game we’re playing, now you must decide 

here within this sphere, how universes will collide, 

because with each collision a decision must come and pass, 

regardless of which fish you wish for, tuna, trout, or bass.

Look

I'd like to show you something I've been working on for a while. 

Although it's basically just one thing, it may not be in a style 

that you are used to. Still, I think that if you give it half a chance,

you'll see what I mean when I say that, “In each given circumstance, 

only you will hear the syncopated rhythms marked by rhymes.”

Run with the ideas they spark, then contemplate the times

your eyes are fixed on explanations. Each word provides a voice. You see

a name and salutation. “Hi Corey” is a great choice for me.

Some call me Hi, short for Hieronymous, or Corey, if they prefer, 

because to either I will answer; and to their judgment, I’ll defer. 

Only they can say when they concur with what I've always said.

I wouldn't presume to speak for them to put ideas in your head,

but if you need a definition of a term that is in doubt,

I would suggest a good library dictionary. Check one out.

If all you really want to hear are more amusing words galore, 

then what I’d say is that ‘todays’ are full of hours, twenty-four,

and every minute you are in it is nearly spent like every beat 

that you can hear within this clearly stated versicle, replete 

with my suggestions to the questions that pertain to such events. 

So, if you're not astonished now, imagine a few minutes hence.

It's what I do. This is my flavor. I intend to edu-tain

with every word put here before you, of which fewer now remain.

 I'm the Hieronymous House poet, and thus equipped for self-defining 

with this ordinary language wherein terms in use are mining,

digging deep into your consciousness of context and content 

to clearly create a conception. Consequently, your consent 

to the idea that such cadences and rhymes portray a heart 

reveals how fortunate you are to think of this as such, 'Hi Art'.

My technique isn't perfect, but it's close to said perfection.

I hide subtle little hints in my 'subliminal suggestions'. 

They’re the kind of thing you’ll think about like I’ve often said before, 

“Just because you heard it, don't assume what lies in store!”

So, if you follow up relationships to every time and date, 

you'll see how things can be affected by peculiar twists of fate. 

Like hints that are subliminal, the root is quite sublime.

I add this twist of least resistance, written out in rhyme:

Just call me Hieronymous - Poet, Prophet, and Sage.

 Here, you are my audience. This page is my stage. 

I portend good fortunes and scents, while suggesting 

no fortunes come free, vis-à-vis one's investing.

You Must pay attention to glean any worth.

You Must pay respect to all others on Earth.

You Must be fair. As you see, there's a charge. 

For most it’s a pittance, but for some it’s quite large.

Watch your objections. Please, don't start a riot. 

To get the full impact, we need peace (and quiet). 

Though Must may sound mustily fashioned or stern, 

you’re free to choose just which lessons you’ll learn.

As if anyone cared that you do what you will. 

You’ve done it before. No doubt you do still. 

The attention you pay with respect to each Must 

relates in these statements as matters of Trust.

If you comprehend dividends as motific

of text, taste and temperature, to be specific, 

the form of a Fortune requires one two things:

 One-Follow the meter, Two-Listen. It sings

a sound you will hear lasting only a moment. 

Latch on to its concept. Allow that to foment. 

These rhymes are for you, one and all; every one 

invested with jests, and committed to fun.

All the rhymes here, and the odd words you see, 

pertain to one subject - Ha Ha ESP!

Sense Extra Perceptively. Soon, you will tell 

that Emergency Services Personnel,

and these doggerels, versed in your behalf,

are just what you need, an Emergency Laugh!

(As 707, I'm put to best usage

in verse, with terse reference to green eggs and Seussage.)

LOL! See, a phrase turned up funny.

  Laughing Out Loud means you’re right on the money! 

From origins as ancient than they are eponymous, 

I’m proud to present to you, Ha! Ha! Hieronymous!

My name, if you’ve heard, or may already know, 

refers laughingly to the line of Hiero. 

707/LOL is Palindromatical,

and sometimes ana and/or epi grammatical.

Perhaps this is that, or substantially more,

if you find worth in reading whatnot, or wherefore.

So, call me Hieronymous. Make me famous while you still can. 

Tell the world about some really silly little man

who writes for self-amusement. You may use these words to show 

exactly how I’m acting, so your audience will know

how stupid such a cupid-hearted person can be, viewed

as having no sense or tenseness; just one rightly relaxed dude!

I Run This Town

I run this town, I’ll have you know.

Although I tend to run real slow,

I run at dawn. I’ll run until dark,

from my front lawn, through Perryville Park

to Perry Point, and by the Pier

in a dense fog, when skies are clear.

So, speaking now for just a minute, 

as if my world had you within it, 

of where we'd be, my world and me, 

within this whispered poetry, 

and see that we'd be bound by just

 time, this rhyme, our faith and trust.

Each morning, I run myself blue in the face. 

I run myself all the way through the rat race. 

I run until I am completely out of breath,

and I’ve learned that I can run myself to death.

So stop right now, or follow through 

step by step. First one, then two 

feet advanced by chance or choice 

will give a focused mind its voice.

You may run, but you cannot Hyde, 

so park it here, and share the ride 

vicariously, as if Boston's Globe 

were projected upon your frontal lobe.

Just the facts, ma'am. Just the facts.

 Yesterday I wore short slacks, 

and knew I needed a new shirt. See,

the one I'd worn was torn and dirty,

so since I'm not a real bright fellow,

I picked a tight light shirt, quite yellow.

 In fact, it acts as an alert

to passers by. Why? My new shirt 

illuminates my gait, and jogs 

the sight of those who drive in fogs.

There are things I cannot say

due to events of yesterday.

I cannot say that you should run 

for love, or money, or just for fun.

I cannot say where you should go 

to get away from all you know.

I cannot say who, what, why, how 

you go. I surely don't know, now. 

All that I can say as one 

runner is, I have to run.

Nimble minds, accumulate. 

Cumulonimbus clouds crowd the sky,

as runners fly by, staccato cadenced, 

and sweet sweat fragrances the air. 

Somewhere on the ground, a sound

stops time in its tracks, and traces of faces

 are drawn on dented cement pavements. 

Curb your enthusiasm. Time marches on.