Parental Advisory

Hear Ye. Hear Ye. Here we propose to posit prose poetry
forming a form of continuous connectivity,
to communicate considerable contemplative reflectivity.

Simply put, we pose this where
prose poetry is what you’ll hear
when wondering where the time went
while reading such rhyme wonderments
as oft are wrought, and revealed thusly,
each whit of wit written Hieronymously.


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 ran until I am completely out of breath.
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 Boston's Globe
projects 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. 
Runners fly by, staccato cadenced,
as 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.