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.

O Chaplains! My Chaplains!

We see the kettle circling 
out back. A black and purple ring 
descends. The end begins anew. 
Our lawn belongs to the venue.  

To be a nice man 
with such a fine house,
I do what I can. 
I'm not known to grouse,
or pigeon, or other fowl word, 
when my goose is cooking,
yet my poultry's absurd,
so thank you for looking.

Twinkle, little starlings. Sing!
Your songs belong to daylight. Bring
the notes that float my thoughts of the
bows you now allow me to see,
each bow a perch in a poet's tree.

Faster, pastors. Sing your songs.
People harken. Larks belong
in trees like these, and chests. Your jests
suggest these things. So, sing your best
jokes in spoken words, then rest.

Black of cloak with skin so pink,
your skinny legs look so funny. 
beak, then speak thy words of laughter!
Silly gooses. Let loose your gaffs for
seeing us here, happily ever after.