Old Man’s Journal Juvenal (prose poem)

table d’hôte

I have an appetite to argue through dinner tonight. I might be indignant about a certain ingredient. Or run to ground the why of the underdone, or the reason for the off season fruit, vegetable, or that ersatz deep sea creature. 

And you always feature that wine, and that silverware, and wear your hair that way when you sport company coming china on a weekday, when it’s just, an us, repast.

And a different dessert was last served years ago on early 20th century crystal now pleading to be set Frisbee free, launched toward that fireplace; a possibility to Phoenix.

NaPoWriMo 5 April 2017


Dateline: Windy (Perpetual Rain) City

Sporting some retro homegrown graphics, the bottom banner goes back three puppies. But it’s utilitarian, as a click will flick you to some recent falderal posted here.

logonew1full-1-2And being that’s it’s April, I suspect the majority of the missives will be of a poetic nature. 30 for 30, and a poem a day for April and all that rot. I think it’s a riot to do and fine fun. You should try it, if you haven’t.

“My previous efforts through numerous runs of this poem a day April marathon, should be more than enough to cement my very own wing in “The Doggerel Hall Of Fame,” but I feel I have just enough energy to pad, with luck and in double digits, my already amazing number of Bad Poems.”

But experience suggest that politics and war and terrorism often steps all over the poesy pleasure, because in spring, bloodletting postures.



Somewhere someone plans
a spring offensive
somewhere someone young
will die
the old will be bled
and babies force marched
through a warmer gentler

Where bombs will concuss
bullets bloom
and snipers shape shift with
sudden green shoots

and headlines will seek
an approbate font

as the front opens
winter’s history revised

Day Two NaPoWriMo April 2013


I’m spry yet retired. I reside in the inner city of a major metropolitan area of the United States. I read politics. I watch baseball. I hum along with the tune. I June swoon, and moon the bad poem. Post here, are old and new. Opinions are my very own, except when wrong.

last legs 4 1xpad.com

sharing marginalia of the moment
with poesy pretensions on parade–
for over a decade

r.douglas & Snz

Doug does Twitter

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