She Wants To Be My Personal Shopper: Romantic Country And Western Email Song

Personal Shopper 008The pretty girl
in the satin dress,
starts mocking me me
when I don’t look my best.
She doesn’t care I’ve been out
workin’ up the land.
Tryin’ to feed my family;
doin’ what I can.
She thinks she knows best
how a man should look.
She subscribes to GQ,
but that’s not my style book.
So how can she be
a personal shopper for me?
She can’t match my faded blue jeans
with my v-necked Ts.
She’ll try to dress me up;
‘cuz she knows I’m handsome but…
How can she be
a personal shopper for me?
I’ll have to admit
I can clean up real nice.
When I’m not in my work clothes
I make the women look twice.
Yup, most women say
my tux makes me looks great.
Maybe not 007.
But certainly 008.
But I’m not into
what lots of women say.
I’m a one woman man
and I like it that way.
So why would she be
a personal shopper for me?
She can’t match my v-necked Ts
with my faded blue jeans.
She may try to dress me up;
she knows I’m handsome but…
How can she be
a personal shopper for me?
She’d like dress me up;
but looking good for her’s enough…
So maybe, privately,
she’ll shop personally for me.
Or maybe, privately,
she’ll dress
to impress
only me.

Her Last Son: A Birthday Gift — Revolutionary IMprov Free Verse Poem

I was IMing my youngest son, and the conversation turned toward what he could do for his mother’s upcoming birthday. I wrote this as a prompt for his music.
Happy Birthday,
IFK.

She was surprised/
when I came./
Unexpectedly/
a blessing in her/
age,/
a comfort, /
one more step/
back/
into her golden-haired/
youth./
Stong I became,/
and protected her/
as she guided me,/
shielding each other/
from life’s awful realities./
She always lifted/
and loved/
and supported/
and guided/
and nurtured/
and believed./
And now that I’m /
gone,/
she still does./
And she will always/
pray/
for me,/
because I/
am her,/
and hers,/
alone.

Where I Shall Not Go: Revolutionary Blogging Sonnet

Yellow-shirtied poet on a UTA Front Runner -- Orem Station Feb 2014I shall not, today, go to classes
where old men wittily incite the masses
to laugh, with fake spirituality,
at jokes too oft said inappropriately.
I shall not go later to dessert
with those who smile, but often hurt
with backstabbing comments and bad advice,
(thought they’re only guilty of trying to be nice.)
I shall write poetry instead;
allowing sweet muse to clear my head.
As the train’s gentle rhythm rocks me to and fro,
into the joy of my creative mind I shall go.
For it is there, when I’m most dazed and confused,
that I can find my kindest refuge.