Poems by poetrandy

Scotch Whiskey

Scotch Whiskey is fine,
yet I really prefer mine.
One malt or faithfully blended,
corn mash is what God intended

In Kentuck or Tennesee, my ancestors
found a way to escape revenuers.
Corn was freely at hand,
it seemed to cover the land.

Moonshine to some, it's called,
it's illegal, if caught you're jailed.
No royal warrants to guard,
just making it's so hard.

I'll tell you Scots blokes,
Americans are folks,
who love to drink, too.
So let that show you.

We don't have pubs here,
of that it seems queer.
We also drink beer,
enjoy whatever you hold dear!

- poetrandy -

May 25, 2008

© 2007 - All Rights Reserved R. H. Roberts

What Would Allen Do?

Sitting here in the almost black,
darkened little room,
my wife calls her study,
by the flower print hide-a-bed,
so darn uncomfortable, too;
thinking I'm going blind,
can barely see the whitish screen;
the computer thinks better,
faster than I do on this snowy dark moon-lite night.

Poetry is nice,
it beats drinking one's self blind!
Words come easy when inspired
by lovely early morning sunrises
with the little birds chit-chit-chitting,
the older quail guarding their covey
and the young'uns -- the snow lightly falling this morn
in soft watery clumps so white, wet, wispy.

This mouse and keyboard drives me insane -- it's really making mistakes
with my perfect big fingers keying the keys.
This PC so seemingly, silly and slow
will drive me back to that perfect
little, light, lovable MacBook on My Desk.
Ginsberg just entered my thoughts
and I can vaguely imagine him with a PC
instead of one of his old scribbled upon scruffy journals.
What would Allen do with it on a crazy snowed in at-home, lonely night like tonight?

- poetrandy -

December, 2007

© 2007 - All Rights Reserved R. H. Roberts

Writing in the Wind

The wind blows away the leaves;
The wind allows birds to fly;
The wind blows in the snow;
The wind allows hawks to soar.

In the wind, our poetry
is too often blown away.
Poets may write and compose,
they are so rarely read.

The wind blows many things.
It is said that the wind scatters
the ashes of the dead.
Is that happening to our poems?

- poetrandy -

Revised January, 2008

© 2007 - All Rights Reserved R. H. Roberts