They storm the Earth and stun the Air,
A Mob of solid Bliss –
—Emily Dickinson
Stir some dust
And make some noise
A mob of happy
Girls and boys
Romp and stomp
And kick your heels
Listen how
Your body feels
Play and laugh
And squeal and shout
Bounce your feelings
All about
by Richard W. Bray
He leaves a trail of pickles and moss
And stones and sticks and taco sauce
A slapdash chain of dregs and dross
Cruel teachers and angry aunts
Sling a thousand bitter taunts
For Jay’s apparent nonchalance
Inside this squall of anarchy
Lurks a soul enchanted and free
Discard your spite and you could see
by Richard W. Bray
I’ve got a long list of real good reasons
For all the things I’ve done
—Willie Nelson
Chores
I didn’t do the dishes
Cuz the water’s awful mucky
And it wrinkles up my digits
And it’s really rather yucky
I did not rake the yard
Cuz I didn’t wanna blister
If you need a beast of burden
You should get my little sister
I did not clean my room
Cuz I’ll just mess it up again
It’s simply Sisyphean
Why can’t you comprehend?
Your nagging and your pleading
Make you sound like such a bore
Now fetch me up some vittles
And then finish all my chores
by Richard W. Bray
You can hoodwink. You can fluster
You’re a mighty gifted huckster
You’re a guy who likes to muddle
You’re a walking pile of trouble
You love to mystify and faze
Go find somebody else to daze
Better jump back on your saddle
I ain’t the kind of guy you addle
You won’t catch me in a snoozle
I refusal your bamboozle
You can baffle and confound
It won’t work when I’m around
Hang on to your hornswoggle
My mind ain’t fit to boggle
Your deception will not do
I’ve seen a thousand crooks like you
I ain’t gonna be your chump
You can bet your lying rump
by Richard W. Bray
When Hadley McNutter
Mumbles and Mutters
He makes the ground tremble
And gives me the shudders
This ogre from hell
Ain’t your typical tyrant
When Hadley explodes
He erupts like a hydrant
He tramples and tromps
Like a like a lumbering giant
He rumbles and romps
Like monster defiant
When Hadley is hungry
We both rush to feed him
Such a wonderful burden—
How much we need him
He gets what he wants
And I don’t mean maybe
It’s hard to believe
That he’s merely a baby
by Richard W. Bray
Round the rampant rugged rocks
Rude and ragged rascals run.
—W.H. Auden
Queasy koalas quarrel and quibble
Noisy gnus nag and nibble
Hefty horses heave and hoe
Shameless sheep shop and show
Playful pigs prance and preen
Careful cats cook and clean
Dancing dogs dally and drink
Thirteen thoroughbreds thank and think
Buoyant bunnies broil and bake
Rampant rhinos rush and rake
Slippery seals splash and splish
While wayward weasels wonder and wish
by Richard W. Bray
Annie’s destructful brother
Is a boogerypoopish mess.
Others have botherly brothers,
But Willie’s a vexsome pest.
Annie’s funtastic birthday
Was a jubilatious delight
Till Willie stealthed into her bedroom
Beneath the dimful light.
When the girls were finally sleepish
They detectified Willie’s disguise.
He was costumated in undies.
The girls were were horrorized.
Annie was fully rageistic.
Screamfully, she cried:
“Abandonate this monster.
He must be porchified.”
Her parents wisefully noted
That though they were temptified,
They’d be keeping her boisterly brother.
Annie felt beastish inside.
Richard W. Bray
I checked the desk
I checked the drawer
I checked the chair
I checked the door
I checked my suit
I checked my coat
I checked my truck
I checked my boat
Where can they be
Those blasted keys?
Where would I be
If I were keys?
I looked here
And I looked there
I even said
A little prayer
I looked sooner
I looked later
I even checked
My ‘frigerator
Did I put them in my pants?
Or did I leave them in my car?
They can run and they can hide
But they will not get very far
Richard W. Bray
My dad was moving boxes
He said, “Give me a hand”
I really need them both
What a curious demand
My boyfriend’s disappointed
Says his team got creamed
What were they doing at the dairy?
I guess that’s why he screamed
A person on the sidewalk
Asked me for some bread
But if I give him money
He could buy a meal instead
My neighbor said her brother
Gets all bent out of shape
He needs a chiropractor
Or perhaps some ankle tape
My friend got dressed up fancy
Said she’s gonna paint the town
Wouldn’t it make more sense
To wear a dusty gown?
I took my sister to the beach
She said, “Let’s catch some rays”
I didn’t buy this bikini
For fishing on the bay
Sometimes folks are careless
And their brains aren’t very keen
People talk so silly
Like they don’t know what words mean
by Richard W. Bray
It was advertised as a chance to have our poetry critiqued by a real live published children’s poet.
We were instructed to bring samples of our work.
So I paid $100 dollars to attend a half-day “poetry workshop” at a lovely private school located in lovely Pacific Palisades, California put on by the SCBWI (the Society of Children’s Book Writers and Illustrators).
Like the several women and one other man who showed up at eight AM that morning, I was percolating with the hope of discovery. This would be my Dear Mr. Henshaw moment when an authentic published children’s author was going to tell me that I had what it takes to succeed.
But the real live children’s poet who ran this seminar had no intention of soiling her fine artistic temperament by actually reading any our work herself. Instead, we were put into groups and instructed to pass our poems around and leave comments on each other’s work. I got this gem of a comment on my poem My Funny Farm: “Why don’t you try rewriting it without using rhyme?”
In order to kill the last half hour of the seminar without having to engage in a direct one on one conversation with any of us, the Poetess in Charge instructed everyone to place one of her belongings on our respective tables and then each of us was to write a poem about something someone else had supplied. We were given fifteen minutes to complete this task.
When the woman leading the seminar asked if anyone wanted to read, the women at my table insisted that I share mine. It got a raucous round of laughter, which did not please our instructor one bit. Here’s the poem I wrote that day:
Ode to a Homeopathic PMS Remedy
Cranky, puffy, angry days
Aren’t relieved too many ways
But a homeopathic remedy
Might be what it takes to see
That PMS won’t ruin my day
Now it’s time to go and play
Then I had a nice lunch on the beach in Malibu and went home.
by Richard W. Bray
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