so many times
so many ways
i hurt you
for what I am
and who
i want to be
i devour
i disrupt and
i endure
my hunger
slashes you
it nibbles me
a thousand times
i can say
i’m sorry
but that’s
a stupid song
i sing for me
by Richard W. Bray
We have what it takes to set you free
Money and bullets and boots and blood
We’re everything that you want to be
The model of modern society
Wash away fossils in crimson flood
We have what it takes to set you free
Inside you is a another form of me
We’re putting our values out to stud
We’re everything that you want to be
We’re the glory of all humanity
So embrace your liberation, Bud
We have what it takes to set you free
Steaming hot piles of Democracy
Fashioning our dominion of mud
We’re everything that you want to be
Bombs build dreams like factories
Shimmering cities on a hill of crud
We have what it takes to set you free
We’re everything that you want to be
by Richard W. Bray
Sorrow seems more general than it did, and not the estate of a few persons, since the war began; and if the anguish of others helped one with one’s own, now would be many medicines.
Suffer, squirm, and die
I hope your life is hell
Your hurt is my elixir
I’m doing pretty well
Your torment is my tonic
Your pain is my success
I pray for mass affliction
I feed on your distress
Your agony refreshes
And fills my world with joy
The cure for all that ails
Is to damage and destroy
Misery rejuvenates
It whitens every stain
All of my misfortune
Is abolished in your pain
by Richard W. Bray
In the dirty grubby grime
Is where I like to spend my time
Nothing feeds the living blood
Like sloppy teeming murky mud
I genuflect and praise and bless
The sullied sloppy sultry mess
A boggy swamp rejuvenates
The muck is where life germinates
Terrified of nature’s touch
Are folks who like to bathe too much
You’ll be inert and none the wiser
With too much soap and sanitizer
Deliver me from points pristine
The antiseptic and the clean
Spotless dreams cannot console
The barren sparkling stainless soul
by Richard W. Bray
Fresh and springy
Sunny day
Flowers pushing
Up to say
“Live your
Happy-spangled day
And mosey on
Your special way”
Burst it out
And don’t be coy
Smell the colors
Live the joy
Be a playful
Bouncy boy
The universe
Will be your toy
by Richard W. Bray
I ate your lunch, but don’t you see?
You left it right in front of me
I’m sorry that you’re feeling cross
I’m sorry but you’re not my boss
All my friends thought it was funny
When I dipped your phone in honey
I’m sorry you can’t take a joke
I’m sorry you’re a stodgy bloke
I’ll raise some hell and make a fuss
I’ll fart and belch and shout and cuss
I’m sorry if you think I’m rude
I’m sorry you’re a silly prude
As long as everyone is free
I’ll be the man I want to be
I’m sorry you’re hung up on rules
I’m sorry you were raised by fools
by Richard W. Bray
Hate is compass
Hate is my staff
Anguish and squalor
Just make me laugh
Hate is my heart
Hate is my rose
I build my existence
On what I oppose
Hate is my harvest
Hate is my seed
I live to disfigure
And see people bleed
Hate is my passion
Hate is my hope
I bathe in its glory
It cleanses like soap
Hate is my raiment
Hate is my gear
War is my mother
My father is fear
Hate is my Rock
Hate is my creed
My faith is dynamic
It grows like a weed
by Richard W. Bray
Those people loved their children too?
Afghanistan and Viet Nam
Pardon me; I never knew
Now they’re just a mass of goo
Or cinders left from firebombs
Those people loved their children too?
Lives destroyed and bodies strewn
Interrupting morning calm
Pardon me; I never knew
They’re savages, what can you do
But kill them all with robots bombs?
Those people love their children too?
Are they just like me and you?
Earnest dads and doting moms?
Pardon me; I never knew
I’ve been told; it must be true
They’d kill us all without a qualm
Those people love their children too?
Perhaps someday we’ll have a clue
Perhaps we’ll send them love and alms
Perhaps we’ll love their children too
Pardon me; I never knew
by Richard W. Bray
Why are handwoven baskets so lovely? Because human beings have an inborn hunger for beauty. And just as it is impossible to separate the utilitarian function of handicraft from its artistic function, the inherent beauty of the sounds and rhythms of words cannot be severed from the practical application of language.
That’s why everyone who speaks is a poet.
Just as a canary cannot read music, speakers of English needn’t study linguistics in order to employ rhyme, rhythm, assonance, and alliteration in their everyday speech.
The sportscaster is a poet when he says:
THAT BALL is OUTta here.
Instead of saying:
Chris Davis just hit another homerun.
And the adman is a poet when he writes:
BURGers are BETter at BURGer TOWN.
Instead of saying:
The chefs at Burger Town cook delicious burgers.
And the schoolteacher is a poet when she says in singsong:
PUT your PAPErs in the PACKet.
Instead of saying:
The assignment should be placed inside your homework folder.
And W.H. Auden is a poet when he tells us that the lover is
UNDer an ARCH of the RAILway
Instead of saying that the love smitten fellow is located
Underneath the elevated train tracks
Three-Syllable Words
We create poetry by collocating different types of words. And many of my favorite words have three syllables. (I have an unprovable theory that three-syllable words are the coolest words in the English language.)
There are three types of three-syllable words: Dactyls, Amphibrachs, and Anapests. Here are some examples:
Dactyl (The first syllable is stressed.)
Wonderful
Beautiful
Happily
Musical
Satisfy
Halibut
Excellent
Matterhorn
Saturday
Popular
Amphibrach (The second syllable is stressed.)
Accepted
Regardless
Terrific
Amazement
Exhaustion
Persistent
Reunion
Electric
Horizon
Anapest (The third syllable is stressed.)
Incomplete
Misinformed
Unemployed
Understand
Interrupt
Comprehend
Unafraid
Absolute
Kangaroo
by Richard W. Bray
Life is out to get her
It happens all the time
It can never be misfortune
It has to be a crime
Never try to tell her
That pain is all around
Her suffering is special
She wears it like a crown
Everything is tragic
For Valerie Victeema
She had a bad day
It was worse than Hiroshima
The trouble she’s seen
Everyone must know
She’s fishing for some pity
Everywhere she goes
Cry, complain and whimper
Grumble, bitch and groan
Valerie’s existence
Is a never-ending moan
Everything is tragic
For Valerie Victeema
When her toilet overflowed
She reported it to FEMA
by Richard W. Bray
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