Does the martian pilot frown
if top-guns glaze his radar blip?

Clown cowboy's ego smartin'
saloon blaze trumps shootin' hips.

Can lumbering brown bears drop turd
when out-of-sight tree falls aren't heard?

Is the steam stream just wet hot air
if boiling pots don't warrant stare?

A toad-stool is a frog topped mushroom
without a prim prince kissing it's bloom.

Will the poet's murmuring blood pump shrink
with clarion lines writ in faded ink?

Me too.

Reading this tale reminiscent of old fashioned romance tinged my blue eyes with a little green. Excellent writing, Ladywind.

Custom built. Throttle response synced to the moments heat. Brakes calibrated to regulate momentum without lockup. Styled to showcase the owners aura, fitted to complement the passengers contours.

Indeed, and I'm happy to have you aboard.

Nah... the engineer was taking a nap in the caboose.

I'm glad seeing your fruity name in the poem gave ya a grin.

That's kind of you to say, thanks. I appreciate your suggestions, it's unknown to me what the future holds.

Once I held Jewel Kilcher in my palms.
I'd seen her around and heard her yodels,
her hands are small or so she says
mine are big and often gripping wrench's
and coffee mugs and my penis.
It surprises me to still have a library card
guess librarians don't inspect under black light.
Alaska's blizzards then Hollywood's swelter
she traded her mittens for sunscreen,
she didn't see those bed sheets in daylight
or she wouldn't have laid her guitar down
in those motel rooms she wrote poetry in.
The two dates I've had in twelve years
didn't lead to a motel bed or second dates,
met a Trinidadian librarian - she's my friend
she told me to check out Jewel's book
it's the only poet's print I've fondled;
at least dating site folks like my writing.

Note: Holding Jewel Kilcher in my palms is a metaphor for reading her book of poetry "a night without armor".

Hands

Thanks everyone, I'm pleased you like it.

I came up with the portmanteau blending the words technology and innovative as a business name years ago, when I made and sold mp3/mp4 player accessories.

Rather than think up other usernames, It's been convenient to use technovative as a default username.

It's unusual enough that it's rarely already taken.

Juggle an apple a lemon and a pear
shimmy to the fridge, drum the door like a snare.

Rotate grilling wieners with pinching tongs,
spin around and bang the pot lid gong.

Crack it like a whip to shoo a tarantula
or flip flapjacks with the chef's spatula.

Stir in figs dates and anise star
strum the wooden spoon play air guitar.

Fill the kitchen with a yummy smell
sing with the tunes and ring the dinner bell.

Cucumber on the vine
plumped ripe for pickle
a wand to clean jam
from the toe of her camel
peeled back skin
sculpts fleshy Adonis
sliced in discs thin
to draw puff from her orbits
diced in cubed chunks
then tossed with crisp lettuce
filled with garden fruit
she's no room
for a farm boy

Revision:

Chalky white blisters ruptured
from yellow-pine clapboards
skinning it's grizzled facade,
springs slammed creaking hinges
that swung the screen door
dragging the stoop
of my childhood home.

Beer perfumed the air
nicotine glazed the walls
buttressing the sofa and table,
my sister and I tended bar.
The old man hunkered here
slumped over an ashtray
and crossword puzzles.

Pellets fell from termite tunnels
in the trim boards,
newspaper and cardboard boxes
fell through the rotting floor.

Powdered milk in mother's cupboard
and "government cheese" in her fridge
fattened my cheeks and core.

Winter's chill crept around the bones
of this decaying crypt,
a swallowing mountain of cotton and rayon
buried me in my resting place.

Thank you, my fellow poet.

I really appreciate you all checking it out and sharing your thoughts.

Thanks much, Robin.

Thanks very much, miss Muffin.

Chalkboard talisman glyphs,
tic-tac-toe hangmen
pitting children against
propaganda posters
touting immigrant born famine
crossing borders
turning cornstalk fields into wasteland.

Filmstrip lessons teaching of
scheming coyotes building pitfalls
for native tourists
driving four wheeled roadrunners
motoring tumbleweed littered highways.

Cartoon boogeymen,
hunted by plastic green army men
toasting marshmallows
over a book burning pyre.

Just in case the Crow
hasn't gobbled 'em all up,
I'll leave gate passes
for those tinnitus and malaria wielding
jive turkey pricks.

If a crowd of Dracula bugs
weathered Kurt's teen spirit libido,
send those cortisone selling
proboscis erect itchy (censored) to my show.

Blood sucking parasites - the lot
not tone deaf crickets
or a rank judging bot,
just - a buzzed mosquito choir
no bass popping Flea but
songs played in key
with a poet bards lyre.

See these songs for reference:

If it Makes You Happy
Smells Like Teen Spirit
Give it Away