Author: lbstowe

These sad & sullied pitiful creatures.
The ones we all love to hate in features.

What is Count Dracula’s favorite blood type?
Are the Werewolf & Mummy stupid ripe?

My rosy recall of classic monsters…
Much like Gotham’s Families of Mobsters.

We do love to love & we love to hate.
Edward Scissorhands must not masturbate.

Whatever the ridiculous premise…
People love a redeemable menace.

Of the “Bully Pulpit” I’ve heard for years.
It’s never been any more real than fears.

Yet, now, it’s the favored practice today.
Blaming fringes serves political play.

The meek are not uplifted or aided.
Even bold bright margins, now, feel hated.

Their main goal: is that we’ll do it for them.
At each other’s throats; destruction’s golem.

Do your best, be kind, helpful & grateful.
Take away the ammo used by the hateful. 

I do a lot with what little I’ve got.
I can do this because I’m me; you’re not.

Though, perhaps you have the same thing inside?
That thing that shows you horizons are wide?

There’s plenty of room there for planting flags.
Who’ll even make it but hobblers & hags.

I’ve always been privy to survival…
Also, tricks that guarantee revival.

I have aim, stories & my trusty wit.
I stand on horizons…the comeback kid.

Sadly, rebellion, now, is kindness.
Clear away fogs & cure their blindness.

Perform small miracles every day.
Random acts of mischievous play.

Serve the looks that they would never dare.
Give to them each brand new sparkling cares.

Push the envelope & clean up spills.
Be the soulful nourishment that fills.

Look at the people that others can’t.
Each act of service a seed we plant.

She said I was “bona fide”.
You know lady never lied.

She said I was, “one of us”.
No more need for feeling “plus”.

Just a core family member…
With a sock in December.

Wait while edicts trickle down.
Spread throughout our fertile ground.

Love & hope’s blooms are tender.
Time overgrows pretenders.

Hope that chilly hearts will melt.
Why?…When we know Love’s been dealt.

Most of my life has been played to a modal tune.
A lovely little song nailed down by misfortune.

It flits along with a confidence unfounded.
Trips, or falls, or slips do not long keep me grounded.

Soon, I am off like a shot; whistling all the way.
Still, jaunty bouncing…no heed to obstacles laid.

Possessed by a folksy pluck from…I know not where.
Floats me from life’s whirlpools & sweetens fetid air.

Chin up clunking thru it all…each third step, a slip.
I just laugh at life’s bullies. Then, I write my quips.

Much of life is ticking a box.
Greetings, steering & turning locks.

Ritual defines every move.
Dance around tasks with nowt to prove.

Days broken down to fifteens & halves.
Every route now a beaten path.

Pacing tracks in the deepest shag.
How will you climb out of that crag?

Try changing course once in a while.
Run from a life lived single file.

Sacred mounds of magic dirt.
Holy water, just a squirt.

Seeds of sorrow, seeds of guilt.
Look at what belief has built.

Groves of pain & trees of crime.
Growing orchards over time.

Blooms & fruits to pick when ripe.
Trauma’s kids next down the pike.

Hope they heal what wounds they see…
Sort the rest in therapy.

The good old days are now.
It makes the mind go “WOW”.

Those who pine for the past…
Are the ones who place last.

Those who see the future…
In its birth might feature.

Yet, those who pine for now…
Are blessed with higher brow.

Now’s seekers know the score.
Now is always worth more.

We’re so much more than fabulous.
Reductive rude & fatuous.

Some of us are really boring.
Can’t say “fabulous” when snoring.

Some of our number hard to spot.
Some are “haves” & some are “have-nots”.

Many are poor & some are rich.
The most fabulous don’t care which.

Glitter spangled rainbows in piles…
Forget Fabulous; I’ll take Wiles.