Sunday, December 26, 2010

What's my number?

I crawled out of my bed
At 0800 time
Now that was a good number
I knew that it was mine!

Not so.

Went shopping at a deli
In line I was ignored
But others had a number
I fumed and then I swore

I finally got a number
It was 42.
The clerk whispered with a smirk
That number's really you.

Not so.

Drove down to the Post Office
To mail a couple bills.
This was fast becoming
A contest of the wills.

They finally called my number
It was 103.
I thought how nice it sounded
My number that must be!

Not so.

Went shopping at the mall
My shirt was rather old.
So, I bought a new one
The clerk was very bold.

She asked me for my number
On my card of credit
That could be my number
But I'd soon forget it.


I took my old cell phone
To a kiosk in the square.
A kid slid up to wait on me
Tattooed with orange hair.

What was my cell phone number?
I didn't have a clue.
But did it really matter?
A cell phone isn't you!


I left the mall behind
And took off down the road
I got stopped for speeding
The cop looked like a toad.

Let me see your license
She barked, with eyes of sand.
Then she wrote my number
On the ticket in her hand.


I stopped to see my doctor
My head was hurting bad.
They said just write your number
On the insurance pad.

Please, I said, at my wit's end
I forgot my card.
Sorry, sir, then we can't help
We know that this is hard.


Being in great distress
I went to buy a car.
They had the nerve to ask
For my date-of-birthday card!

I'm ashamed to say
I screamed, then screamed some more!
What, I said, in heaven's name
Do you need that number for?


I went home and on the door
I saw 3179
I became excited,
That number must be mine!

But by half past four I had forgotten
And when I went to look for it
A thief had nabbed the sign!


Still feeling bad and very old
I climbed into my bed.
I was very, very cold
And still hurt in the head.

Then I heard a frosty voice
Call aloud my name
I want to know your number, son,
We're going to play a game.


I exploded furiously, said
I don't know, you mongrel pup!
Tell me what my number is! ...
Too late, he said, your number's up!

And everything went blank!

Copyright © 2010 by Jacob Anson.  All rights reserved.

Thursday, December 23, 2010

What would Jesus do...about the "war" on Christmas

Some say there's a war on Christmas.
Others say that's just not so!
Some say Santa's but a myth.
Some "Boo," and "Ho, ho, ho!"

Seems we've got ourselves a mess.
Folks are feeling sad and blue.
We should ask one little question,
What, you think, would Jesus do?

He'd not be seen at Wal-Mart stores,
Or walking up and down the mall.
He might go hiking in the woods,
To keep from climbing up the wall!

He might attend a jolly party,
And try to do the cha, cha, cha!
He wouldn't go to church, for sure.
He'd celebrate Hanukkah!

Poem copyright © 2006 and 2010 by Jacob Anson.  All rights reserved.

Thursday, December 16, 2010

The Would-be Spy from DHS (Department of Homeland Security)

Sitting at a corner table
Hidden in the back
His skin showed sort of sallow
His hair showed solid black.
The book that he was reading
Came from a secret shelf
In the White House library
He'd checked it out himself.

With hooded eyes he scanned the room
Searching secretly
But no one even looked at him
Knew his identity.
Wire glasses framed his nose
Hair fell in his eyes
He couldn't see so very well
But it was a great disguise.

Laughing females flitted by
Tossing heavy hair
Eyes of black and teeth of white
They didn't see him there.
But one would see him soon enough
A warrant he would serve
He'd find the curvy traitor then
If he could find his nerve.

Her crime was writing in a blog
About the president
She said he was a dunderhead
With brain like Pepsodent.
Now that's a great big no-no
Under the new laws
You can only write the truth--
The prez ain't got no flaws.

Everything was in the book
The Plan for Patriots
And those who fight the DHS
Are plainly idiots.
He found her name and where she lived
And took his gun and cuffs
He even stopped at church to pray
In case things got too rough.

But she was much too smart for him
And when he rang her bell
She was long gone out the back
He chased her, tripped and fell.
She left a note on which she wrote
That she was quite impressed
She thought him cute and said to call
Her at her new address.

Our would-be spy went sorta nuts
This sounded like a ploy
But she was quite a pretty girl
And he was, well, a boy.
So off he went, to apprehend
This fearsome criminal
This time she answered when he rang
Her clothes were minimal.

She said that he should come right in
And she would make a drink
And did he like her slinky gown
Or was it much too pink?
She took away his coat and hat
And then she took his gun
'Cause she was innocent you see
Just looking for some fun.

The DHS would never find
Their youthful would-be spy
He disappeared, was swallowed up
He left them high and dry.
But he's still out there with the girl
They're doing a lot of stuff
They've learned how to have a ball
With just one pair of cuffs.

Copyright © 2006 & 2010 by Jacob Anson. All rights reserved.

Tuesday, November 30, 2010

A Leafy Arbiter

Fallen down upon the ground
Shining in the sun
The leaf hangs on as autumn fades
A sign of things to come.

For winter beckons white and cold
The leaf turns parchment frail
Its red and gold dissolves into
A whiter shade of pale.

Yet seasons come and seasons go
And new life springs from old
Another leaf forms on a tree
Fearless, free and bold.

A metaphor for life itself
This leafy arbiter
Fraught with fragile certainty
Of who and what we were.

Photo © 2010 by Santa Fe Daily Photo
Poem © 2010 by Jacob Anson
All rights reserved

With many thanks to Randy at Santa Fe Daily Photo for his photographic inspiration.

Tuesday, October 26, 2010

An Elevated Scents of Smell

I watched the doors slide shut
Just after she slid in
She took up too much room
She really was quite thin.
I said hello to be polite
She didn't like my tone
Haughty like some royalty
She jabbered on the phone.

Suddenly I gasped for air
My throat began to close
She looked with great disdain at me
And then stuck up her nose.
I think she used a bottle full
'Least that's what I'd presume
And by God she's gonna kill me
With whiffs of her perfume.

I'll bet she works at Harrods
And wears a fancy gown
Does makeup on a stool
As people gather 'round.
Or maybe she just lacks
A serious sense of smell
And blithely on her way
She smells us all to hell.

I think, perhaps, a little drop
Or two behind the ear
Is plenty good enough
At anytime of year.
So watch what you put on
That goes for male folks, too
'Cause aftershave and lotions
Can smell like doggy do.

I'd like to ride what's called the lift
And manage to survive
And I don't want to stink and reek
Of Chanel No. 5.
So please have some compassion
Upon your fellow man
Remember just a dab or two
Is what good scents demands.

Copyright © 2006 and 2010 by Jacob Anson.  All rights reserved.

Wednesday, July 21, 2010

On The Steppe

On the steppe there
Is a wall
Not very wide
Not very tall.
But you cannot go
'Round that wall
It all seems
Rather odd.

To get from here
To over there
You have to climb
The wall ... that's
Shrouded in
A mystery,
Portends, perhaps
Of god.

A mystery; no name
Or face
It came before
A mystery that
Defies space
And time -

We must go from here
To there
So we must climb
The wall.
'Cause out there on
That lonely steppe
Is where we
Find ourselves.

But even as
we climb the wall
The mystery
Yet in the climb
We find ourselves

© 2006 and 2008 by Jacob Anson. All rights reserved

Monday, July 5, 2010

A New Religion in a Book

Some folks believe
Most anything
That's written in a
Even if it's
Written by
A chef who cannot

You can write
Of crazy things
Like gods up in the
And folks will say
It must be true
'Cause books just never

So, I am going to
Write a book
And I'll let you know right
I'm going to make a
Let me show you

I'll start a new
One with a brand-new
And like the other
I'll write it in a

I'll make it really
I won't have any
Just send me
Ten percent
Of all your money and your

The best part is my book
Will describe a
And how a million

When you die.

© 2006 and 2010 by Jacob Anson. All rights reserved.

Thursday, January 21, 2010

On Vacation

The wind and
surf and
sand and
like a glorious
collide at
to be
the catalyst
that sets
us free

From all that
The sweetness
and the light
we see
sets us
so we
with certain
aimless, shameless
can sing a song
just you
and me.

we will wake
and be
renewed and
midst our
duties still
be free
to live
and love

So thank you
wind and surf
and sand
and sea!

Copyright © 2006 & 2010 by Jacob Anson. All rights reserved.