Don't Give a Damn About the Dust!

It's funny how we'd worry 'bout
Some things when we were young.
We cooked and cleaned and washed the clothes,
Our work was never done!

And God forbid if company
Should suddenly arrive.
'Cause if the house was in a mess
We thought that we would die!

We worked all day at what we did
Then fell asleep in bed;
To toss and turn and worry 'bout
All the work ahead.

Now suddenly we've gotten old;
Decided to retire.
We figured these were years of gold
What more can we desire?

We've had enough of working hard
Of slaving every day.
We're gonna take it easy now
So this is what we say:

If the house ain't clean enough
We hope that you'll adjust!
'Cause you should know we just don't care,
Don't give a damn about the dust!


© 2006 and 2011 by Ansohn and Lowell A. Anderson
Image copyright © 2011 by Lowell A. Anderson and its licensors.

Penny for a poem

I'd write a poem

For a penny

But I haven't

Written many

That cheaply

Before.

Still, a penny

Is a penny

Said the man

Sitting next to me

With eyes

Upon the floor.

So I wrote a bunch

Of poems

For people

Passing by

And some gave

Me a dime.

By noon I'd

Made five dollars

And maybe

A bit more

I felt rather

Like a whore.

I gave the money

To the man with

Eyes upon 

The floor.

It was quickly spent

At the liquor store.

© 2011 by Jacob Anson.  All Rights Reserved.

Photograph courtesy of Dan Jay at Thousand Word Photography

Photosynthesis

Spring connives

With Mother Nature

To drape the land

In forest green

Gracing hills

With trees

So lean

And full

Standing tall

As Shady sentries

Guarding earth

Photosynthesizing

Our rebirth.

© 2011 by Jacob Anson.  All Rights Reserved

Photo courtesy of Brattcat

Love in Tuscany

[Photo of Tuscany courtesy of Bonjour Luxembourg]

This poem is for Cezar and Leia


Love in Tuscany


There was a young couple
From Luxembourg
Who decided to vacation
In Tuscany.
They put on their clothes
Including their pants - for
This was the home
Of the Renaissance (Italian)!


They took bunches 
of cameras
Guidebooks and
Money
And set off to check out
Old cities and shrines
Both happy as larks
The man and his "honey."


They'll never forget
This time together
Dinners and wine and
Delicious weather.
And when they grow old
Sit sipping their tea
They'll speak of their love
And of Tuscany.


Copyright © 2015 by Jacob Avram/Lowell A. Anderson.  All rights reserved.

The Gospel of the Easter Bunny

Back by popular demand, is the Gospel of the Easter Bunny. This poem, happily, is becoming an annual exercise in piety.


The Book of Heaven's Hare

It is a hare-raising tale.
Sorta sad, sorta funny.
For once upon a time
There appeared a special bunny:
Who brought the people joy
And taught them to have fun;
Yet even as they laughed and danced
His life became undone.

An archaeological dig
In lower Percydocyair
Unveiled the previously unknown
Book of Heaven's Hare.
Significantly the book was found
On one foggy Easter morn;
On the very day they say
That Heaven's Hare was born.

In deciphering this Gospel text
Scholars have made clear,
Heaven's Hare was neither sex
That's why he was so dear.
Women loved him, so did men
And children loved him too.
Just watching him hop around
Made them feel like new.

Every other week or so
He'd gather everyone around.
And he would teach that heaven
Was a happy hopping ground.
And everyone could go there
If they would just forget
Their lust for eating animals
And started eating carrots.

These lessons were so well received
They got to be a habit.
And all the people came to call
The hare their Ravi Rabbit.
He spoke of the importance
Of tending to the gardens;
To see that all the vegetables
Were gloriously resplendent.

But then one day some hunters
Carrying great big guns
Told Heaven's Hare he'd better go
Back to where it was he came from.
But Ravi Rabbit stood his ground
He wasn't even scared.
He told them throw your weapons down
For I am Heaven's Hare!

They didn't throw their weapons down
They drew a bead on him.
He took off hopping out of town
Things were getting pretty grim.
They pulled their triggers all at once
The air exploded sound.
And when the smoke had disappeared
The hare was not around!

All the people ran to see
If he was dead and gone.
The children sobbed tearily
And broke out in a song:
Oh Heaven's Hare, Oh Heaven's Hare
We love you O dear heart.
We'll tend your garden faithfully
Til this life we depart.

Suddenly a voice, a cry.
"I see, I see the Hare.
"He flew away into the sky;
"There he is, there!"
But no one else could see the bunny.
Heaven's Hare was gone.
Something though was very funny,
Or very, very wrong.

The children saw them first
And shouted out for joy.
Strewn along the bunny's path
Were brightly-colored toys.
Then a girl name Mary
With long and strong, good legs,
Ran into a meadow full
Of brightly-colored eggs!

"Ravi Hare! Ravi Hare!"
All began to chant.
For they believed in Heaven's Hare
And they were adamant.
Then another miracle occurred;
The eggs had multiplied.
And everyone realized Heaven's Hare
Had never, really died!

Thank goodness they discovered
This Easter Bunny gospel.
'Cause lots of folks alive today
Have become infidels.
They long ago gave up belief
In an egg-laying Heaven's Hare.
And it is such a great relief
To have the truth laid bare.

So Heaven's Hare still lives.
His Easter eggs abound.
And every single brand-new spring
You'll find them all around.
Read the story once again
Of happy Heaven's Hare.
The lives of those who do believe
Is eggscelent, I swear!


Copyright 2006 & 2008 by Jacob Anson.
Image copyright 2006 & 2008 by Jacob Anson and its licensors. All Rights Reserved.

More Memories Than My Heart Can Hold

[The title of this poem and the above photo comes from and is used with the permission of Rose at Pics and Pieces.  Thank you so much, Rose!  Please check out her blog here.]

More Memories Than My Heart Can Hold

They cleanse me like the falling rain

Awash with joy, sadness, pain

Softly touch my heart again

Rehearsing what my life has been.

I read the letters, faded, old

Put away so long ago

Saved for reasons I don't know

But I was young and brave and bold...

Knowing not of future days

When ancient script

Would rescue to now resurrect

Dreams and friends and memories.

I touch them and the aged paper

Crinkles, crackles, 'tis a vapor

As I gently smooth the words

Written when I'd live forever.

Or so I thought when but a youth

Mistakenly, but still uncouth

And now, older and much wiser, too

I need those memories of you.

And other friends and of the times

Both good and bad and in between

We knew it all except the fact

That things aren't always as they seem.

And thus, I hold them in my hands

Gently, as to not disturb

The spirit of the distant scenes

The memories and what they mean.

It's hard to go there once again

To life the way it was back then

I've found that like a valued coin

Memories are tough to spend.

As I sit here on the floor

I'm feeling glad and sad and old

I touch the letters for there I find

More memories than my heart can hold.

Copyright © 2011 by Jacob Anson.  All Rights Reserved.

Of the Sun and Melting Snow (The Sun Was Mine)

[Photo courtesy of Brattleboro photo blog]

The funky shapes of

Melting snow

Depend upon the

Ebb and flow

And how residual

Water goes.

And, of course,

Upon the sun

The warmth of which

Was such great fun

Way back in 

Prehistoric times

When I was born

And I could claim

The sun as mine!

Copyright © 2011 by Jacob Anson.  All Rights Reserved.

On hiatus...for a few weeks

Snowstorms and Truth

  The world passes white

Before my eyes.

Sight is burdened by

Snowy lies.

Still, I trudge on

Through blinding flakes.

Seeking the truth

Living mistakes.

In time it will clear

The snow will be gone.

I'll see for myself

The right and the wrong.

That is my hope.

That is my prayer.

When I come to the end

I'll find truth there.

© 2011 by Jacob Anson.  All Rights Reserved.

Our special thanks to Olivier Perrin of Evry, Essone, France, for his gracious permission to use the above photo.  Please check out Monsieur Perrin's beautiful photo blog here.

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.

So...

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!

So...

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.

So...

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.

So...

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?

So...

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
3179
And when I went to look for it
A thief had nabbed the sign!

So...

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.

Well...

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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
Before.
A mystery that
Defies space
And time -
Forevermore.

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
Remains.
Yet in the climb
We find ourselves
Mysteriously
Reclaimed.

© 2006 and 2008 by Jacob Anson. All rights reserved