You look like one big freckle
The way that you are covered
From your head down to your toes
One end to the other

In the tint, shade, and color
Blending perfectly
Pink in pigmentation
All points in between

You look like you're from Florida
Sporting the finest tan
With not an inch of acreage left
In epidermis land

If freckles told a story
In all their sun drenched glory
You would be the greatest read
Of that you have no worries

Who is this Ja
Sean Hunt did ask
So I will tell you
This is my task

He’s a silly little man
Without any hair
His teeth are all gone
But he doesn’t care

He wears tiny glasses
Because he can’t see
They make him look cute
If you ask me

He writes some BOEMS
And thinks he is funny
But that hasn’t made
Him, any money

He writes WIZDUMBs too
And feels he is wise
But he has not yet
Won any prize

He makes up songs
And composes the tune
But won’t be on radio
Any time soon

Ja is that poor
Odd foolish man
Who just runs around
Does what he can

He’s the Polish version
Of that old grandpa
Just in his case
He is the Ja

He is in name
An old Polish, Jadek
I’m spelling it wrong
But what the heck

So there you have it
He’s no one of note
He’s not even famous
He’s just, an old goat
BOEMS BY JA 79

If the heart guards love and purity,
And the brain controls intellect,
What doth, I ask of you, reside within the kidney?

Not rhyme, nor reason, asketh thee,
('Tis true, I must confess) but why
Deny its place to the kidney?

Power embodied in the arms, you'd see
Within a man, immediately,
But it seems, unfortunately,
That none respect the kidney!

For wherein doth cleanliness stay?
Surely in the mind somewhere, shorely lock'd away
And what of pride and greed, if I may,
Inquire where they rest today?

They lie in the foul'd heart, entombed for eternity.
So what attribute, dear reader, can attribute
A shrine within the kidney?

I used to work with a guy
A good friend of mine
He was as sharp as anyone I knew
Nobody's fool at all
With laser eyes and brain
He missed nothing
A hard and shrewd man was he

In his slightly younger days
He had been a member of the Samurai
The local biker gang
He used to go around
With a dead mouse sewn
To the shoulder of his leather jacket
Doing the things that bikers do

One day we were hand packing
Half a dozen or so of us
Working quietly, for once
All of us elsewhere in our heads
It's the only way to cope with the boredom
Steve was next to me and I heard him
Singing to himself unaware of listeners
And what was this shrewd hard man singing?
"Milly Molly Mandy as sweet as sugar candy....."

                                              BY Phil Roberts

Oh Cyrano, dear Cyrano
Monsieur, de Bergerac
Your nose was big, yes really big
Immense, “la tabernac”

You stuck it in, a love affair
And wrote, Roxanne some prose
She fell for it, to the extent
That then, she Christian chose

All those years, you pined for her
And wrote Christian, some more
But in the end, it wasn’t him
But the letters, she’d adore

So you were left, without her love
As if, it was to be
And it’s your prose, which did you in
How stupid, could you be

Before Roxanne, realized you lied
A log, did hit your head
You sadly came, to your demise
And your love, remained unsaid

And so, the moral of your story
Now, comes sadly to its close
Remember to be careful
Where you stick, your big fat nose
BOEMS BY JA 74

Four lines cannot constitute poetry
No imagery, no metaphor
And despite the immense feeling behind it
This is not a poem

nothing is as freeing
as aimless wandering
*i am free