Jack Pelham

When word of mouth fails
To ignite a movement
As you expected it should,
Keep in mind
That it is from the overflow
Of the heart that the mouth speaks.

In peaceful moments,
Even some pretty twisted people
Can tell the truth
And mean you well.

They are not completely broken.

When it comes to
Their drive to get what they want,
I would not put it past them
To orchestrate murders
Under the guise
Of stopping murders—

Why do they wait for the power
Of the Indwelling
To interact with their hearts and minds
When they have the inspired words
Of that self-same Spirit in print,
Wholly capable of working His power
Upon their inner beings?

You can make the many mistakes of judgment
That are germane to the painstaking process
Of solving an important puzzle completely—

Or you can make the one mistake
Of not trying to solve it.

The choices are up to you.

And then come the consequences.

Even the scholar
Runs the risk
Of missing the details
Or mistaking the connections.

He may do it less often,
But still, he does it.

The human mind
Has its vulnerabilities.

“Hatred” used to be a noun several centuries ago (when I was a kid), and “hate” was the associated verb. More and more people today use “hate” for both the verb and the noun.

Oh, and don’t forget the adjective form, as in “hate crime”.

Written in response to a Facebook friend’s suggestion for a hard-to-rhyme poem topic—the friend having pledged afterward to supply a drawing of said Platypus, which I have not yet seen, but am still patient about, because I’m cool like that.

by Jack Pelham

A disadvantaged platypus
Lived in a beaver’s world.
His classmates taunted, “Atta wuss!”
For he was yet ungirled.

But one day said the Beaver Queen,
“I think he’s kinda cute.”
And she went out right then and bought
The boy a mohair suit.

Written in reply to a rhyming challenge from a Facebook friend.

I sing to you, dear Orange,
Using rhymes, both true and strained.
I see you as a soringe
Shooting sugar in my veins.

But that’s not all, sweet Orange,
For I have more skill than this.
Yes, you are like the door hinge
On the door to sug’ry bliss.

You are to me a staple,
Which without I cannot do.
You’re sweeter yet than maple,
But you’re packed with fiber, too!

Perhaps I’ll write a poem a day.
My fans can say on what.
And I will then have found a way
To sit here on my butt.

The dollars, they’ll come pouring in
From fans both far and near.
They’ll clamor here, each verse to read,
And thank me oh, so dear.