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Afterlife Daydream

By and by,

When I die,

My biggest hope,

Is to become a Ghost.

 

As death does not end life,

Becoming a Ghost,

I could live forever,

Causing harmless strife.

 

Yes when I die,

That’s what I want most,

Is to become a Ghost.

 

If I was a Ghost,

What would I do?

You bet your ass,

I would haunt you.

 

I’d have to first be sure,

To hunt for those who once wronged me,

Work before play,

You know what they say.

 

Revenge I would seek,

You bet I would find you,

Then what I endured,

You yourself would experience,

No less than times two.

 

After retribution has been inflicted,

An eye for an eye,

To all the mean guys,

This life after death,

Would be a shit ton of fun,

Forever and ever,

Until the afterworld’s end.

 

I’d do things like lace the tea,

Of an overly virtuous person,

With just a little bit of whiskey,

For absolutely no reason,

And I’d make it a point,

To change someone’s Christmas decorations,

To some meant more for the Halloween season.

 

Just humorous pranks,

Such as switching the lights off and on,

At the home of some skank,

Or stopping an elevator,

With a haughty person inside,

Scaring them so they’d scream,

And wound their pride.

 

I’d execute tricks kind of creepy,

Like screw with a bartender,

When their back is turned,

I’d uncover all the bottles,

At some popular Tiki,

Next I’d drain the gas tank to strand,

A customer there who’s perverted and freaky.

 

Only time will tell,

If I get to become,

What I’d like most,

If I get to become a Ghost.

 

I bet if it’s here I stay,

So much fun will be had,

Years will go by like days.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Outstanding Ornament

Back in the 16th century,

These people in Germany,

Their unbusy minds,

Were a little bit loopy,

And so they thought up Me.

 

Me, the Christmas Tree,

The one small piece of forest,

That you enjoy making pretty.

 

For years I’ve been growing,

And I’m just the right size,

Now the ground’s frozen,

And I wait,

To be the one chosen.

 

Mistletoe is festive,

And wreaths can be splendid,

Various other evergreen trimmings,

They too have their place,

But the highest honor,

Is reserved for me,

Me, the Christmas Tree.

 

So many traditions include me,

No matter where you go,

It’s me you will see,

Me, the Christmas Tree.

 

I see a man he is coming,

Wielding saw and axe,

He is walking my way,

Oh please tell me that this is my day,

The day I get chosen.

 

Luck was with me,

I’m chosen,

It’s finally my turn,

Now my people make me pretty,

And I stand here,

As my branches are garnished,

Watching their fireplace burn.

 

It makes me happy to stand here,

Next to their fire,

Me tucked in this corner,

Makes the room feel more cozy and warmer.

 

Where I stand there’s a window,

Outside it is snowing,

Through it I see another,

Its branches a-glowing.

 

This time of year,

We are everywhere,

Some of us tall,

Others sort of small,

Of all the charming decorations,

Aren’t we the best of them all?

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Mood Seasons

Life’s issues are not your fault,

And you are worth your salt,

Whatever happens,

Whatever you’re told,

You are worth your weight in gold.

 

Sometimes a mind is like Summer,

There are sunny thoughts that manifest,

Until someone has the nerve,

To put a person to the test.

 

Each day starts out as Summer,

When you wake up from your slumber,

If you’re lucky it stays that way,

Until it’s time again to hit the hay.

 

Spring arrives when nothing goes your way,

Apparently today,

Just wasn’t meant to be your day,

Your coffee is cold,

That thing you wanted,

Is already sold.

 

But these are just unimportant matters,

Nothing that will put your life in tatters.

 

Fall showing up is bad,

But not as bad as it could be,

A horrid thing may happen,

It may make you sad,

Or really, really mad.

 

Things like money troubles suck,

Maybe someone hit your truck,

That person you thought you liked,

May have shown that they’re in fact a schmuck.

 

Instead of your temper flaring,

These are difficulties you may not feel like sharing,

You will likely want to be alone,

And if someone comes a-knocking,

You’ll pretend that you’re not home.

 

Never keep Winter bottled up,

For more reasons than one,

If someone decides,

To use you for their fun,

Or stick their nose,

Where it doesn’t belong,

By all means,

Make them feel the need to run.

 

You’ll go crazy if you let them,

Feel like all is well,

When it’s your mind they’re putting through hell.

 

You are not to be made,

To feel less than the best,

You are not to put up with,

Being told how to live,

Remember there are some things,

You should not forgive.

 

 

 

Lady Lou, Where Are You?

Is she gone?

Has she moved on?

Is she up there,

Living as an Angel,

Basking for eternity,

In Heaven’s untainted air?

 

Perchance she is here,

Surviving as a Ghost,

Among the Living Dead,

Here to watch over me,

If I get in over my head.

 

Can an Angel do both?

Could she be up There,

Then just like that switch planes,

And come down here?

 

Or does that mean she’s Undead,

To talk to me as she does,

Through dreams at night,

When I’m asleep in bed?

 

Outside it was stormy,

Irma was on her way,

She was supposed to wreak havoc,

The very next day.

 

Unable to pick up a phone,

She came to me on her own,

To give me some assurance,

During this dreaded natural occurrence.

 

So somehow there I was,

Walking through a barn,

It was an unknown time,

And an unknown place,

But she turned to me,

And without a doubt,

That was her perfect face.

 

The surroundings were just white,

Not dull at all,

It was remarkably bright,

Sort of like Heaven is depicted,

On a television show,

And the left side had standing stalls,

All lined up in a row.

 

I cannot recall,

Entering that barn,

I just remember suddenly appearing,

In a place surrounded by pure white,

Then I took one step ahead,

And tried to figure out,

Just where was I,

And why was I here,

In the middle of this night?

 

At first my mind was blank,

Then swiftly came one random thought,

For some reason unknown to me,

I was supposed to pick out a pony.

 

So I pointed to a chestnut butt,

And was just about to say something,

What and to whom I do not know,

When in the neighboring stall,

A bright yellow-orange light,

Started to glow.

 

Even in my sleepy state I felt the shock,

When that glow said in Her deep voice,

“I’m still here, you know”,

And upon a glance I saw,

Her form outlined within that glow.

 

Then on that dream someone hit the brake,

And from that place,

I jolted awake,

Was it a dream,

Or was  it like it seemed,

Is she in Heaven,

And was I with her There?

 

Be she Angel or Ghost,

It seems she saved me,

For the first thing I heard,

When I jolted awake,

Was ‘The storm has moved eastward,

You’re out of harms way’.

 

And that little horse-pony,

She’s not changed a bit,

I see she’s still jealous,

And prone to throw fits.

 

‘Cuz I did not miss her angry glare,

Or the disapproving tone to her voice,

When she told me she’s still here,

As if I was cheating on her,

With that chestnut There.

 

Whether an Angel waiting in Heaven,

Or a Ghost here invisible but beside me,

Though she’s far away,

It’s clear she’s not gone anywhere,

Now I’m left to wait and wonder,

When that crazy mare,

Will contact me again.

 

 

 

 

 

Bad, Bad Bear!

Somewhere out there,

There lives a Teddy Bear,

And he’s dominated by the spirit,

Of Demonic Dominic.

 

This Big Black Bear is black as night,

And he does not live life right,

Those sweet-looking glass brown eyes,

They are his disguise,

They make him seem,

Sweet as pie,

But really he’s on a mission,

A mission to make someone die.

 

The agenda those eyes do conceal,

Is one you’d never guess,

To be fair,

He is a teddy bear,

Not one that’s usually suspected,

Of causing a deadly ordeal.

 

But that face hides more crime,

Than any poker face,

Seen on the Vegas Strip,

So if you happen about,

And you notice this Black Bear,

Please, turn around!

And please, pick up your pace!

 

Normally he is encountered,

Deep inside a forest,

At one of those alluring clearings,

Where the unsuspecting navigate,

When they need to find some calm,

And when they need to get their bearings.

 

If your troubled soul,

Has in fact sought out his clearing,

I hope you’re ready for your life to end this night,

Because he’s been on a roll,

And you showing up,

Has brought him delight.

 

He is there in hiding,

And until he’s ready,

Black Bear’s face you will not see,

You’ll never know this bear is spying.

 

As you sit and contemplate,

Whatever plight has brought you here,

He’ll be creeping closer,

‘Til finally you notice he is there.

 

Distraught as you were,

When you made your way into his clearing,

It will not surprise him,

That you did not notice him nearing.

 

And when finally you look up,

You’re in a calmer state of mind,

And you really notice your surroundings,

But you notice nothing,

That should not be around,

There are trees and there is grass,

And a carelessly discarded toy,

A few feet before the rock,

Where you have parked your ass.

 

Now you are fucked,

You’re shit out of luck,

Assuming that toy means no harm,

Was your last mistake,

Because your life he means to take.

 

It’s too bad you do not know,

That your life’s at stake,

Because as of now,

There’s still time to make a break.

 

As he lays there on the grass,

Those glass eyes are watching you,

To see if you will take your leave,

Or if your life he can thieve.

 

He watches you go back,

To being detached,

Yet still you’re unaware,

That there’s a life in there,

And you’re also unknowing,

Of the reason he is there,

It’s too bad you do not know,

That it’s time for you to go.

 

So many before you,

Came to this clearing to unwind,

They just needed a little while,

To find their mind,

So again they might smile,

Then never were they heard from again,

As if they vanished into thin air,

All because they went There.

 

What looks like an old forgotten plaything,

Like a cute and fuzzy teddy bear,

Is actually demonic,

It’s dominated by a spirit,

Who wishes never to depart,

Dominated by the spirit,

Of Demonic Dominic.

 

Now Black Bear is laughing,

Laughing in his head,

For him to stay,

You must go away,

Now the time has come,

For him to pounce,

He needs to feed,

From a naughty deed,

He needs to see you dead.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Where’s Your Sock?

Stockings are not always hung,

‘By the chimney with care’,

As there are some that just don’t care,

If even they are there.

 

There are Hard-Hearted Hannahs,

These bitches are mean as the Grinch,

And hurting you or I without reason,

Won’t even make them flinch.

 

Though their stockings may be hung,

The care is definitely not there,

From when they were very young,

Other’s holiday cheer,

Always would perish,

When they would draw near.

 

Then also we have Scrooges,

These fuckers are privileged but blind,

All they want they’ve got,

But for others,

Not a thing will get bought.

 

Their stockings will never be hung,

And more thoughtless words,

Could not be flung,

Though they are transparent,

They think we do not know,

That inside their heads,

Only praises to themselves are sung.

 

Remember too the god damned Indifferent,

They should not be forgotten,

These mediocre people,

Most are so unenthusiastic,

And a lot tend to be sarcastic.

 

Still some have stockings hung,

And it makes them feel fantastic,

The ones who don’t may be mistaken,

By a stranger for a Scrooge,

But those they’re close to know,

That stranger is a stooge.

 

Yet the ones who most don’t care,

If even they are there,

Are our four-legged furry friends,

The Most Exquisite Creatures,

To walk upon this Earth.

 

For sure their stockings would be hung,

If they knew they should be there,

Unfortunately they look to be ones who just don’t care,

If even they are there,

But they would care the most,

If they knew they should be there.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Santa Claus’s Cookie Paws

You all know of Santa,

You know of his Deer and his Elves,

But there’s something I doubt you’ve yet heard,

He’s added another to North Pole’s herd.

 

She is long and she is low,

Her fur is red,

With a little white,

And she loves Mr. Santa,

With all her might.

 

From the beginning of time,

‘Til a few hundred years ago,

Santa needed just Reindeer and Elves,

To keep toys piled high,

On the Royal Toy Factory’s shelves.

 

Then came a day,

When Santa got bored,

He thought to himself,

“I deserve a reward.”

 

“I need someone to share the cookies,

I need someone who’ll always be available,

When the Deer and the Elves,

Are completely unbearable.”

 

So there is the reason,

For this lovely Christmas town,

To have welcomed a dog,

Appearing to be a dachshund.

 

Named Cookie Paws,

By Santa himself,

For peanut-butter caramel cookies,

The yummiest treats,

To pass through his jaws.

 

Miz Cookie has become,

An everlasting fixture here,

Reindeer, Elves, and Santa,

All are happier with her near.

 

This little beast is loved,

She fits in very well,

No one she meets,

Is immune to her spell.

 

Cookie  Paws proves very useful,

As Santa’s Main Companion,

She keeps him feeling youthful.

 

Always for them,

A grand time is had,

And sometimes their activities,

Are just this side of bad.

 

Taste-testing all the cookies,

With Santa at her side,

Is a daily entertainment,

And luckily for Cookie Paws,

North Pole is a Fairy Town,

So this will not affect her size.

 

Twice-weekly practice,

For the famous Christmas Eve Run,

Is quite a lot of fun,

Mr. Santa hitches up his sleigh,

To help keep boredom in the barn at bay.

 

Across the sky they shoot,

Invisible when airborne,

Where they will go,

Only the Deer know.

 

When the chosen rooftop has been reached,

And Santa Claus has parked,

The Reindeer get fed hay,

So Santa Claus and Cookie Paws,

Can be on their way.

 

“Because” reasons Santa,

“Damned if I’ll waste this trip!

It’s not often I get to explore,

When I’m parked in this zip.”

 

Cookie Paws at his side,

Both rested from the ride,

So much for them to see and do,

When they’re amongst me and you.

 

Mr. Santa’s pretty clever,

Once they’re on the ground,

His famous Red Suit,

Disappears without a sound,

So now he’s just like us,

And there will be no fuss.

 

Around the city they go,

To the beaches and shops and malls,

They tour until Cookie Paws is about to fall.

 

Then some evenings there are Cocoa Dances,

In the massive Field Of Nuts And Chocolates,

At the center of this Field,

There is a tremendous run-in,

With open sides to let the sun in.

 

Located between Santa’s Palace and the Royal Toy Factory,

All of North Pole gathers in harmony,

With its barbeque pit,

And marble floors,

For one and all,

The Cocoa Dances are a hit.

 

Mr. Santa grills dinner for everyone,

And the Elves load up on spiked hot chocolate,

Then they dance the night away,

With Miz Cookie as deejay.

 

After all of these activities,

It’s time for home and bed,

They need cookies and they need rest,

Ten hours is best,

So they’ll have energy to be around,

Long after we are dead.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Family Gathering

Thanksgiving is here,

For some a time of cheer,

For others a time of fear,

Because family is near.

 

They come from all over,

From their little sections of Earth,

To spend time by your hearth.

 

This can be fun,

Or a reason to run,

I guess it depends,

On if you are friends.

 

There is food and there is drink,

Tempers are on the brink,

The things some will say,

May make you throw up in the sink.

 

Just try to endure,

And with any luck,

There will be alcohol,

To help it go by in a blur.

 

Perchance you are of a family,

Who actually has fun,

How strange this is,

For us who’d rather run.

 

You’ll have turkey,

You’ll have pie,

No one will tell a lie,

Everyone just eats their fill,

And then sits back with a sigh.

 

But for the majority,

That’s just wishful thinking,

Day’s end will have them feeling,

Like a minority,

The day will be long,

And so many things will go wrong.

 

Dad will be rude,

He’ll eat way too much food,

Brother will mean well,

But still he’ll make you feel like Hell,

Mom and sister will do their best,

But won’t be able to prevent,

The inevitable unrest.

 

Voices will be raised,

And feelings will be hurt,

With all that goes awry,

It’s fortunate that fists don’t fly.

 

So this is Thanksgiving,

It’s what it has come to,

Imagine the Pilgrims of long ago,

What would they think,

Of our little zoo?

 

Flash back to that 17th Century Feast,

Year 1621,

This shit just wasn’t done,

Their meal was scant,

Just their own harvest and fowl,

Still they were joyous,

Not one wore a scowl,

If they were to come back,

Surely we’d give them a heart attack.

 

 

Morbid Life Of A Snowflake

One small flake,

In the first fallen snow,

How will my life go?

Will I stay where I landed?

Or get blown by a blizzard,

Into the city,

Where fumes can make me unpretty?

 

The life of a snowflake,

Can be horrid or blessed,

From that first fallen snow,

Are any flakes left,

At the end of the season?

Or did they all disappear,

Seemingly without reason?

 

Some of us die off in a week,

The weather warms,

Making us weak,

And then it’s off,

To that final sleep.

 

Others land on a car,

After falling so far,

Our lives end in a flash,

Crushed by tires or wipers,

How fast it is over,

As if eaten by vipers.

 

It’s scary to think,

We could land on a hidden stair,

And get crushed by the boot,

Of whoever resides in that lair.

 

I hope I get lucky,

I hope when I fall,

I fall  in a yard,

Untouched by things sucky.

 

Maybe then someone will shape me,

Into a ball,

And after I’m smashed,

I can peacefully rest,

Where I may fall.

 

Perhaps a child will form me,

Into a fort,

And until Springtime I’ll be,

His secret resort.

 

A little girl may get the notion,

To make a snowman,

Part of him I will be,

And avoid the trash can.

 

Anything to escape the plow truck,

And get pushed into a bank,

Then turn into muck,

From snow white to slate grey,

On the side of a highway.

 

And when temperatures rise,

But before flowers bloom,

My life is over,

It’s time for our doom.