We all have one.

There's Family
by GC SMITH

Well, there is,
Family of Man
and then there's
yours, mine

There are the ones
born to us
and ones we adopted
ones we love and ...

Good
Bad
family
is

We can't
pick them all
but we can pick some
we can love 'em or not

Whatever,
family is unavoidable
so, live, love if you can
or don't

Littoral Zone

Eyeballin'
by GC SMITH

Beach Bum
havin' fun
checking out
the honeys

Almost sin
bitty bikinis
cover little
bronzed skin

Hot damn
looka her
struttin' stuff
whoo-hoo

There's
her sister
wowee Mister
hottest one

Sweeties jiggle
as they reach
to slap vollyballs
toward the net

Nothing beats
summer's pretties
clutterin'
beach sands

Geezer poem

Sonnet for An Old Goat
By GC SMITH

A boat is what a man must have by Gol
to float him out upon the salty brine
where he can fish for fishes with a line
to devour gustily with chilled white wine

Then there’s the racy Targa Porsche
with which to race up hill and then down dale
with tires squealing loudly in the corners
truly a hot rod with a canvas top

With tools and guns and stuff like fishing rods
I will round out my big boy box of toys
you know, I need all of these great toy treats
to recompense myself for dues I’ve paid

Now I have time to become unwired
‘cause from the rat race I have long retired

New Grandson, Liam

On the way from China to America. He'll be here at midnight on Saturday.

The Beat Goes On

You burn me
by GC Smith

You burn me,
mother-fucker,
always pushing
your
credo
sans
credibility

It all
amounts
to nothing
but pap
that
you want me
to
swallow whole.

No way,
I'm not
listening to
cacophony
that spews
from your lips
like putrid
effluvium
coursing
though an open ditch

No,
no way
I'm
not hearing
your shit,
because
the simple
fact
of the matter
is
you burn me.

So, fuck off.

Lassoing Wordies

Yippee-Yi-Ki-Yay
By GC SMITH

I'm a poet lariat
lassoing maverick words
branding them my own

Poetic form my quarter horse
I’d drive longhorn words
from dusty dictionaries:
I’d bunch ‘em up to strophs
Moving loose word confusion
to a tight trail herd of verse,
Stray words would not cut loose
I’d push my herd with rhythm
I’d drive them home with meter
No free verse would stampede
words driven on my roundup,
I’d corral them all with rhyme

I'm a poet lariat
lassoing maverick words
branding them my own

T Geisel's B-day

“HOP ON POP”
by Gerard C. Smith

Come "Hop on Pop," my Lisa said
And hop of course is what she did
Her brother joined in with a jump
On Poppa’s tum he went crash-bump
Lisa hopped and hopped some more
She knocked poor Poppa to the floor
Both kids did bounce, each up and down
Poor Pop was trounced and he did frown
Now he hates that bastard T. Geisel
And hopes the rotter roasts in hell