pomes that defy description

A wee poem
Tinkle, tinkle little boy
Standing by the loo so coy
How I wonder how you miss
A target that’s as big as this
Tinkle, tinkle little lad
Tell me why your aim’s so bad

Symbiosis
My wife says I’m a loser
I’m inclined to think she’s right.
I don’t know where my things are but
She doesn’t share my plight.

Though my keys aren’t where I leave them
She always finds them there.
Somehow they’re invisible
Despite how hard I stare.

My mobile phone IS mobile
I’m sure it runs around:
I can look in vain for hours but
In seconds she has it found.

She says I don’t look properly
When I overlook it
And start an inquisition
To find out just who took it.

I’m sure my searching’s thorough:
That I look in the right places
Which is why I get so ratty
In my oh-so frantic chases.

“Where did you last see it?”
She asks me through my bile.
“If I knew I wouldn’t need your help.”
I sulk back like a child.

My wife knows where to start things:
“I’ve already looked there twice”
Means that’s her quest’s beginning
And where she finds the prize.

As I’m reunited with what I lost
And turn off my pressure cooker
I consider it a huge blessing
That I married such a looker.

Pain

It invades unconscious living,
forcing itself upon us screaming,
“I’m here, I’m taking over.”
Any hope of coherent thought or instinctive living is obliterated by the excruciating exhibitionist.
Occasionally thoughts valiantly battle their way into awareness, only to be unmasked as double agents reinforcing the reality of the pain: “Take the pain away. Make it stop!”
Should we embrace it for saying something’s wrong – like a close friend telling of defective personal hygiene?
Should we try to evict it as an unwelcome visitor? Yet it pleads,”Don’t kill the mosquito, drain the swamp.”
Do we simply give in? Admit the reality and give up.
I want to grin and bear it, but the intensity mutates into an unbearable grimace.
I’ll do almost anything to make it stop; give up almost everything to be rid of it.
Why won’t it leave me alone?
Sharp, stabbing stiletto strikes.
Driving away the desire to be sociable, reducing my humanity to a primæval screech for relief.

Don’t put your pastor on a pedestal

Don’t put your pastor on a pedestal

They’ll only fall off.

Don’t give your minister a medal

It’ll make their spouses scoff.

Don’t make a saint of your shepherd

You’re ignoring the stains.

Don’t romanticise your rector’s record

It’ll only bamboozle their brains.

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