Top Pun's Poetry, Funny Puns, Free Posters, Public Health Radio Show!

This poem is a meditation on the difference between standing in awe of the Creator versus the created.

Unfathomable

Know One
Understands me
And then sum
That image of God
As some kind
Of fact simile
Or some carbon copy based life form
Conceivably some clever analog virtually living
More likeness than loveliness
Presume ably as some evol twin
That thorny altar ego
As soared to the avatared and feathered
Posedly as some doppelganger banger
And in the end
A dead wringer
Drawing sketchy conclusions
In knead of
A deeper reflection
On the created
And the Creator
Leaving
An impression
To be plumbed
And holy apprehended

The breath of life . . . and death . . .

Breathtaking

Awe through life
Heed taken
Millions of breaths
Beyond thoughtful
In perfect order
In
Out
In
Out
Awe ways
Knowing what
Too due
Depending
On what
Did last
Till
That final breath
Breathing in
Heaven
That place before we were borne
Of singular inspiration
That mystical sighin’ of God
Into us

Demonizing and blaming those less powerful than yourself is the lowest forum of politics.

Rule Won

Rule won
It’s all weighs
Somebody else’s fault
Weather trying
To win an earthquake
And after math
A thousand shakedowns
The fault lyin’
Like sum smoking crack
Or shhh, hole countries bombed
Out of their mines
Left crippled
He con me
Played
The be lame game
And if there is an other
Rule what sow ever
It’s awe number two

Our choices matter. Sometimes they madder more than others.

The Hows Always Wins

As luck would halve it
I don’t believe in gambling
Or even “random” for that madder
The hows always wins
Regardless of the whys
Though we can harmonize
Arrange of options
Align between more than won point
Even if you could cheat the odds
For a wile
It’s awe
Soully
A matter
Of time

Artist play an important role in the resistance. This is why authoritarian regimes go after the artists and intellectuals. Also, artists make lousy slaves.

Arts on Fire

Buy hell or high water
The powers that be
Possess
A scorched earth policy
And a wrest of us
As our lives are doodled
On the margins of society
Living on the edge
Our arts on fire
Braving the greatest sensor of awe
Our skin in the game molten
In large in every seasoning
Till fully groan
Passing on
Torching
Of the dead would
As if water can
Put out
Our saving the soul
Of that dam nation
Posing as some whored of life
Their foe watering whole
After awe
Fire raging
At won
And the same time
Fore awe that is at stake
Sears of the future
In visioning a world
As we wholed in the highest
A steam

There is enough pain and suffering in the world. I strongly suspect that punishing is a poor strategy for a promising future. Love is awe we knead.

The Palpable Need of De-Crying

One mourning
Wondering round
In the town square
I overheard a man state
With evangelic fervor
And a consummate lack of commitment
They should suffer
It will
Due them
Some good
For me so palpable, the need of de-crying
As there is more than enough pain in the world
In cahoots with a commensurate lack of compassion
And the tsk of love
Like snowballing in hell
Is repeatedly called Sisyphean
Yet for a faithful few
Rightly sow

Who in this whirled is taking a dump on Trump’s efface?

Off Putting Lip Schtick on a Chauvinist Pig

They made an epic play
For a bomb
A nation
In its berth
Facing black and white
Make up!
Make up!
As grate as it can be
With such whore-able direction
Heir-razing scrip
With its grave plots
Stage right
Stage left
Projecting to that shadowy audience
Casting thousands
Busloads of stoolies
From below
As something smeared
On his efface
The ocher-in-chief
And whatever
Pig meant
And what can’t be
Made up
The disgruntled gruntle
The only colored
Joke
That truth is
Stranger then fiction

NOTE: the word “ocher” is: 1) any of several earthy mineral oxides of iron occurring in yellow, brown, or red and used as pigments; 2) a moderate orange yellow, from moderate or deep orange to moderate or strong yellow.

I find laughter a beautifully open space for awe good things to emerge.

Pastoral Posture

I stumbled up
On God
Laughing in a field
And before long
Found ourselves
In strange plays
A staggering experience
Solidly grounded
As couldn’t help
But laugh

Think bigger, in large life…

Thinking Outside, The Box

Know matter
How hard
They had knot
The wear with awe
To fashion a box big enough
To whole my soul
Thankfully, an ever expanding universe
By enlarge
Suits me
Deeply well
Within and without

This poem emerged from a dream that I had. The dream was of a herd of lemmings racing toward a cliff. A single lemming froze in place like a single frame in a movie.  The other lemmings continued largely like lemmings do, and, as they approached the cliff, the ground beneath them crumbled. The lemmings fell in a mass of dirt and lemmings, nearly indistinguishable. As this was happening, a multitude of butterflies descended onto the single frozen-in-place lemming. After the butterflies completely cover the lemming, they flew the lemming into the distant sky.

I see this dream as a metaphor for mutual aid, particularly for those who break away, for any reason, the suicidal mob that is our nation. Be a butterfly. Fly with the multitudes of butterflies.

Masses of Butterflies

The lemmings scurried
Razing forward
Nose to tail
Untoward a cliff peering
When a singular lemming
Had a stroke
Of unusual genus
Frozen in place
Inaction hero pose
Not with standing the species carried on
Most other lemmings were rankled
The odd lemming was intrigued
Even as the ranks hurtled bye
Simultaneously
The bluff beginning to crumble
Beneath the lead lemmings
And the wait of the uncontemplated
An inescapable fall
Where animals peered indistinguishable
From the dust
It came
Ground into the sky
Death wading below
Making more than mountain of mole hill
Still
That soul lemming
Eyes fixed
Above
Hi noon
About to be flocked
Eclipsed by a swarm of butterflies
Which separate light from dark
In the mettle of the day
Sow little
Won after another
Alighted
That inscrutable statue to the unmovable
That shield to all that would blank it
Uplifting beyond what can be seen
Completely taken
Wherever butterflies freely assemble
And call home
An open question
What to make of awe this
Yet certain onlookers
Sharing such fate
Can lonely say
Amoral of a story
Of lives and souls shuddered
In efface of
Any out landish worship
Of masses of butterflies
Befalling us awe

One way that folks avoid deeper awakenings is by settling for “good enough.” I suspect that the disturbing nature of seeking higher goods, by their claim on paying a cost for our “values,” is one major reason that we lean into denial and “getting by.” This poem lifts up awe as the payoff for fully “funding” our values…

OK Corral

They mustered and catch up
Awe the relish of life
Yet the masses
Mostly settled
Merely for good enough
Collected and caught
In the OK corral

In post truth social media, we must be vigilante, my friends!

Relax, Into Propaganda

Red in
Their sacred texts
ALL CAPS know less
For whom much is give in
Much is re-choired
In
His image maid
Such hollowed ground
As grave in
As craven
An echo of truth

There is overwhelming public support for increasing taxes on the richest Americans. This stands in sharp contrast to Trump’s proposed second round of huge tax cuts for the richest, mostly paid for by borrowing, that is increasing the debt, and a portion from cutting public spending. Since we don’t really have a democracy that enacts the will of the people, this doesn’t surprise me. However, I am vexed by the popular sentiment of wannabe-ism when it comes to wealth; especially since upward mobility has nearly evaporated in the last couple of generations. This vain sentiment does seem to interfere in the body politic holding the rich to paying their fair share — which isn’t another huger tax cut for them! This poem arises from this…

Eye Wannabe Rich

In a see of losers
If there is won thing
They want
It’s awe a bout
Loot
The I con of billionaires
It could be you
No surprise as all guise
As idol eyes
The all might
He buck
And Bambi trophy wife
Show me the doe!
Weather two
Three
Or four
Who keeps
Score
If only
At any rate
A king’s ransom
Or soully dead presidents
In your buy and buy
Is his in vest
And in your foolness of daze
Down right left
Right left right
Only wanting
Just
Comfortable
That conundrum unbeat

One of my pet peeves is illustrated by the phrase, “throwing the baby out with the bathwater.” We seem to be in a reign of babies as severe critiques of a problem are adopted and the labor of birthing a reasonable alternative is casually subjected to infanticide. Tragically, America’s absurd first agenda is grotesquely grave.

A Sorted Tale

Speechless
I couldn’t say
I was surprised
At the rain of bathwater
Yet nothing compared
To the rain of babies
A final solution of sorts

The rubes are lining up for the bounce back…

Rubber Ball

Welcome
To the rubber ball
What
Bounces
Off me
Sticks to you
Words will knot
Hurt you
But the stoned will
Using
Conned ‘em
Screwing

There is more than won way to respond to winning the existence lottery…

Post Lottery Win Syndrome

Halving won
The existence lottery
I could know more
Complain

The profits speak, for themselves.

Make Moses Grate Agin

Trump ass ends
His throne
Of porcelain whiteness
And what can
A profit say
Butt
Let my people go
And do do it
Rashly
In the end
Won
Among many plagues
In doo coarse over
Throwin’
All that he can