Home of Monty Vern
She ripped a page out of my book, literally.
Tore the page right out of it,
Transforming words undercover into an act of love,
A passionate invitation to come on an adventure,
Once my words, sleeping upon a page,
Now a call to action, to join the coppered crew,
To set sea for rich waters, full of love and grace;
Come on, she said, let’s go!
Be well,
Monty
A mystery, a silent roar,
Boiled down to an atmospheric essence,
Unlimited in a formless dress;
The girl from Baylor Hall.
Be well,
Monty
Up the bean-stalk he climbed,
Exposed arse whistling in the wind
(the score to some old sitcom from
before all the screens turned blue),
He was compensating for the queasy feeling
That that farmer’s seed was rotten,
Infested with the next viral sensation,
A TikTok explosion,
Little did he know that he was the fuse,
Percolating with infestation,
About to be unleashed upon the world above.
Be well,
Monty
Hydrogen uppers gaslight me into obsolescence,
Escaping gravity, wound-up, and ready to bounce
An engineer’s failed experiment in abstinence,
A human bot,
Go ahead and tariff me – what’s ten percent of worthless?
Abracadabra mother fucker!
Be well,
Monty
A simple request. An ask to take the decision out of my hands. To be open to receive. That’s all it took. It wasn’t long before the offer arrived. A simple offer. How about a walk? And there it was. A prayer answered.
Be well,
Monty
The citrus spritz bloomed,
Awakening my senses,
A simple, wondrous joy,
The sweet scent from a bitter rind,
Perhaps a lesson there.
Be well,
Monty
Finally a gray day,
All those expansive blues
Were wearing me down,
As if compelling me to good humor,
Trying to get me to forget it’s still mid-winter.
Well now it’s all set right,
From sea to sky its all one dull shade,
Drizzling inconsistently to try my patience,
Just enough to get the dog wet,
And have him track his prints across the floor.
Yet, am I okay?
Despite all the scenery to set the mood,
I feel quite up, chipper I’d even say,
As if I’ve been infected by joy,
I’m not so sure how to live this way.
The forecast is three days of rain,
That should be long enough to cast off this bug,
To rid myself of the ups,
To sleep off this case of the chippers,
Three days to get my head on straight.
If three days doesn’t do it,
Then I’ll really be at a loss,
I’ll need to reconsider my disposition;
If this joy thing is a chronic condition,
(I’ll definitely need a new prescription).
Well, I know I’m in trouble now that I’ve started to rhyme,
It was just a matter of time,
Given that I’m feeling so fine,
I better stop now or there will be no recourse,
I’ll rhyme myself into true happiness or worse!
Be well,
Monty
The dog lays flat out as if to emphasize the basis of the saying “dog-tired”.
The TV chatters in Chinese in the background, almost quiet enough to ignore, but loud enough to annoy.
A half-eaten bowl of fruit.
Dinner is in the air. Fragrant enough to notice, but subtle enough to remain a mystery.
The sky is starting to glow as the sun makes its descent.
Below, streams of sea water slither through the sand flats left behind by the receding tide.
And red remnants of last night fireworks still litter the street.
The sun now glows big and orange just above the skyline – that was quick.
And the clouds stretch out across the sky in gradients of orange and blue.
An evening’s inventory.
Be well,
Monty
The celebrations have quieted,
The night sky of thunderous glitter
Now settled upon the ground,
As if tired from partying all night,
Laying in heaps wherever the winds decided,
Caught by the spotlight of the morning sun,
Charred memories of well-wishes –
Hopes and dreams for the new year
By those now under the covers,
Sleeping it off.
Be well,
Monty
Monty’s Blahg