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The Apple Tree Greed

he has an apple a green apple
he is the only person in this room
with a green apple
suppose suppose NOW
he has MORE of those at home
WHY he has a GREEN APPLE tree
In his backyard no WAIT
He has a vineyard behind his chapeau
And he makes green apple wine
And he sells it to the BOONES FARM people
And they make BOONES FARM green apple wine
And the whole city is soon sick
The children ralf and barf and ralf again
There is no more end to the men
Drinking all the green apple wine
To make this ONE person rich
He never offered me any of his wine
Eyes never drink of alcoholic beverage
Eye have juices and tea and a soda please
I'm just full of good intentions

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poem by Parme Hice
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To Give Me Love

to give me love
Jesus made green onions and dragon flies.
Roses are violet parme and purple and white.
Love is a creature living for life.

Eye do NOT send her flowers made of thistles
but ewe eye send to ewe mye love.
Eye search for colored roses
and eye look for flowers made of shaded hues,
because eye love ewe more than my own life;
more than simple poem words can tell.
Antidisestablishmentarianism and other knoeing words
aer hard for me to spell.
Eye speel ewe and love parme and violette and Mary.
My flowers made of white and purple stones.
to give me love

poem by Charles Hice
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On Rude

Just a little rude can ruin someones day,
being rude a little bit,
is like swimming in a vest,
rude is like swimming with no trunks on,
kissing in the dark,
was it him? or was it her?
and eating from a bag ewe left open on the counter
for several days.
The decadance of Society, RUDE,
has finally sickened me,
the only thing to do is pray to GOD
to quicken me.
When the hours pass too quickly,
and the days pass just like hours
the months appear to me like weeks gone bye.
These aer the things eye am searching for.
A Kind Word.
A Smile.
A Happy Kiss.
A While.

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poem by Charles Hice
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The Forsaken Heron

In the grey dusk...
soaring...
the wounded bird
Inscribing on the air
a tale of agonies
aer agonising flight
composing an elegy
among the lush-green leaves
The congregation of glow-worms
-the herds of some innocent souls...
opening their beaks
They're all the reflections of my multicolored thristy dreams

The assault of those reminiscences
as if the wounds carved by beaks
on a juicy fruit

I-the prisoner of my memories-
with pinions bound
amidst the sunlight getting paler

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poem by Shujaat Rahi
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At Night

Whut time 'd dat clock strike?
Nine? No--eight;
I didn't think hit was so late.
Aer chew! I must 'a' got a cough,
I raally b'lieve I did doze off--
Hit's mighty soothin' to de tiah,
A-dozin' dis way by de fiah;
Oo oom--hit feels so good to stretch
I sutny is one weary wretch!

Look hyeah, dat boy done gone to sleep!
He des ain't wo'th his boa'd an' keep;
I des don't b'lieve he'd bat his eyes
If Gab'el called him fo'm de skies!
But sleepin's good dey ain't no doubt--
Dis pipe o' mine is done gone out.
Don't bu'n a minute, bless my soul,
Des please to han' me dat ah coal.

You 'Lias git up now, my son,

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poem by Paul Laurence Dunbar
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