… Wherein I write bad poetry and give it away for free

*Warning* – Please do not read this if you are under 30, over 60, or have a heart condition, high blood pressure, are politically correct according the standards of our day, or merely physically unattractive. Seriously, I want only good-looking people reading. Also – I know I am going to hell for this, so you don’t need to remind me.

OK – you guys probably know I am a serious writer of short fiction but I bet you never knew I was a poet as well. I have loved poetry every since reading “Old Man From Nantucket” for a book report I had to do in grade 8. (I got an “A”).

Like most real poets, I believe that a poem must rhyme, and that iambic pentameter is for wimps and haiku for Japanese wimps. Dactylic hexameter?

Kill yourself. Now. Just do it.

However, there is even less of a market for poetry than there is for real, serious fiction – good fiction … really really good make-you-think (make-you-cry) fiction. Like I write. But I digress. Most poetry is simply dreadful stuff and very often not rhyming. There’s lots of it available for free on the internet, which shows you what its worth. Most poets have to pay to publish their own stuff. Serves ‘em right. They have to pay to publish and they would have to pay me to read it.

But here – for you select few – for free – are my poems – and in the tradition of VH1’s “Storytellers” a brief description of how these poems came to be. Every poem here is based on actual events, just like Coleridge-Taylor’s “Rhyme of the Ancient Mariner” because it takes real events to inspire words both beautiful and true … that rhyme.

Ode to the Skinny Girl in Safeway With the Noticeable Mustache

Sweet Merciful Jesus!

Kill it.

Kill it with fire.


The Story: Ok – that did not rhyme, but that’s the poem that was going through my mind when I saw “it”.  I am not prejudiced! I like ‘em skinny, I like ‘em fat, I like ‘em all … but I draw the line at a ‘stache.

Honest sentiments, but mediocre start. Off to the next

The Guy That Used to Bench Large, Back When He Used to Train

In a new gym, the kid in jeans and a wife-beater came up and waited for my set to end

When I was done he said most curiously

“Whatever it is you are benching Bro, I used to bench 10 pounds more

Seriously Bro – Seriously”

People ask me what I bench and I always say ‘A hundred’ and when they ask what that looks like I point to the bar regardless of what’s on there. I kid you not.

The inspiration for the poem? A kid came up to in the “whaddya bench” scenario in the small town gym I train in – he had a name tattooed on his neck. I asked “The name – is that your daughter?”

“No” he said

“Wife?” I said

“No’” he said

“Mom?” I said – I have my best “Can I help you” smile on now.

“Ex Girlfriend” he said and then looking away “I think it was 260, back when I was training for wrestling”.

Training for Pud-Wrestling maybe – And to get his future X’s name tattooed on his neck.  I bet she didn’t get his on her neck because “Shitbox” is not brag-worthy– even where I’m from.

It’s always hard to title a truly great poem – I think this one should have mentioned “Roe vs. Wade” but it didn’t flow.

The Multi-Level Marketing Sonnet

You are not going to get rich

You are not going to have any fun

The dollars and friends you’re left with

Will both add up to “none”

The Story: A great many of you are probably nodding your head in sad agreement as you read this. I don’t begrudge anyone making a buck, but some of these “programs” are kind of cult-ish. Hey – just because I won’t sign on doesn’t mean that I don’t like you, nor does it mean I should be burnt at the stake when the econo-pocalypse comes and you are out there dispensing justice.

The Financial Planner’s Blue’s

Hey there investor – I have a proposition

To make you 50 Large

Just start with about 100

Whoops! I guess the market is in charge.

The Story: Ah – we’re all in the same boat right. But word to the wise – if your Financial Planner is wearing their shirt untucked these days – it’s to hide their cardboard belt.

Anyways – there they are – four poems – words beautiful and true. Words that rhyme. And free.

I’ll be back when I remember the “safe word” and mistress unlocks my cuffs.

My name is Steve Passey and I write fiction


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