J.P. Cloud

Hometown:

Long Beach, CA

Statement:

Unlike writing, poetry is not easy for me. I keep falling into what I call "insipidness". Plus, I've found that most people don't like poetry, especially if it rhymes...don't ask me why. 

Upcoming:

Below are some poems I did. Grandma's Ghost was made into a song...

Other:

Grandma's Ghost

Grandma's ghost is watching you,
and all the nasty things you do.
You don't believe it, but it's true;
Grandma's ghost is watching you.

Grandma's watching, Grandpa too!
They passed away, but they weren't through.
You always thought that no one knew,
but Grandma's ghost was watching you.

She's thoroughly ashamed of you
the nasty things she saw you do.
All this time, you had no clue-
but through the veil, she had a view.

"Oh, Grandma, please! Forgive me, do!
And Grandpa! Please forgive me, too!"

Be careful of the things you do.
Grandma's ghost is watching you.

Copyright 2003 J.P. Cloud

 Don't Pay The Poets

Don't pay the Poets
 keep poetry free
 they're only just words
 Used by you and me.
 
 Why should poets get paid?
 They don't do anything
 They just stand there and talk
 And they don't even sing.
 
 They call themselves "wordsmiths"
 They think they're so hot
 they say they're "composing"
 But I think they are not.
 
 They never get paid much-
 Ginsburg got just a thou
 from his publisher,
 when he created "Howl".
 
 So don't pay the Poets,
 Not one red cent!
 Save your money to pay the rent.
 
 J. P. Cloud 2001

Where Birds Go At Night

When I was a kid, I was flying a kite,
And noticed the birds in the daytime so bright,
But when it got dark, there were no birds in sight,
It was then that I wondered where birds go at night.

So I asked all my folks where the birds go at night,
They'd all roll their eyes, as if I wasn't "right",
I'd try and I'd try, with all of my might,
To get them to tell me where birds go at night.

They spoke of the money, unmentionably tight,
They talked about barks being worse than their bite,
They said I was cutting my nose off for spite,
But no one would tell me where birds go at night.

And now I lay dying, The End is in sight,
And I am prepared to go into The Light,
And God's there in heaven so shiningly bright,
But I never found out where the birds go at night.

POST SCRIPT

His Epitaph, carved into tombstone, so white:
"HE NEVER FOUND OUT WHERE THE BIRDS GO AT NIGHT"

Non-Ryhming Poem

'neath azure skies and verdant fields
all in a golden afternoon
'tes there I'll ever dwell