DIME RHYMES

Welcome to Dime Rhymes — the Back Alley of Backwoods Poetry, where the poems are short and sweet with a rhythmic beat. And where it’s all just for fun.

Growing up years ago on the outskirts of St. Louis, Missouri, during breakfast every morning the kitchen radio was tuned in to the dominant, powerhouse AM radio station in the city at that time — “KMOX – the Voice of St. Louis”, with a mostly news, weather, sports and all-talk format. The morning radio show, “Total Information A.M.”, featured a pair of men who were stellar in their jobs and radio institutions throughout the area, Rex Davis and Bob Hardy, both still remembered and well-known, though now passed.

One of their ongoing features was a fun and highly popular little segment in which they invited listeners to send in their own original short poetry works to be read live on the air by them each morning. They in turn sent the chosen submitter back a Thank You note on KMOX stationery which read – “From listeners like you, we both take heart. Here’s our dime and our thanks, for doing your part.”

An accompanying dime was taped to the note. The daily radio segment was, of course, called — “Dime Rhymes.”

This “Dime Rhymes” page is dedicated then to the memories of Bob Hardy and Rex Davis of KMOX radio fame, and to the little poet within us all.

A page of short, quick, fun little poems by myself and guest contributors. Unless attributed, poems are original and my own. Hope everyone enjoys, and maybe send in a short verse of your own to share!

“For poems are not words, after all, but fires for the cold, ropes let down to the lost, something as necessary as bread in the pockets of the hungry.” — Mary Oliver

“There is not a particle of life which does not bear poetry within it.” — Gustave Flaubert

There comes a time in the life of every little mouse,

When they must decide to stop acting like a louse.

And join in with all the other little mice,

Who’ve discovered it’s much better to be nice.

A pine box is merely lumber,

Trees ripped and then torn asunder.

And though age is merely a number,

The box patiently awaits our slumber.

‘Tis time to shut down and head for bed,
My brain is weary and feet made of lead.
Perchance dreaming of castles and knights of yore,
And of dragons nearby, and oh how they snore!