Sunday, April 13, 2014

Temperature

The temperature 
   Dove,
      Dove,
         Dove,
             Down.
                 Deeply
                     Discouraging.

Saturday, April 12, 2014

Going Soft

I saw hope tonight and last:
In a possum on my doorstep
He was nibbling on the cat food
And I didn't seem to mind.
Last autumn when he did that
I went to fetch a broomstick
To curse him and to poke him
But now that seems unkind.

Thursday, April 3, 2014

The Fall of the Republic

What could be sweeter than suckers for supper?
What more delicious than warm rotting meat?
What could be faster than cars without pistons?
And warmer in winter than thin cotton sheets?

What is more just than a fool being lauded?
What is more fitting than joy in a hearse?
Foolishness happily dances its victory.
And we're all lined up for a spin with this curse.

Stand on your head for a walk on the sky.
Go to the pasture to purchase a pie.
Or if you are conscious and have some heart left...
Then ponder the damage and cry.
Sit yourself down and just cry.

Tuesday, December 24, 2013

On Time!

My dear wife was pregnant for months upon end.
She prayed to the Lord a sweet baby to send.
Her others were late and her patience wore thin,
"Dear Jesus, please stop him from lingering in."

With joy then, on Saturday, she had contractions
A war in her tummy like fighting 'tween factions
And finally coming the wee hours next morn.
A big baby boy finished up and got born....
On time!

Saturday, December 14, 2013

The Waiter

She lays there uncomfortable, phone in her hand
A pillow for knees and one on each end,
Searching on Pinterest, hoping to see,
The birth of her darn baby.

Alas, baby's comfortable right where he is
Or she? We don't know if it's Mr. or Ms.
And so my dear lady is lying in wait.
Praying the babe won't be late!

Tuesday, November 26, 2013

Gangland Birds

Raucous, unsettled birds those blue jays.
They moved into a nearby tree like a gang,
All swagger and coarse slang.
Then moved on to make sure some sparrow pays.

Thursday, November 7, 2013

Perversity

Battered tin trumpets are lovely to hear.
Pouring sweet melody into your ear.
Holding you captive to each awful note
With beauty like songs from a goat.

Rotten bananas are subtly charming
With pungent bouquets 'neath their odors alarming.
Just the cuisine for discerning elites
To bring forth their media bleats.

Whatever is lousy is tastefully chic.
Whatever is awful is tres magnifique.
Whatever destroys is really sublime.
Whatever is true is a crime. 

Wednesday, October 30, 2013

Big, Fat Cat's Feet

An obese little kitty
Walked into the room,
Plopped down his bottom
And started to groom.
He sat there, a blob,
For what seemed like all day.
Then sauntered his bottom away.

The fog on my hilltop
Is much like that cat:
A lazy, unflappable
Layer of fat
Perched on the highland,
Heedless of all,
A cozy and comfortable pall.

Sunday, October 20, 2013

An "Ode" to my Mother in Law

There once was a lady named "M"
Whose pipes were all plugged up with phlegm.
She scorned pretty verses,
But loved tradesmen curses.
And gleefully rooted the system.

Tuesday, October 15, 2013

John Banister Tabb - Poem Repertoire vol. 5

The Sisters 
The waves forever move;
The hills forever rest:
Yet each the heavens approve,
And Love alike hath blessed
A Martha's household care,
A Mary's cloistered prayer.
Perhaps this poem struck me because the times are so vituperative.  If one be on the one side, the other side is surely terrible.  Unless the vice be versa?  That's not to take a position on any position but this: God seems to have it in mind that people can be different, even opposed, yet faithful.  I should note that Jesus tells Martha that her sister was doing what was right.  But I'm not inclined to think that he was condemning her concern for hospitality so much as her anxiety.

Structure-wise, the poem is chiastic, I think.  The two first lines set up a contrast, which the third line resolves.  The fourth line likewise resolves the contrast which comes in lines five and six.

It's really just a sweet poem that might be tucked away as a reminder for acceptable difference in quotidian life.

Friday, August 16, 2013

Emily Dickinson - Poem Repertoire vol. 4

Emily Dickinson 
They say that "Time assuages" -
Time never did assuage -
An actual suffering strengthens
As Sinews do, with age - 
Time is a Test of Trouble -
But not a Remedy -
If such it prove, it prove too
There was no Malady -
"Time heals all wounds," say amateur therapists who lack enough silver in their coinage to buy some better sense.  Or if they don't go in for aphorisms they might say something more along the lines of, "In the wake of this murderous rampage that left scores of children dead, we need a time of healing" as if a certain collection of weeks or months, maybe salted with some preferred legislation or a nice speech, would remove the holes from the bodies and undo the harm that was done.

Nonsense, says Dickinson.  A real hurt does not heal from time.  Time is no physician, and certainly not the Great Physician.  Instead, time is a test.  If its ministrations work, it isn't by virtue of actual efficacy, but proof that the wound was no wound at all.  Further, "an actual suffering" will get worse over time.

All of this leads to the thought that over time we become bearers of suffering.  It's not a pretty thought.  I've seen it elsewhere in literature, in Trollope's Lily Dale.  And in her case, the suffering seemed as much the result of her determination to admit no possible remedy.  "It is my wound and nothing can be done!"  What of love that nurtured after a true love has passed away?  Can love heal the wounds left by love?  And if so, does that invalidate the love that came first?

And what of Christ?  I wholeheartedly agree with Dickinson that Time is no healer - being deaf and mute. But cannot Christ make all things new?  "Therefore, if anyone is in Christ, he is a new creation. The old has passed away; behold, the new has come."

Don't trust time to do much good, but trust that within time the Christ who was raised from the dead can also heal a real wound.  And him doing so in no way implies that it wasn't a wound to begin with.

Friday, June 7, 2013

Edwin Arlington Robinson - Poem Repertoire vol. 3

Souvenir by Edwin Arlington Robinson 
A vanished house that for an hour I knew
By some forgotten chance when I was young
Had once a glimmering window overhung
With honeysuckle wet with evening dew,
Along the path tall dusky dahlias grew,
And shadowy hydrangeas reached and swung
Ferociously; and over me, among
The moths and mysteries, a blurred bat flew. 
Somewhere within there were dim presences,
Of days that hovered and of years gone by.
I waited, and between their silences
There was an evanescent faded noise;
And though a child, I knew it was the voice
Of one whose occupation was to die.

As a boy I often went with my mother when she visited the elderly.  There was a window of time when my older siblings were in school and my younger sister had yet to be born.  I suppose this period of time was quite short, a couple of years at most, but in my memories it seems like a whole era of my life.  This poem resonates with that time.  I remember the faint smell of urine, the old furniture (was it a yellowed couch on the southern wall, not plush, but more like an extended chair?  As I sat, the kitchen was off to the left, but I didn't go there.  I remember the narrow staircase up to the bathroom; I remember the treats that were laid out that were well-intended, but somehow off the mark.  I didn't really understand it.  I didn't really like it.

Here we have an adult who looks back at a memory.  There is much to the memory that is blurred: the house is vanished, the chance is forgotten, the presences were dim, and the voice was evanescent.  At the same time, the memory is concrete: in the glimmering window there is wet honeysuckle, and it is wet from evening dew.  There are tall dusky dahlias along the pathway.  The hydrangeas were aggressive and ferocious.  And there was a particular bat who flew overhead.  Granted, the bat was blurry, but perhaps from motion, not memory.

Outside, there is much that captures the child's interest.  The description in the first section suggests that his imagination was running as he accompanied his parents (?) to this house.  The child knew nothing of death and wasn't concerned with it.  What mattered was the garden, the plants.  He wasn't brought in, but left outside to occupy himself.  It was already late, late enough for dew to be forming, for a bat to be flying.  Perhaps it's a little strange that a child would be left outside past twilight.

The visit inside with the adults goes on.  The child ceases to play and imagine and begins to wait.  There is silence inside, punctuated by a voice.  And this voice, the child understands, is not like other voices.  It is evanescent - weak, vanishing, frail.  It is not the voice of one who will go on living, but the voice of one whose concern it is to die.

The life of this other, whether grandparent or some other, signifies so very little in the experience of the child. How can the child know that this voice belongs to one who was once young?  That this voice belonged to one who had had other occupations - even wandering in twilight gardens perhaps.

It is a wistful poem, about a child from the eyes of an adult whose view has expanded.  No doubt the voice that was only peripheral is now understood as the point of the whole experience.  The child had been brought there not to take in the garden, but because the person, whose frail voice was heard through the window, was important.  This person had dignity.  And this child, now an adult, recognizes this dignity in remembering.

Friday, May 31, 2013

The Folly of a Young Man's Tongue

My father said,
When I was young,
To mind my manners,
Hold my tongue.
But I was proud
And talked a yard
For every foot
Of sense I had.

Thursday, May 30, 2013

Sara Teasdale - Poem Repertoire vol. 2

"Invictus claptrap," I thought as I began to read this poem.  But I loved the meter.  And the second and third stanza bring into doubt my initial irritation.  Hmmm...

The Shrine by Sara Teasdale
There is no lord within my heart,
  Left silent as an empty shrine
  Where rose and myrtle intertwine,
Within a place apart. 
No god is there of carven stone
  To watch with still approving eyes
  My thoughts like steady incense rise;
I dream and weep alone. 
But if I keep my altar fair,
  Some morning I shall lift my head
  From roses deftly garlanded
To find the god is there.

ABBA rhyme sequence. Very regular syllabically.  The first three lines of each stanza are made up of four iambs (unstressed - stressed).  The fourth line is made up of three iambs.  The effect of this is very flowing, with a discernible marker in between stanzas.

The poem seems centered on location: heart, shrine, place, altar.  Where is god (sic)?  "Not in the heart," answers the first stanza.  God is absent from that silent place, though the word "shrine" implies that there is some expectation that he be there.  Perhaps it is a false expectation.  Nor does any god reside there to give mute approbation or comfort.  The person is alone.

Then comes the hinge, "But if I keep my altar fair."  God is nowhere in the places or situation so far described, but this conditional clause introduces where he might be.  "Some morning," indeterminate, out of one's control or agency, "the god" might appear upon said altar.  But it is too much to say that it is beyond the person's agency, because though this god's arrival is not a matter to be controlled, still it depends on her keeping the altar fair.  And she is doing so.  She is "deftly" garlanding roses.  In the first stanza the rose and the myrtle intertwined without intervention.  In this last stanza, their beauty is being enhanced.

So then, god arrives in beauty.  We participate in the divine not by waiting about for him, not by seeking consolation or approval, but by pursuing beauty, by making that which is beautiful more so by our artistic action.  So the seeming centrality of location is not borne out.

I'm always curious how other people conceive of God in all sincerity.  This conception of God is very forlorn.  He will be absent through the darkness and loneliness, but maybe he'll be present later as a kind of abstraction connected to my action.  How despairing.

Saturday, May 25, 2013

I'm Older than I Am

I've heard of Lady Ga Ga
And know that youngsters boogie.
Or is it that they cha-cha slide?
Or try to dance like Snookie?
I really haven't any clue
I'm aging by the day.
And culture keeps a-marchin' on
And maybe even's gay?

Friday, May 24, 2013

Wallace Stevens - Poem Repertoire vol. 1

It's recently come into my mind to start reading poetry instead of occasionally writing lousy examples of it.  In the back of my mind is building a repertoire of poems to give to my children as they grow up.  Having poetry books at hand is a great resource, but don't serve much good if I don't appropriate any of them.  And one appropriates by reading it, over and again, talking about it, maybe memorizing it.

Here's the first beginning of an initial hint of a start:

"Disillusionment of Ten O'Clock" by Wallace Stevens
The houses are haunted
By white night-gowns.
None are green,
Or purple with green rings,
Or green with yellow rings,
Or yellow with blue rings.
None of them are strange,
With socks of lace
And beaded ceintures.
People are not going
To dream of baboons and periwinkles.
Only, here and there, an old sailor,
Drunk and asleep in his boots,
Catches tigers
In red weather.

So... alliteration in the first line.  Internal rhyme in the second.  He doesn't choose random colors.  The first color becomes the second, while it's replacement follows... just a bit tediously.  The colors themselves are pretty basic, only exciting when compared to white.  And the repetition of pattern isn't exciting either, except that at least it's a pattern!  For my part, it seems pretty silly to wear socks to bed, lace or not, and to wear a beaded belt?  Uncomfortable.  Weird.

And here he makes the connection between apparel and sub-conscious thought.  The one who wears boring dream-time clothes will dream boring dreams.

But an old drunken sailor?  Wearing entirely inappropriate boots?  Well, he's likely to dream something a bit more exciting.

So.....

Monday, May 20, 2013

Non-Specializer

Old MacDonald had a farm
But what lack of efficiency!
Having one of everything
Diffusing his proficiency.

Saturday, May 11, 2013

English is Murder

Grass (British)
Posse
Possessed
Pose
Postal

Wednesday, April 3, 2013

Cemetery Improvements.

Tumble, tumble, trees come down
Beside the graves, on and around.
The aging pines were fit no more
To grace the cemetery shore.
Undulating hills now bright
And shorn of shade and bathed in light
Are somehow bare, though marked by stones,
Are somehow bald, though filled with bones.

Monday, April 1, 2013

Blabber and Haikus


Oy, life with two kids instead of one, while trying to exercise, read books, and overthrow the local soil and water commissionar....  Well, I've lost track of responsibilities.... like the occasional haiku.

So over at Mr. D's we were blabbing about something or another and I asked him an innocent question, "What do you think about lawn games?"  Now what I was expecting was an enthusiastic espousal of a particular lawn game, such as the following, "I would sell my first born child to play a good game of Kub on a proper lawn with good quality hard wood."

But no.  He says that he's against them.  Communist.  But I responded with tact:

The Jarts of Justice 
Raining down on Mr. D. 
Incorrect answer.

He replied that he thought the haiku was somewhat forceful, not to say violent, coming from a minister of the cloth.  I didn't think so at all.  I asserted as much with the following:

Bocce balls will creep 
Like angry iron ninjas 
To kiss your sweet sleep.

Delicate.  Picturesque.  Entirely in keeping with my calling.

I still can't believe he doesn't like lawn games, though.  Crazy.

Saturday, March 2, 2013

The Future

To understand the future intellectually is beyond us.  
To understand it systematically is further yet beyond our ken.  
But to have suspicions?  Now that's right in the wheelhouse of man.  
And I've got suspicions.

Sunday, February 10, 2013

A No Darn Snow Limerick

There once was a place without snow.
To some other place it would go.
It left us all brown;
The whole landscape frowned.
Did I like it? No, no, no, no, NO.

Friday, January 4, 2013

The Nuances of Winter

The deep blue sky speaks hopeful words
And shows the scene of flying birds.
The shadows creep on melting snow
While gray depression starts to go.

Wednesday, January 2, 2013

Have a New Year

The sky and the ground are all white.
But the color is missing its light.
Dark at the noon of the day.
In spirit, the palette is gray.

Tuesday, December 4, 2012

Extreme Christmas Doggerel (part one)

The blowing snow and cold hold sway
In the fields of Ioway
When the winter settles in
And autumn skies are turned to gray.

People wear a second layer,
Then a third; then they feel gayer.
Muffled 'neath a mountainous garb
If people stare, well, who's to care?

Christmas comes with carols jolly,
Poinsettias, mistletoe and holly.
Cookies coming out your ears
And reaching to the point of folly.

Gather friends and family near
And share a bit of Christmas cheer.
Raise a song to chase the chill
And wait for carolers to appear.

Monday, December 3, 2012

Chet the Squirrel (with a Bob Costas subtext)

Chet was a normal kind of squirrel.
He ate nuts.
He chattered.
That is, until one day,
His life was shattered.
A demon-possessed gun
Desiring some fun
Possessed him.
And made him smoke.
And shoot stuff.
The moral of the story?
The 2nd Amendment is less equal.

Friday, November 30, 2012

Juxtaposition

Lets go surfin' now.
Everybodys learning how.
Come on and safari with me.
(come on and safari with...)

At Huntington and Malibu
They're shooting the pier.
At Rincon they're walking the nose.
We're going on safari to the islands this year;
So if you're coming get ready to go.

Monday, November 26, 2012

The Foolish Knights

Sir Bill is riding on a horse
Sir Jedediah too.
They each have sticks of sharpened wood
So what d'ya think they'll do?
Show caution lest they cause a wound?
Be circumspect and wise?
Alas, but no, these dimbulb knights
Are aiming at each other's eyes!
No doubt there's one who'll rue the day
And cry to his own mommy dearest,
"Twas fun and games, the merest play!"
And her, "A fool thou dost appearest."

Tuesday, November 20, 2012

The Secret Lives of Monks

.
..
...
Medieval ergonomics being what they were
Monks would get terrible backaches.
They'd sit slouched under arches in order to incur
This pain, and after lie awake
The night through, except when they rose to chant sweetly,
Or were they, (be it not so!) fakes?!
Such cynical thoughts might be par for the course lately,
But should be left to fools and rakes.
No, they sang through the pain at all hours of the night
They grimaced under cowls til the dawn's first light.
And said not a word of those knots in their backs
Except for the occasional spasmodic attacks.
...
..
.

Saturday, November 17, 2012

Catharsis

The pestle is the stick, you see,
The mortar is the bowl.
Put some grain inside and "Whee!"
You're ready now to roll.

Crush the grain with vigor
Give it all you've got
Grind it into powder, man,
As you surely ought.

Think of doing justice!
Think of righting wrong!
Think of rank iniquity
And crush it with a song!

Friday, November 16, 2012

My Wife - The Not-Nun



My wife is not a nun
She isn't in the habit
Of abbeys she knows none
Though Abby and her rabbit
Are both there on her lap
And singing baby rap.

My wife is not a sister
But has a little Patience
For living with a ginger
As one of your relations
Is trying for religious too
But she'll press on and make it through.

Tuesday, November 13, 2012

Art Garfunkel's Hair



Have you ever thought about Art Garfunkel's hair?
Is he balding, do you think?
Or is his hairline receding?
My wife swears it's the latter,
Though it doesn't really matter.
At least, that's what I was conceding
When I left to fill her drink.
Have you ever thought about Art Garfunkel's hair?

Friday, November 9, 2012

Byzantine Slang Talkin'







The sainted fellow, at the meeting,
Raised his hands in sacred greeting,
"What is up my homey fellow?"
Lamb said, "Feelin' kinda mellow."



Thursday, November 8, 2012

Ancient

I love gorgeous Byzantine things.
I love knicked-up golden rings.
I love blue that stirs the heart.
I love tears before they start.
I love saints from days gone by
Though I don't have reasons why.
I love things with layered dust.
I love things that have some rust.
I love melancholy flame.
I love saying Jesus' name.
Sadness comes and broods by me,
But Jesus comes and sets me free.

Four More Years! (a political aphorism)

If at first you don't succeed, fail, fail again.

Wednesday, November 7, 2012

A Lament

Oh, what have we done?
Perhaps our race is finally run?
Perhaps we're near the end?
Or is it just another bend?

Wednesday, October 17, 2012

The Little Cough

There's a cough, little cough,
who is trying to say,
"I wish I could stay here.
I wish I could stay!
But there is a lady
Who's sitting right there;
To camp out with you,
Well, it wouldn't be fair."

"Ok, little cough,
I give you permission.
Go to the lady
For whom you've been wishin'.
But when you are gone
You'd best not return
For you and your kind
I am aiming to spurn."

Monday, October 8, 2012

Abigail Speaks

I have a small baby who farts.
Her "wisdom" she freely imparts.
She lets loose a toot,
That cute little coot,
From a onesie all covered with hearts.

Monday, October 1, 2012

The Slow March of Suicide

My ol' uncle refuses even to consider the idea.
Something is wrong; he's coughing blood
But he just lights up another heater,
Saying, "Never killed me before.
I'll have a couple more fingers of bourbon, barkeep."

He is dying.
It doesn't mean he will actually die.
No, there's no reason for it.
But somehow it seems, all joviality aside,
That he's had his run and doesn't care much
But to have another and another and tell jokes
And make believe and throw his arms up,
"Nobody could have done better,
But sometimes you hit the end of the road."
As if dull platitudes absolved him of suicide.
"Bourbon, Sam?"  "Yeah, sure, make it a double."

Sunday, September 30, 2012

Evil Once Begun

I'm really not too fond of Muhammed;
Though I'll admit to not knowing him personally.
He's been dead for rather a long time.
Quite dead.
And yet he lives on
One of the most influential people 'round these days.
And people keep dying.
"No fair," you say, "It's rather unjust to pin it all on him."
What began in violence continues in violence.
He's no innocent bystander, no.
He's a dead tyrant for whom people murder.
There is no millstone too large.

Monday, September 24, 2012

"The Future Bishop" or "An Essai at Speaking Well of an Enemy"

He was a boy once too and took it all in,
The pious expressions and necessities
That his parents staked their lives on.
He saw the earnest desire to be good.

But in those days so many things were changing
And moving and catching his eye.
The piety of his elders hardly alive
Except in reference to itself.

And so he struck out to blaze a new trail,
To know the truth, yes, always that,
But to live for others no matter the cost,
To be bold, to be new, to shake off the dust.

Friday, September 21, 2012

On Texting

Tiny type is irritating
Demands of one some concentrating
But if one has largish thumbs
It's best to eat a couple Tums.

Wednesday, September 19, 2012

God the Persistent

I closed up the curtains
And covered my eyes
I ran to the basement
And to my surprise
The light of the day
Had just followed me there
Shining so bright
That I started to stare
"What in the world
Are you trying to do?
Surely you know
That I don't believe you"
Thus did I talk
To the one I thought myth.

He just replied
With considerable pith,
"Whine if you like
And run far away
Like it or leave it
I'm here to stay.
So get with the program
Or screw it up more
Go be creative
Or just be a bore.
Sooner or later
You will know with precision
That you are my son and I've made my decision."

Wednesday, September 12, 2012

Impregnable Obliviousness

Truth: A blind ostrich
Doesn't need to stuff his head
In the ground at all.

Thursday, September 6, 2012

Fly-ku

Window-relaxing
Leads inexorably to....
Splattered guts and death.

Thursday, August 23, 2012

Abby Limerick

My daughter is named for a monk place.
Thank God she hasn't a monk face.
No, hers is quite chubby,
And cutely so grubby,
While monks, theirs are saved just by grace.

Abbey Limerick

There once was an abbot in Spain.
A planter of monastic grain.
He planted his seeds
And tore out the weeds
While wearing his cassock so plain.

Tuesday, July 10, 2012

My Boy on the Beach

Little Boy Benjamin showing off his gut.
Shorts fall down and out pops his butt.
Squeal of delight and smile so big.
Shame 'cause he's nakey? He don't give a fig.

Monday, July 9, 2012

Dr. Snoose

Dr. Snoose is just plain silly.
He rhymes words with facitilly.
He is like a big, brown brame (insert picture of large, dumb-looking animal)
Cuddly? Yes.  But also lame.

Saturday, July 7, 2012

Drought

The earth all around is cracked clay
Held together by weeds and dying soybeans,
Water a memory.

Friday, July 6, 2012

In Memory of Stella Hult (1923-2012)


Life began and early you heard
Words beyond your tender comprehension:
"I baptize you," he said.
"See there, you're dead.
Now,...
In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit
Rise, Stella, rise."
....
What a surprise!
Somehow clinging to fickle water,
Was a promise.
"You are my daughter."

Life has now ended and still you will hear
Words that defy every measure:
"Come now, Beloved,
My promise is sure,
Sealed against tarnish and age.
Now raised again you will see at long last
The one in whose image you were made."

Wednesday, July 4, 2012

DOOM!!!!

Damocles is long retired.
No doubt too the sons he sired.
Yet his sword remains as e'er
Dangling wicked in the air.
Doom is but a breath away
Watch your neck!  Get away!
Ah, if only t'were so easy
Don't read news that makes you queasy.
But it's coming after you
Damocles' wicked crew!!!

Tuesday, June 12, 2012

The State and Us

I sometimes take part in poetry contests over at the blog, Lutheran Surrealism.  The topic this time around is "The State."  The thought that occurred to me is that for people like me it is very easy to see the state as an almost foreign entity. The state is something that is done to me; it's not my fault!  But there is something problematic about that. It's too easy.  It's dodging responsibility.  And it denies that a democratic state is a reflection of its citizens.


But how can I affect what the state is?  Do I really have any control over it?  The obvious answer is that I can vote.  And I can participate in politics in some fashion.  Sure, that's true.  But I don't think that's the ultimate answer; it's just the obvious one.  


I think that I participate in the state, and particularly its reform, by accepting responsibility for it on the one hand, and on the other by living independently of it, insofar as I am able.  There is no purity in insisting upon my innocence, but there the solution lies in living one's independence, not just thinking about it or bemoaning its loss.


He removed the mirror from his bathroom
In hope that its daily revelation
Would prove untrue.


He perceived words of poetry
That cut into him
As mostly for you.


And the state that he lived with
But could live without
Just grew and grew.


It was his reflection,
Both warts and apathy.
But still he knew...


He knew that the ugliness
And what he couldn't bear to see
Must be you.


Unloveliness, unjustice, untruth...
Inactive, insolvent, indelible...
The state and us.

Sunday, May 27, 2012

Memorial Day

I saw a field of rippling flags
With tombstones 'ranged beneath.
It gave me cause for gratitude
And sorrow too, and grief.

Friday, May 25, 2012

Bad Pickup Lines

  • "I would pick you up, but you're too heavy."
  • "I'd buy you a drink, but I can't a Ford to."
Luckily, I am married.  Otherwise, I would be a lonely, lonely man.

Tuesday, May 22, 2012

Household Wisdom

In thinking on the facts of life
I think it's best to have a wife.

Sunday, May 20, 2012

The 50 Yard Dash

When I regard the stately tree
I think, "I'm faster, sure, than thee."

Tuesday, May 15, 2012

A Quick Look (as I turn a prime number)

With kidlings and bride
I'm burstin' with pride.
So seven and thirty
Is lookin' right purdy.

Monday, May 7, 2012

The Forgetten

Down in my basement there's TV
With channels on it, two or three
Or maybe more?  It's hard to tell.
Beneath the dust that on it fell
Since early winter, months ago,
When men in tights ran to and fro.

Tuesday, May 1, 2012

Snakes

I say a prayer for shady snakes
That they too might be blessed.
And maybe stop their slithering
And give their hiss a rest.

Sunday, April 22, 2012

Pass the Ammunition

In my room there's a fly
Which is why
I
Cry,
"Die!"


Friday, April 20, 2012

What to Do In Absence of Marital Love

Wife's gone to Minnesota
Oh dear, what shall I do?
I think I'll wander into town
And buy a steak or two.
I'll fire up the barbie
And kick back on the deck.
I may be saddened when she's gone,
But I needn't be a wreck.