Bold

My love, you are a rose that I saw this summer,
Basking in the sun, and preparing to burst out.
By tender beauty wrapped 'round, softer than velvet,
Your color brash and bold, your principles to shout.
No space-filler you, no one out of the dozen,
No timid bloom blending to the background of green.
You pronounce yourself present at such time you choose
Proclaiming truth with confidence, to be seen
By those with eyes to see, no apology.
Too often we've been soothed by weak timidity
And had our boldness blunted, our color bleached out.
But God calls not the rose to shrink, a timid violet
Or ponder long on lists of troubles that beset,
But show his glorious color in all things round about.

Along the Charles

Blurry Boston's on my right.
I got the worst in a fist fight.
Or so it seems; I'm feeling groggy
Or is it just the night that's foggy?

A Limerick for My Wife on her Birthday

Kingdavid informs me that it is National Bad Poetry Day. It is also my wife's birthday. So I have cleverly combined the two in this toxic brew that is sure to get me in trouble. Just for the record, this is purely fanciful. She doesn't color her hair to cover up gray (though she has promised to do so as soon as necessary and until the day she dies.)

There once was a wife who was aging.
'Gainst little grey hairs she was waging
A war to the pain
While she put on more stain.
When she reads this she'll surely be raging.

Happy Birthday my Love!!!

Hats off to Music

I'd like a fur hat to wear when I'm drumming.
Or maybe a mitre to wear as I'm strumming?
There's something 'bout hats that's so full of appeal.
They fill me with burgeoning globules of zeal.
So trill on your piccolos, ye of coonskin caps
While men in fedoras write Italian raps.

The Moo-Cow Pet

I tried to catch a cow one day,
To catch her in a net.
She was just a-standing there,
A-looking like a pet.
She gave a moo so startled
I swear she must have swore,
But then I dragged my new cow pet
Right through my kitchen door.
So now I've got a moo-cow
Making messes on my floor.

An Ode to Some Sausages

Oh dear little sausages filling the pan,
I'm frying you up for to eat you.
The pan that you're in belongs to my gran,
But she'll only have one, I'll have two.
For you're tasty, you see, much better than toast,
Though no one's as good as a good Sunday roast!
So thank you for frying, it's been awful nice
Next time think two times before you entice.