Different Kinds of Swans

Swans, when they swim,
In the shadowy dim
Are silent as twilight
As quiet as shame.

But swans, when they fly,
Are trumpeters calling
Good news of migration
Of Spring that's to come.

Inverted Haikus on the Laying Geese of Christmas

I've been told by my father

That, Dickens aside,

Geese are very fatty birds.

So, lay what eggs you care to,

I shan't be eating,

Not from one nor six of ye.

Five Golden Rings

I've got two hands

With five fingers attached to the end of each.

Five golden rings might be apportioned

In six different ways:

5-0, 4-1, 3-2, 2-3, 1-4, 0-5.

In all but the middle two

Rings would be placed on contiguous fingers.

On contiguous fingers, I say!

I don't like that.  

The rings would rub against each other,

They'd get clunky

And clanky

And pinchy.

And the gold would get

Scraped and dented.

Much better, I think,

To receive one,

Singular,

Solitary,

Tungsten Carbide Ring.

Zero fights with other rings.

Less pinching of flesh.

No noise to speak of.

I want a ring that means something 

By itself.

Stoogey Crows

I once saw a murder of crows,
All Larrys and Curleys and Moes.
They buffooned around,
Slapsticked on the ground,
Then from our backyard they arose.

Weasels on the March (a Christmas poem)

When the snow comes down
And the sky gets gray
You'd better run real quick.
For the weasels march
On that very day
And those beasts are prone to lick.
They salt your knees
Like a plate of peas
And they give a little bite,
Then they stop their games,
And they end their tease
And eat your knees outright!
So watch those weasels
When it snows
Or you'll be limping then.
And you'll be sorry
For your woes.
Mark these words, my friend.

Family Christmas

A glorious weaving of threads
Assembling itself like a dream?
A caucophonic, lurching nightmare
Floral print and stripes, frayed at the seem?
Relationships fitting together,
Tailored by expert fingers?
Or tears and stains and clashes;
With an odor that lingers?
Families are more than their members,
More than a gath'ring of I's.
A tapestry woven together
By hands both winsome and wise.

Baby Constipation Haiku (part two)

He fills the diaper.
"Great bowels of joy, Batman!"
Baby knows relief.

Theoretical Baby Constipation

When baby don't poop
Ain't nobody happy,
Cause baby stuffed solid
Ain't happy-clappy.
So ex-lax yer babies
Before they get packed
And then yer poor ears
Will get out intact.

A Bad Class Continued

Perhaps if my ears just fell off
I'd no longer need to keep hearing
And then the temptation to scoff
Would, like a Toyota, go veering
Off of a cliff with no brakes to restrain
And turn off the throbbing that's hurting my brain.

A Bad Class (a haiku of frustration)

Sitting patiently
Enduring ceaseless chatter.
Woe!  When will it end?

Bill and the Talking Cow (A Limerick)

There once was a rancher named Bill
Who loved to put steak on the grill.
His cattle rebelled
And one loudly yelled,
"Why do you so love to kill?"

A Winter Driving Haiku

Starting, braking, STOP.
Driving can be quite a chore
When others drive too.

A Tasty Limerick

In times when the weather gets cold

The ice weasels start to get bold.

They chew on small dogs,

Pig out on the hogs

And nibble the sheep in the fold.

The Blizzard

It snowed and snowed throughout the day

The winter sky was shaking

All the dandruff from its hair.

Now that's what I call flaking!

Shovelers were saying curses,

"Blast this snow to hell!"

Sorry friends, you're out of luck

'Cause it already fell.

Mad Libs Poem (written with my lovely wife)

O for love of Branston Pickle
I'd eat you in a cornfield,
Spread you onto peanut brickle
And 'gainst my enemies wield
The awful taste that from you falls,
The stink of cow and horsey stalls.

A Mad Lib Poem is written by asking an innocent bystander (my wife) for words without telling her the context.  Hence the nonsensical poem.  Oh, and Branston Pickle is actually a wonderful thing.  I love it.  But the thought of it on Peanut Butter Brickle?  That's just gross.

Whatever Comes

In the deep dark morning,
When wind is cold
Its cruelty bold
I rise to face whatever comes

Then the day starts morphing
The winds depart
And sniffles start
I stay to fight whatever comes

The day is fading, night is come
My eyes like lead
The light is dead
I sleep and trust whatever comes

For Gino (an epic sonnet)

There once was a team from The Lake
Who'd constantly give me the fake.
They'd lose to the Lion
And then, loss defyin',
They'd go for one more score to make.

Til There Was You (winter edition)

There was snow on the drive, 
But I never started shoveling.
No I never shoveled at all
Til there was you.


There was ice, on the walk,
But I never started salting.
No I never salted at all
Til there was you.


   There was slipping,
   Such terrible crashes.
   They tell me
   Legs flopping skyward and then, and then...

There was sleet on the steps
But I never started scraping
No I never scraped them at all
Til there was you.

Chaocity

Every day a small tornado

Whips about the house

Flings around our mouse

Messes stuff so up and all akimbo.

Blankets not on beds,

Milk-drenched, spitty rags, 

Pampered Chef mags,

Mugs, rugs, Pugs and hugs,

     It's all jumbled.

I want a magic wand

To lay down smack,

To take the order back,

To ward off any flack.

     But it's all jumbled.

Every day a small tornado

Laughs at my lack

Of magic wand smack.

"My"ku

Get yer stinkin' hands
Off MY delicious donut,
Ya dern jackwagon!