My Boy this Morning (at 13 months)

I took my boy out in the rain.
He sat on rocks and let them fly
Or rather dropped them from his hand;
It doesn't mean he didn't try.
A droplet hit his blondish hair
And made a splat that gave him pause
"What's this that's cool and... oh what's that?"
A question's worth more than 'because.'

A Cheer

My wife hates football.
Yes it's true.
She's in a fantasy league.
How 'bout you?

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Perhaps even lamer than usual, but I wanted to mark the occasion of my wife entering a fantasy football league with a cheer because I love football.  My question, "How will hatred and participation co-exist?"  We'll see.  Ultimately it's not important because neither depends on the Packers winning the Super Bowl again.

Shopping

While up north in Ely
My dear wife and I
Went looking through windows
And sometimes passed by,
But other times went we
On into the stores
And stayed past the point
When started my snores.

I love my wife dearly
And so want to help,
But shopping's so boring.
I'd rather snort kelp.
So many sizes and colors and styles
The bothersome choices go on for five miles!
(Not so with my patience,
It goes without saying.)
This store's got two levels,
I'm sure we'll be staying.

A Nirvana Limerick

I hear grungy singing is waning.
The younsters are flat out complaining.
    "That music is old;
      It leaves us quite cold."
This marks the clear end of Cobaining.

Death: The Ultimate Writer's Block

Flannery O'Connor's already a goner
And F. Scott Fitzgerald is dead.
If E. Hemmingway were alive today
I wonder what he would have said?
But just like the others he's lost all his druthers
And hasn't a new word to throw.
That is the trouble; we all turn to rubble.
Just ask ol' Henry Thoreau.

Fall Lake in August

The fall in the river,

     there in the twilight,

     as aspen leaves danced

          in the last light of day,

Conjured a magic

     by virtue of beauty

     and sonorous laughter

          so playful and gay.

While there with my dearest

     we scrambled on pathways

     and crawled upon boulders

          with little to say,

But just our enchantment

     at being together

     and watching the sunset

          while lost in our play.

Prose!

I went on vacation with my wife.  We were up on Lake Superior with the baby boy and two of my in-laws.  As a side note, saying that someone is an in-law sounds so cold.  I don't mean it that way; I'm just being descriptive.  At any rate, they went home, taking the boy, and my wife and I continued to a little town up by the Boundary Waters.  We walked and shopped and ate and hiked and slept in.  And we read books.  And I bought a swanky book and wrote poetry.  And we also went to a concert.  That's what yesterday's poem is about.  This fellow was pretty good, but there were only 8 of us there in the audience.  Later, a few more people came, but I felt bad for him.  We decided to come home a day early because we missed our baby.  On the way back we stopped for a doughnut and accidentally bought a walnut credenza.  True story.  It was a steal.  Alrighty then, that's enough prose for this year.

The Performer

Is it silly
     to feel sorry
          for the fellow
               on the stage?

There he's playing
     -while we're looking-
          like a monkey
               in a cage.

Boy and Father by the Lake

I took the boy upon the rocks
Not far from chilly waves.
He squirmed like larva to get free;
I prepped to make some saves.
He walked and crawled with clear delight
My boy, he loves to potter.
And frequently I lunged to save
My boy from cruel, cold water.

A Superior Poem? (or just a pun)

On the cusp of vacation or already in?

I'm not sure exactly when this thing begins.

The work is all over, of that I am sure,

But I'm not yet relaxing, stretched out on the shore.

Clarity's coming and sloth in its wake

Out on a chaise-lounge aside of the lake.

Excerpt from an EPIC Poem about our new van (if we buy it)

Soaring through the night air on eagle's wings,
Shooting with missiles all evil things,
Decked out like a gangsta with various blings,
Oh mini-van, you are The Very Thing.

If I weren't married, I'd give you a ring.
C'mon everyone, lift your voice and sing!
Oh mini-van, you are The Very Thing.

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I asked my wife what I should write a poem about this morning and she said, "the van."  You see, my wife and I are hoping to buy a pretty snazzy mini-van to fit our family needs and make our lives happier and more fulfilled.

A Truism (Garfield nothwithstanding)

Cat ladies have cats;
This goes without saying.
But very few rats,
'Cause cats are dismaying.

Math

Two ninety six
Plus seven eleven
Equals one thousand
And also a seven.
Try as you might
To argue against,
The laws of mathematics
Have sure got you fenced.

A Recollection

I remember buying a rubber band gun,
One trip, when we went out West.
Shapely, like a Colt 45,  just the thing
To occupy a boy's interest.
The two barrels didn't get pointed too much
At my sister, not as I recall.
Which is a wonder, in a way!
Because I was sometimes awful,
Teasing her to get a squawk.
Instead I pointed at the unmoving:
Trees, signs and the odd rock,
Off which there were plenty
Along those highways going up
Stretching towards the Rockies,
And on over the top.

Weed

I play in the garden.
I pull out a weed.
Then I go away
For to buy what I need.
Then when I return
I find that some seed
Has grown up again
Into a great weed.
Alas and alack!
I'm not driven by greed!
I just want a garden
That is missing a weed.

Limerick on the Importance of Not Getting Playing Cards Greasy (a hypothetical poem)

If Pringles were sold in a bag
And came with a stylish rag,
I'd eat all the shards,
But before playing cards,
Wipe my hands on that rag that were swag.

The Angry Shoulder

The angry shoulder twists me 'round
And hits me in the gut.
It's like a man who sees a dog
And kicks that mangy mutt.

"Your pretty pills, they make me laugh,"
My angry shoulder growls.
Punching harder with a scowl
While I let slip some howls.

Thoughts on My Young Son Finding a Lady (in the wake of a bad case of bed face.)

My baby has just come to me
The marks of bed on face,
And I'm not talkin' just a hint
Or just a little trace.
Indentations, deeply grooved,
Impermanent I hope!
Or getting girls will be a chore,
He'd prob'ly need a rope.