Lords Don't Leap for Just Any Old Thing (the 10th Day)

The Earl of Gloucester, the Baron of Kent,
The Duke of the county of Devon,
All were together and sporting one day
When 'round bout the hour of eleven
A maiden passed by and shouted out loud,
"Thy feet are like old hunks of stone!"
And like a gazelle she did prance on her way
Thus leaving the lords all alone.
"What did she say?" said the Earl with a huff,
I'm bouncy as bouncy can be!"
"Ha, ha" said the Baron with obvious mirth,
"I'm surely more nimble than thee."
"Codswollop, gents.  I think it's quite clear,"
Said the Duke with superior air.
"I'll leapfrog ye both.  I'll go flying by
And leave several furlongs to spare!"
So right on the spot, without wasting a breath
The lords started leaping like toads.
And so lost in fun did those same lords become
That they leaped several miles down the road.

Progressing Haikus (The 9th Day of Christmas)

When I dance
The awkward steps up...
And trips me.

When nine ladies dance
The graceful pirouetting
Is smooth like butter.

When I dance with nine ladies
The butter greases the parquet floor
And we all crash and break limbs.

Hope I Don't Get In Trouble for the Eight Day of Christmas

When baby came the milk did too
For health and strength to bring.
My wife's been pumping for some time
And will do till the Spring.

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!

Lieku

"No Money Down" (heh)
"No interest for the first year"
Dive on in and drown.

Highku

Where you find yourself

After climbing a mountain

Or going up stairs.

The Shadow of the Axe (Part Five)

(Originally posted Thanksgiving 2008)

Cesar and his turkeys crept up the stairs from the dank basement into the kitchen. A chill ran down their giblets when they saw the oven door leering at them out of the darkness. It quietly taunted them, "I've known your kind. And I'll know each and every one of you too. Just give it time. There's no use fighting." It was a curiously verbal oven. Or so it seemed.

Cesar mastered himself, gobbling under his breath; ultimately he had no quarrel with an appliance. "Focus," his inner voice said, "on the task at hand. Down the hallway, second door on the left." He floated down the corridor like a barnyard ninja, axe in hand, nerves taut and ready.

And then a muffled sob pierced his ear like whatever it is those people at Claire's use to pierce ears with.  Cesar wheeled around back towards the kitchen, signaling the others to follow. And there was Sylvester sobbing and beating his fists impotently on the oven door.

Cesar didn't hesitate. He swung the axe with deadly grace, artfully detaching Sylvester's head. "Fool!" he hissed.

The other turkeys were frozen, transfixed by the spectacle, horrified by the bloodied axe and the malevolent Cesar. His gaze turned towards theirs and it was as if he was basting them with fear. The tension couldn't hold, something had to give.

And then light invaded the kitchen like a blitzkrieg. There stood Farmer Earl decked out in longjohns and his Colt 45. "Dumb turkeys" he said softly.

And then he started to shoot.

----------------------------------------------

Happy Thanksgiving!!! Keep an eye on your turkey; they're crafty beasts.

The Shadow of the Axe (Part Four)

"Honey?"

"Scnixgh-uhngfff"

"Honey!"

"What?" Farmer Earl rolled over and tried to open his eyes, but the art of sleep and the mysteries of physiology contrived to make them curiously unresponsive.

"Earl, there's a noise in the kitchen!"

Well art and mysteries be darned to heck, nobody messed with Earl's abode, which he lovingly called Chateau Jones. His eyes flew open and without needing to think his body left the bed and his hand reached towards the antique box under his nightstand. The box was black except for some gouges and chipped edges that it had acquired through more years of service than Earl even knew. The box and its contents were the one thing that the cranky old farmer had received when his pappi had died so many years ago. There hadn't been any money and the land had passed to his older brother Josiah who had quickly sold it and used the proceeds to move to the city, a longstanding dream. That golden dream had turned to pyrite within a year when the bottom fell out of the real estate market after the dumb government forced lenders to make bad loans to underqualified applicants. No matter to Earl, who had never cared for his elder brother's self-indulgence (or his explosive flatulence for that matter). And anyways, Earl had gotten what was of real value, the worn black box, his father's treasure and his grandfather's before that.

He silently reached inside.

(to be continued)

The Shadow of the Axe (Part Three)

(Originally posted Thanksgiving 2008)

That night the frosty wind made moan. The earth stood hard as iron. The farmhouse stood unlit, Letterman was over and even Conan was asleep. It was the second watch of the night... but nobody was watching. Nobody save for Cesar and his ill-tempered cohort. Yes, they were watching the farmhouse with icy malice.

And the clock ticked.

Cesar quietly contemplated the razor edge of his axe and lost himself in a dream wherein he danced a perfunctory tango on the sharpened apex of steel, which plunged down cruelly in either direction. Yet he danced unconcerned. His partner was a shadow, a mere vapor, perhaps death itself. No matter; he danced as unto himself.

"Cesar!"

The calling of his name startled him out of his morbid reverie. He knew that it was time.

The band of turkeys advanced on the house from the side opposite the bedroom where Earl and his wife lay asleep. The old-fashioned cellar door was never locked. The turkeys knew this from the regular poker nights that they held in the farmhouse basement. And so they slipped in, as quietly as tea infusing hot water, as lethal as eating the wrong kind of mushroom.

(to be continued)

The Shadow of the Axe (Part Two)

(Originally posted Thanksgiving 2008)

The wind cut less sharply amongst the trees, but that wasn't why the turkeys were gathering there. No, it was a different kind of cutting that had their wattles all a-quiver. The kind of cutting that left their wattles and snoods next to the bloody axe in the yard while the rest of them got innapropriately touched and shoved in an oven. But not this year. This gaggle, brood, flock, gang of hardened turkeys wasn't going to take so much as a word of friendly advice from the farmer much less a blow to the head. And so they gathered.

Not being much for words they milled around and made gobbley noises. It was a combination of nerves and very small and easily distracted brains. But when Cesar arrived with the axe their focus got razor sharp... like an axe.

"Brothers," he intoned, "the time has come to bury the axe." Cesar paused, looked around with and intensity that only a large, flightless bird can muster, and then spat towards the farmhouse. "The time has come to bury the axe in Farmer Earl's back!" he roared, though in truth it just sounded like some spastic and overly ernest clucking.

No matter. The other turkeys understood his words. They understood his grim truth. And any sense of mercy or philosophical resignation on their part had died along with Phil the year before. Earl had to die.

(to be continued)

The Shadow of the Axe (Part One)

(Originally posted Thanksgiving 2008)

The sky was brooding over the stubbled fields like an angry mother hen, just waiting to criticize the rural landscape with sleety derision. Cowed, the cows kept close to the barn door, which was open. They were not interested in picking fights or suffering the consequences of being too big for their, um... britches. But the turkeys? Now they were a different story. The turkey's didn't give a damn about the poultropomorphic sky. Chickens weren't their allies anways, certainly not come November time. And so the turkeys wandered to the pine windbreak along the edge of the field, sauntering casual-like in small groups so as not to attract undo attention....

(to be continued)

At the Airport: A Gropeku

Reaching and fondling:

Lonely TSA agents

Search for love at work.

Haircuts

My wife gets mean with scissors

And flies at folks in fury,
Hacking off their sundry hairs
Until they are less furry.

SNIP!!!!  snipsnipsnipsnipsnip.....

She's like a chihuahua without meds

Attacking people's heads.

Grope Away

I go to the airport
Whene'er I feel lonely
To get tingly feelings
From agents with wands.

They put me through scanners
And leer at my x-rays.
They pat down my privates
As if I've done wrong.

They need a good slapping
For they have forgotten
That we're not the problem
(But they just don't care.)

They'd rather prod me
Than risk offending
The dears who love terr'rists
The people at CAIR.

Prose For My Wife

Posts here don't need to be poems, do they?

Because there is something I'd love to say

But I don't really want to put it in verse.

I love you my dear. And I try to rehearse

This in actions every hour, every day,

Sometimes better and sometimes worse,

But knowing just how much I'm blessed;

You're a  gift of grace at God's behest.

Spudku

Crunch, crackle, crunch crunch

Potato chips resonate 

Each time you chew 'em.

Abiding

I had a piece of beef for lunch
I put it in my gullet.
One day I hope to grow my hair
And sport a rockin' mullet.
Life is great and changes come
But some things just abide
Like odor in the kitchen
From bacon that's been fried.

In the North of Iowa (sung to the tune of "What Do You Do with a Drunken Sailor")

Went on a trip to the north of Iowa
Went on a trip to the north of Iowa
Went on a trip to the north of Iowa
Early in the morning.

Not many trees in the north of Iowa
Not many trees in the north of Iowa
Not many trees in the north of Iowa
Early in the morning.

But there were fields in the north of Iowa
But there were fields in the north of Iowa
But there were fields in the north of Iowa
Early in the morning.

Folks were great in the north of Iowa
Folks were great in the north of Iowa
Folks were great in the north of Iowa
Early in the morning.

Post-Election

Elections do not solve problems;
They just open/shut doors
To possible solutions
And inanity.
This year is no different.
The real Messiah 
Works other channels.

Unfinished Thoughts on Drool and Necessity

The little guy awoke that morning, put on his sweater, tossled his hair and declared, "I am a baby and as such I have decided to drool.  Yes I said drool.  I shall exult in it all day.  Can I get an Amen?" 

And so he swaggered along, confident in his conviction, anchored to his determination, chubby to the cheeks.  It did not seem to occur to him that, lacking any tooth matter and only dimly aware of the full power of his tongue, drooling was a rather natural, almost thoughtless action, much like the breathing that he'd been doing for upwards of three months.  He was as bound to the drool as he was to his toes, if not more.  No matter.  The drool was the thing and the thing was his.  Selah.

It was later in the day, after much salivary success, that a mood of melancholy descended upon him.  "Salivation is not enough.  Mere nature and the tipping of the hat to supposed necessity doesn't get one far.  Exulting in it is even worse!  Who will deliver me from this body of drool?"

Roll On Winter

The rain on my windows would surely be snow
If only the temp were at seven below.
Alas it is warmer and soggy therefore,
And sadly devoid of the snow I adore.

Magical flakes in the air all around
Humming that noiseless, intangible sound,
Weaving their way like a drunken parade
Crystalline strands in a wintertime braid.

Bother it all that the spell's not yet cast,
Large plunking droplets are still falling fast,
Earth knows no cover of angelic white,
The dark of deep autumn has yet to take flight.

Bacon Arrives Just In Time

I went to lift weights
And now I'm all tired;
In dire muscle soreness
I'll surely be mired
Come Saturday morning
Unless I'm mistaken.
Just to be safe
I'd better eat bacon.

The bacon, in this instance, is a delicious non sequitur

The Cutest Darn Bee that You'll Ever See

The baby's a bee
As you can well see.
There is none cuter,
None cuter than he!

He's yellow and black
And prone to attack
With oodles of slobber,
Poo, pee and some yack.

He's charming and suave;
He doesn't wear mauve.
When he learns Hebrew
He'll shout, "Mozel Tov!"

Defending the Noble Cow

I once knew a cow who was friendly
We'd talk every once in awhile.
Such a good neighbor was this lovely cow;
She'd rake all my leaves in a pile.
Then I began to feel guilty
Her selflessness made me look bad
So I told all the neighbors that something was wrong
That the dear cow was going quite mad.
"We haven't a minute to lose, friends;
Here she comes with a bag and a rake!
We'll bonk her cow-head
And make sure that she's dead.
Then turn that mad cow into steak!"
My neighbors were not fooled for a minute
And told me to bite on my tongue.
"Nay, my dear neighbors, I'm rather eat cow!"
And with that my poor neck they wrung.

Hope I Don't Get Any Complaints from Cow Lawyers

There are different kinds of meat
Most of which are good.
All except the offal
Which isn't even food.
The others, though, are tasty,
Better than sliced bread.
I'm happy for the lives of cows
Especially when they're dead.

Call

To Ioway I'm goin' soon
With wife and child and all.
We're headin' south with happy hearts
To answer God's own call.
Friends are there, though yet unknown,
With blessings yet untold.
And we'll bless them with all we've got;
May God's love make us bold!

Woe to Italy When Opera Dies

I thought all Italians liked opera?
Puccini, Rossini et al...
Patriot love of their country
Standing incredibly tall.
But mezzo sopranos are dusty
And less loved than back in the day.
And misguided miscreant jokers
E'en suggest opera lovers are gay!
What's next? Is pesto in danger?
Can Tuscany be far behind?
Italy, cling to your culture,
Protect it from unsavory mind.

...Midnight Snack Time

I
Ate
A taco
With beans
And guacamole
And leaves of cilantro.
I am done now
And have
A box
For
...

Where Bacon and Religion Intersect

I eat a pound of bacon
To start the day off right
And then a pound at dinner time
To get me through the night.
It fills me full of goodness,
A porcine piety,
Culinary righteousness
I think you would agree.

Short But Sweet (or Bitter)

I hate the Bears.
Harumph.  Who cares?

Lieku

I didn't do it.
Billy broke the vase.  I swear!
Am I in trouble?

Victorian Ode

The streets of dear London in bygone years
Were haunted by men with long sideburns.
They wore their nice suits, though frayed at the edge,
And kept close to their vests, taciturn.
Dickensian charmers with unlikely names
Like Picklesworth, Tweedle and Frump,
They ate porridge mornings and when evening came,
Ate stew with indefinite lump.
Black were their lungs from the soot in the air,
And pale was their skin from the fog,
Dickensian men who would gather at night
To drink ale at the Hare and the Hog.
Hail to these gents who have all passed away
Three cheers for their manners so couth.
They were Victorians down to the bone,
Great Englishmen all.  Yea, forsooth.

Ahhhhh

I wrote a paper, now it's done;
It's time for laziness and fun.
I'll hold the baby, change his pants
And read some electoral rants.
Life is good, yes all is right.
I hope the Yankees lose tonight!

Allergies

Allergies are like small invisible elves
Stuffing cotton balls up your nose
Then installing a water feature that flows (and flows).

Allergies are like little angry rodents
Making a den behind your eye
And stabbing you with pitchforks till you cry.

Allergies are like a thousand chickens
Pooping in an unventilated room.
They stink.

Pieku

Oozing hot rhubarb
Dolled up nicely with sugar,
Tart and delicious.

Cognitive Dissonance in Sporting Form

Skol Packers, let's win this game,
Skol Packers, honor your name,
Go get that first down,
Then get a touchdown.
Rock 'em . . . Sock 'em
Fight! Fight! Fight! Fight!
Go Packers, run up the score,
You'll hear us yell for more. . .
P-A-C-K-E-R-S
Skol, Packers, let's go!

Baby at the Table

There's a baby at the table
Who doesn't know what's up.
Forks and knives and barbecues
And bottles of ketchup
Are sitting there and looking back
At his gaze perplexed.
"What are all these things about?
They've really got me vexed."
Worry not my babykins
For one day you shall eat
Not just milk from mama's breast,
But lots of yummy meat!

Short But Sweet

School starts today.
Yay.

Take it how you will.  ;)

A Wedding

I went to a wedding and what did I see?
A groom and a bride in their felicity,
Saying those vows with a calm savoir-faire
Promising always their whole lives to share.
The key to this bliss, the place where it starts
Is to serve one another with servant hearts
Like the Lord Jesus Christ, (as written by Paul).
Enjoy one another!  Go have a ball!

Words for the Wee One

It seems there are days when a baby decides
To leaven our lives with some tears.
Crying with vigor and patience to spare,
Eventually stirring up fears.
Is he unwell?  Has he gotten the bug?
Is there something that we haven't done?
Or is he just grouchy for reasons unknown?
Either way it isn't much fun.
So sleep little baby, I thee do entreat,
For the sake of your mother and me.
And sleep little babe, for the sake of yourself,
Lest your face freeze looking angry.

Nudist Hippie Attacked By Police

I try to live life by the seat of my pants,
To make quick decisions with flair.
I'm looking for ways that just might enhance
Every day by the things that I wear.
And so, as it happened, on a day just last week
I walked down the street quite not nude.
And up came a thought that I ne'er did seek,
A thought that some folks might think rude!
Off went my clothes and I flung them around
Till in freedom I galloped along!
Alas, twas short-lived; I was thrown to the ground
By an officer, brutally strong.

Bubble Wrap and Typing

I have a piece of bubble wrap.
The urge to pop is strong.
Please tell me popping bubble wrap
While typing isn't wrong.
My words per minute would slow down
And errors might abound,
But popping from the bubble wrap
Would make a wondrous sound!

Just Fruits

I'm growing rotten tomatoes
To harvest for use in the Fall
When pandering politicians
Will parade in all of their gall.
"Have some fruit from my harvest!
A reward for all that you've done.
I'll give you some more if you'd like 'em.
Otherwise, you might want to run."

Beware the Hem!

Crazy Mabel went to town.
Crazy Mabel bought a gown,
Put it on and pranced around,
Caught the hem and fell right down.
Crazy Mabel tried to frown,
But burst out laughing
Like a clown.  (not the sad kind)

;)

Birthday time
Is near upon us.
Birthday time
Is almost here.
Guess I'd better 
Get a present
Or my wife
Will box my ear.

A Visit

It's Sunday so we'll go to see the Savage* saints today.
We'll bring the baby just so they can see.
They were waiting for nine months and now it's time to say,
"Here's the bump! He's handsome just like me."

*I did my internship at a church in a town called Savage. 

Daddy Work

Some people ask if I'm weary.
Others just ask if I'm tired.
I just respond
That I'm growing quite fond
Of the cute little boy that I've sired.
Sure he requires attention
And rocking and soft-spoken words,
But my favorite task,
If you wanted to ask,
Is cleaning up after his turds.

The Blurry Duck (Quite Possibly the Lousiest Poem Yet!)

I saw a blurry duck
A-swimming in the water
And thought quick to myself,
"This sure is some blog fodder!"
Blurry ducks are riveting
And worthy of our time,
More profound than sandwiches
And surely more sublime.
So hail to you, o duck!
I thank you for essence.
Now eat that egg salad sandwich I tossed you
Before it turns into putrescence.

Vivos los Antes Muertos

We've got ants,
But not in our pants;
They come in the door
And march 'cross the floor
They get in the trash
And throw quite a bash.
Then I step on their heads
Till they're all deads.

Humidity Stinks

It's sticky like honey;
It's hot like a flame.
The weather 'round these parts
Is really a shame.
It makes us all sweaty
And weary and blah.
This unpleasant weather
Sure sticks in my craw.
So back to south Texas
Or where'er you came.
We're sick of your icky
Humidity game.

First Cuddle

Dearest child,
I finally have the chance to hold you,
To give you love I've been given
And to mold you,
To sing you songs that calm your fears
That testify to love.
To give you songs from ancient years,
The promise from above.

Little boy, you won't know all
The gifts that you've been given,
But they'll be with you, by God's grace,
The providence of heaven.

And so now, peace.  Peace.

Just Weird Really

I saw a young baby out walking one day
And asked him to tell me the time.
He looked at his wrist, then he pulled out a coin
And flipped me a nonchalant dime.
"Time for you, man, to be getting along
And cease from impertinent queries.
Go buy yourself a pound of hard candy;
I'm off to spend time with my dearies."

Arrival

We now have a baby
He's finally come.
He's crying and pooping
All over his bum.
He's cuter than buttons
And the knees of a bee.
My son is a keeper,
My first progeny.

Kyrie eleison.
Christe eleison.
Kyrie eleison.

Rip Van Baby

"Oh my, it's nice in here.
How pleasant just to rest.
Maybe I'll just hunker down
And make myself a guest.
Now I'm getting sleepy;
I think I'll close my eyes...
...
...
Oh my! Past due! Gotta go!
Goodness, how time flies!!!"

Clarification

As my wife so wisely clarified in the comment section of the previous post, everything is fine.  The baby is fine.  But the baby is still in the womb.  And that was the subject of the poems.  Voila.

Hope

There is a time
When hope starts to feel flimsy in your fingers.
"Maybe it's just a wish?"
Wishes are paltry things
Fit for movie screens,
But not for real hearts
Prone to breaking.


But hope, however flimsy,
Is much stronger 
Than every resource you can muster.
For it depends not on you
And wispy vicissitudes,
But on One who has promised.


And so I hope.
I hope that one day he will come,
Look up
And change everything,
A gift, 
A lesson,
God's love in human form.

Ache

It's never going to happen.
We've been suckered into thinking 
That a baby will arrive 
At or around a particular date, 
When in fact there is no baby. 
There is only the idea of a baby. 
Always and ever the idea, 
But never the reality. 

We will wait for him 
And hope for him, 
Take walks and talk of him. 
We have gathered up clothes 
And items to testify. 
But they are still clean 
And there is no smell of baby on them. 

We will be prepared to love, 
But never have the chance 
To hold, to kiss, to dote, to gaze. 

My heart is starting to ache.

The Step

I'm really not feeling poetic.
My mind is all elsewhere instead.
My thinkings are lightly frenetic,
And also quite solid like lead.
I'm looking off into the future
While pott'ring about in the now,
Getting brief glimpses of what I'm not sure
And wondering 'bout why? where? and how?
A step is about to be taken.
Is it scary or blissful or true??
Clearly these elements wrapped up in one;
And I'm taking that step now with you.

London Thoughts

London taxis
Fly around,
Leaving two wheels
On the ground.
Flags are draped
Along the way,
Celebrating
Queen Mum's day.
Clouds with sprinkles
Threaten us
As we ride
The tall red bus.

The Peculiar Merit of Branston Pickle

Of the many things I remember from my youth,
A virtue of my dilettante memory,
Branston Pickle is the one that most pleased my tooth,
Though, strictly speaking, not for its flavor only.
Because of its rarity, Branston always came
With moments to be treasured forever,
Family trips to Yorkshire or along the Thames.
Dearly loved ones together, laughing, happy and clever.
Pickle is a symbol, or a key one could say,
Of happiness past, living forward to greet a new day.

Erma

Erma the rat
Is begging for fun.
"Please, please, please hold me!
And then let me run!"
She is so eager
And earnest to boot.
Give her some food
And she'll hide it like loot.
She may be vermin,
Plague on four paws,
But her uber-cuteness
Makes up for those flaws.

Baseball

The clouds don't care much;
They just want to get elsewhere,
Wandering off to Wisconsin
As fast as their wisps can carry.

But the sunlight is curious
About the goings-on in Target Field.
And after passing by,
He peaks.
His luminosity making a dozen eyes
Disguised
As ballfield lights.

No fooling me.
I know you Mr. Sunlight
Don't you worry, you're welcome.

The Waiting Is the Hardest Part

Mamma is waiting
She's got baited breath
For baby to "Voila!"
To finally appeareth.
But he's being stubborn
And holding position.
"Get yer mind right"
Is what we're all wishin'.

The Devil of the Road

I was driving late one night,

With bleary eyes and not much light.

All the shapes got twisted up

And gave my heart a twinge of fright.

Blurry numbers danced and laughed

Making wonder for my eyes.

Peering close to verify

All the scene did change in size.

"What the devil!" I cried out,

Longing now for peace and bed,

"Surely he is playing tricks.

He can go to Hell instead!"

So I drove on through the night,

Hoping not a ditch to meet,

Safely I arrived at home

Quitting that infernal street.

Out of Season, But Oh Well

Oh give me a home
That was made by a gnome
And the veneer is made out of clay.
Where coffee is brewed
And the Vikings are booed
From the start to the end of each day.
Home, home in Green Bay
Where the wonderful Packers all play
Where coffee is brewed
and the Vikings are booed
From the start to the end of each day.

"On History" or "A Warble of Cynicism"

Those who cannot remember the past are condemned to repeat it. -George Santayana

This little quote nettles and scrapes on my ear.
It's clarification without making clear.
It lays at the feet of poor memory the blame
For humans persistently flubbing the game.

Harumph.

We'll see what we like in the past to allow
Our foolishness freedom to rule in the now.
Knowledge is nothing when virtue is weak,
Just used to excuse all the pleasures we seek.

We do stupid things, not because we don't know,
But 'cause we are stupid, persistently slow.
We hope that the sin of the past is now fine
And try it again, so we end up cryin'.

Knowledge does nothing to combat stubborn selfishness and willful sin.
Ignorance can be a great blessing.
Some lift up education as a solution to all problems.
Poppycock.
Knowledge is not wisdom.
Wisdom is the ugly stepchild of our age.
Who wants it?
This is an age of fake chrome and pine trim.
And I should know.

Rocking Chair Stare

Over yonder sits my wife
Rocking gently in a chair.
Cause we're married now, for life,
Think I'll take some time to stare.

Town Ball

Out in Miesville
They play baseball
Mighty Mudhens
Dressed in white.
From the grandstand
Out past right field
Stretch the corn fields
Out of sight.

That's three outs.
S
T
R
E
T
C
H

When the batter
Hits a foul ball,
See the kids run
Out the gate.
There's cash money
For the quickest,
Double quarters,
Fifty cents.
Out of pocket
Pays the lady,
Running low now.
Now she's out.

That's three outs.
Score: 2-0
Go Mudhens!

Not Winter

It's really not winter, I'm happy to say,
Except maybe further down south.
Up here by Canada it's pretty warm,
No clouds blowing out of my mouth.
The air is quite sticky and lacking in snow
There's ice, but only in freezers.
And nobody's drinking hot chocolate these days,
Preferring those cool lemon squeezers.
So leave off the mittens and put on the shorts
For summer is here and it's kickin'
We'll fire up the grill on the back patio
And eat us some steak and some chicken.

Done Cookin?

"Baby done cookin?" the little boy said,
Wanting to meet the young bump.
"Not for a while yet" the stylist replied,
Laughing to feel her bump jump.
The baby was growing and stretching his arms
Getting all chubby, preparing his charms.
The baby's still cookin', but near draws the day
When "changing" will be de rigeur.
The baby's still cooking for that is his way,
But he's coming quite soon I am sure.

Dreams for Soon

A house in a town in a region with hills
And a landscape well broken with trees
Is a dream that I hold for a future not far
And I'm hoping my Dearest to please.
Her fondness for plains is as yet undetected
And "wind-swept" is far from her mind.
But cute little forests in Autumn ravines
Are the scenes found more keen by her kind.
And so I will search for a cute little house
'Midst a country which she will find grand.
We and our child will then settle therein
And happily live hand in hand.

Infatuation

Ahh, dear cupcake,
I long for you
Like a Canadian in summer
Desperate for hockey,
Like dust on top of a cupboard
Aching for a dust cloth,
Like a junkie moth
Addicted to the flame,
Like a series of addled similes
Longing for expression.
Come to me; I beckon thee.
Don't just stand there!
Oh dearest one, please!!!
.....
For the love of Pete,
Would someone please pass me the cupcake?

Golden Summer

It will be a "golden summer"
If the sun decides to shine,
If the clouds roll back
And give the light a chance.

It will be a "golden summer"
If the moisture packs her bags,
If the rainclouds head out East
For just a spell.

But days for quite awhile now
Have labored under moisture,
With sunshine living elsewhere,
Wondering where the warmth went,
Wishing for the summer.

Stop?

The bridge is closed for traffic.
No one goes over. 
Stop.

They say that it's too dangerous.
Someone might get hurt.
Stop.

But bridges are always dangerous.
They connect us to others.
Stop?

The Bad Attitude Ant

There was an angry ant,
Resentful of his work,
Who went about with blazing eyes
And acted like a jerk.
He barked at passers-by
And shot them nasty looks.
He went into the library
And made marks in the books.
And when the sun went down,
The wind swept down the street
Hunting for the angry ant
To have a meet and greet.
“You nasty little brute.
You whiny so and so.
You’re not a grouchy amateur,
But a grouchy pro.”

Just Plain Crazy

I'm sitting in a classroom
With Luth'rans all around.
Outside the rain is falling
Watering the ground.
A canister of coffee
Is sitting by my side.
Presently the day begins
A whoopin', holla time!

The Unbearable Chirpness of Birdies

Birds are imbued
With hammer and chisel
To peck at the temples
Of those who are near.
Noise is a constant
For budgies are talkers
Hamm'ring my head
Their chisels like spears.
Simile glut?
Poetically loose?
Perhaps it is so
And that's what I fear,
But jackhammer birds
And the aching they cause me
Get in my head
And summon up tears.
Gah, they're obnoxious!
Never relenting,
Chirping as if
They've got deep-seated fears
Of losing their voices,
Descending to muteness,
And so they chirp on
With incessant jeers.

Decision

While pondering droplets of new-fallen rain,
The red-breasted sparrow showed open disdain.
"Nary a seed nor a nibble to gain.
I shall wing elsewhere today."

Piku

The number pi is
Twenty-two over seven
Or three point one four.

Pieku

Dropping pie on floor
Breaks the heart of the heartless.
But dog doesn't mind.