Poems, 2004
Created | Updated Jul 29, 2005
It's oft been my desire,
That when I do retire,
'Twill be some cozy habitat
Of tropics, waves, and this and that,
But with the icecaps shrinking,
It's got me kind of thinking
That I can stay put where I am.
I can be happy as a clam
Within my newly warm estate.
Oh, boy, I simply cannot wait
For global warming to arrive,
When palms upon my lawn do thrive.
<jester><jester><jester><jester>
We are the hollow men, we are the stuffed men,
Gorging on Thanksgiving, groaning in the den,
Bellies all distended: Giblets, yams, and mince pie
Chase each other round about, till you want to die.
"Would you like some dessert?" sweetly purrs the missus,
Scooping out some ice cream shaped like little kisses,
Onto apple crisp or pecan pie or pudding.
Back she goes for coffee, which will soon be flooding.
"Mmmm, I'd like some pecan pie," little Michele mutters.
Out flies the serving spoon. Toward her plate it flutters.
"Try my fruitcake cupcakes, they're quite experimental,"
Says the hostess, "try a few, for some adventures dental."
<jester><jester><jester><jester>
Upon a dreary morning
When the fog lay dank and gray,
And the teacups without warning
Started splintering away,
And the giant armadillo
Started writing his memoirs,
All about a peccadillo
That involved 300 cars,
And the beetles in the sofa
Started making plans for brunch
As they chewed the stuffing over
(You could even hear them munch),
While the mice with trepidation
Climbed the old grandfather clock,
Waiting for the tintinnation
That would send them into shock,
And the portrait of Lord Fusty
Sat and glowered in the hall,
Getting grayer and more dusty,
Nothing happened much at all.
************************************
One morning in the city
As I left my abode,
I chanced to see a dead shirt
A-lying in the road.
It really wasn't ragged,
just green and reddish plaid,
And though it was inanimate,
Its death made me feel bad.
I stopped, and took it gently,
This twisted, writhing thing.
I said, "Oh sad and piteous shirt,
You'll not see 'nother Spring."
That night I gently washed it,
and hung it up to dry.
Next morning, when I woke, no sign
Of that shirt could I spy.
***********************************
Come to my asylum,
Where we have none but the best.
We've every class and phylum,
Though they mostly are undressed.
Not for us the faux Napoleons,
Nor the Elvis poseurs, no!
We have snowmen from New O'leans,
And a convoluted crow.
We have clowns who think they're Shakespeare,
And a tiny Shaker elf.
We've Matt Dillon drinking root beer.
We have Yeti on a shelf.
We have got a little midget
Who thinks he's a tall giraffe.
Yes, we've got a great asylum,
And these are just the staff!
------------------------------------------
2005
All hail the incredible three-toed sloth,
Which is indistinguishable from cloth.
He hangs upside down from a tree for hours,
And sleeps through earthquake, wind, and showers.
And if, when his time runs out, surely,
Then late for his funeral shall he be.
-------------------------------------------
Okay, the closest I can manage is beat-up poetry:
I done lost my mind
In the thicket
Of time-ago's crunches
And yesteryear's fiascos,
When the blue blade
Of helter-skelter realness
Defenestrated
The whole
Of my
Soul.
That when I do retire,
'Twill be some cozy habitat
Of tropics, waves, and this and that,
But with the icecaps shrinking,
It's got me kind of thinking
That I can stay put where I am.
I can be happy as a clam
Within my newly warm estate.
Oh, boy, I simply cannot wait
For global warming to arrive,
When palms upon my lawn do thrive.
<jester><jester><jester><jester>
We are the hollow men, we are the stuffed men,
Gorging on Thanksgiving, groaning in the den,
Bellies all distended: Giblets, yams, and mince pie
Chase each other round about, till you want to die.
"Would you like some dessert?" sweetly purrs the missus,
Scooping out some ice cream shaped like little kisses,
Onto apple crisp or pecan pie or pudding.
Back she goes for coffee, which will soon be flooding.
"Mmmm, I'd like some pecan pie," little Michele mutters.
Out flies the serving spoon. Toward her plate it flutters.
"Try my fruitcake cupcakes, they're quite experimental,"
Says the hostess, "try a few, for some adventures dental."
<jester><jester><jester><jester>
Upon a dreary morning
When the fog lay dank and gray,
And the teacups without warning
Started splintering away,
And the giant armadillo
Started writing his memoirs,
All about a peccadillo
That involved 300 cars,
And the beetles in the sofa
Started making plans for brunch
As they chewed the stuffing over
(You could even hear them munch),
While the mice with trepidation
Climbed the old grandfather clock,
Waiting for the tintinnation
That would send them into shock,
And the portrait of Lord Fusty
Sat and glowered in the hall,
Getting grayer and more dusty,
Nothing happened much at all.
************************************
One morning in the city
As I left my abode,
I chanced to see a dead shirt
A-lying in the road.
It really wasn't ragged,
just green and reddish plaid,
And though it was inanimate,
Its death made me feel bad.
I stopped, and took it gently,
This twisted, writhing thing.
I said, "Oh sad and piteous shirt,
You'll not see 'nother Spring."
That night I gently washed it,
and hung it up to dry.
Next morning, when I woke, no sign
Of that shirt could I spy.
***********************************
Come to my asylum,
Where we have none but the best.
We've every class and phylum,
Though they mostly are undressed.
Not for us the faux Napoleons,
Nor the Elvis poseurs, no!
We have snowmen from New O'leans,
And a convoluted crow.
We have clowns who think they're Shakespeare,
And a tiny Shaker elf.
We've Matt Dillon drinking root beer.
We have Yeti on a shelf.
We have got a little midget
Who thinks he's a tall giraffe.
Yes, we've got a great asylum,
And these are just the staff!
------------------------------------------
2005
All hail the incredible three-toed sloth,
Which is indistinguishable from cloth.
He hangs upside down from a tree for hours,
And sleeps through earthquake, wind, and showers.
And if, when his time runs out, surely,
Then late for his funeral shall he be.
-------------------------------------------
Okay, the closest I can manage is beat-up poetry:
I done lost my mind
In the thicket
Of time-ago's crunches
And yesteryear's fiascos,
When the blue blade
Of helter-skelter realness
Defenestrated
The whole
Of my
Soul.
