You and Your Old-World Charm

I sigh, I wrack my soul with darkest sorrows

for yesterday’s delights, not for tomorrow’s;

I’m dancing backwards all the time you’re near

in fear that all my romance only borrows

–or steals, perhaps–from something far too shining

and too refined for wasting on repining,

those salad days we ought to hold so dear

instead of wasting happiness with whining . . .

I will stop whimpering like boobs and babies,

and let go of the wherefore-nots and maybes;

instead I’ll let your elegance and charm

revive me from this case of “retro-rabies”,

reminding me time’s such a grand invention,

a Golden Age not lost to this dimension,

as long as boulevardiers remain,

like you, aptly distracting our attention

with courtly kisses and such furbelows

and petals hung on every breeze that blows,

bringing the romance back into the present:

yes, I can fall in love with all of those . . .

Pardon My Parsnips

Parkinson’s particular

pet pudding’s par-cooked parkin;

his partner’s partial to parfait,

that paragon; yet hearken:

those sub-par parabolic parts

of almonds, partly parted–

not fully sliced, par excellence—

make Parkinson hard-hearted,

for those same partial nonpareils

leave his poor partner parched

for parsley tea to the degree

you’d pardon if he marched,

parade-like, past, departed hence

to parsley gardens, fast,

in search of same to quench the flame,

–apparently aghast–

and Parkinson in repartee

imparted their remorse:

“Though sparse, the parcels of our thanks

are thus par for the course.”

Then Parsons, partner to the man,

now almond-paroxysed,

creaks out a tea-tinged parable

of why he’s paralyzed;

and both the partners no parfait

or parkin now partake,

but parsnips parsimonious,

and pears, for safety’s sake.