Infernally Yours
Thou mak’st me hot, O swain of mine, afire with passion, sure,
and art my furnace, blazing beau, so flaming your allure;
What is it getteth in my groove that thou hast, O my heart?
How heat I up, so quickly broiled, as roasting from the start?
Mayhap, thou sneaky Devil, thou hast dropped affection’s bomb
When I misjudged it literal and went to Match.com!
La Chanteuse
This melody that lilts, lifts us to light
Like incense rising, or like hope aloft,
Like spring’s sweet perfume and like down-soft
New blooms, the lovely song eclipses night–
Brings sun and starlight and a shining flame
To paint the darkness into blazing day,
To chase all sorrow and all gloom away
Or give them luster as the marks of Fame–
The singing sinuous and smooth as glass,
As stillest water or a spotless sky,
And yet the singer never stops to sigh
Except when breathing lets a moment pass–
Because the music brings such passion, clear
Expressive, infinite and full of grace,
Poured out in rivulets and with a trace
Of magic only those with love can hear–
One aria can change the flow of time
And raise us all from simple to sublime
. . . as he was hatching his plots . . .
Quack Quack, Etc.
There’s nothing adverse
That I throw in the sauce
As I start to rehearse
The demise of the Boss
But as I descend
To the end of the day
It’s more tough to pretend
To be lightsome and gay
When I feel in my marrow
The building of rages
Brought on by the narrow-
Ness by which he gauges
My quest for perfection
In service to him
Whose extreme predilection
For being quite grim
As you guess is a needle
To nag and annoy
Like the high nasal wheedle
Of a self-centered boy
Until something explodes
In the back of my brain
At some one of his goads
And I go quite insane
So I must kill him gladly
By end of the day
And go off quacking madly
As I’m carted away
Art-Colored Glasses 