A Whiff of Happiness
While all you two-legs types are mired
And wallowing in wintry fear,
I see spring’s hints and am inspired
To smell the happiness from here
What gain or merit mankind finds
In only frigid, dormant joy,
When you could wag those sad behinds,
Dance forward, every girl and boy—
Hold on to sorrow if you must,
While I lap up those thrills made dear
By breaking through the frozen dust:
I smell the happiness from here!
The Kicking of Buckets, and How It is Done
In case a brown recluse spider should come to call on you and with her magical spells weave for you mystic sleep—
In the event that any sharks should smell your yummy blood and render you a permanent fixture of the deep—
Lest some great venerable tree should fall full upon your pointy head and leave you feeling just a little flat—
Or a once-dormant volcano barf its hot majestic load of smoking lava directly onto the brim of your jaunty hat—
Should any untoward or fearsome thing befall you or a tragedy untimely bump you off, I’d feel so sad and even a little guilty somehow
That in my concern for you and to prevent your facing any such future griefs, I feel it’s best that I help you to kick the bucket Now.
When Face to Face Meeting is Obsolete
The business is dead! It’s technology’s fault–
the lighting, AC and the big central vault
Are scrambled and frozen and jolted and jammed–
the intercom’s buzzing, the plumbing is dammed–
Email is blacked out and the network is fried
and what’s in can’t escape or what’s out, get inside–
Alarms are all ringing but signals are dead–
the boss would’ve canned me and then had my head–
The one thing that saves me (although you may scoff) is
she can’t recollect how to get to the office.
Farm Land
Few things can match the beauty of
Black soil that’s newly tilled
And redolent of things to come
As soon as March’s chilled
Cold heart has given up his hold
And April’s warmth begun
To set the life-renewing pulse
Of earth under her sun.
Mild-mannered Monsieur Ste-Hilaire
Went out one night to take the air
And came home newly sharp and snarky
(Full of mischief and malarkey);
I think that maybe in the park, he
Might have met a succulent
Voracious, wild and truculent,
That bit his elbows, left and right,
Infecting him that very night
(As you’d imagine, quite a sight)
With psychedelic thoughts to itch
Him to a highly fevered pitch
Wherein he met another world
And in its vortex, seeing swirled
(The way such rarities are hurled)
Strange creatures in bizarre parade,
He loosed the window, threw the shade
Upon it open just to share
With us the beastly thoughts in there
(Effects of which you’re now aware).
I’ve No Beef with Your Cultural Identity
Being a female or male Croatian
Is no more determined by your location
Than eye-color, height or weight, or sex is
By where you were born in the state of Texas—
But I will admit Texan regions do
Determine the skew of your barbecue,
And can also say, since it ain’t no tattle,
That many are mighty fond of cattle.
Restorative Dreaming
A pensive morning in quiet shade
Of this is inner contentment made
A sip of silence, a moment’s rest
In the garden corner I love the best
With butterflies skimming the border’s blooms
Voile curtains billowing out of rooms
A book of poems upon my lap
Read in short bursts between nap and nap
And the sound of a bicycle coming near
To bring the post of love-letters here
I’d rather recline in this reverent haze
Than waste on reality any days
Defying ProbabilitiesThe most improbable outcome
Of delirious, fanciful dreams
Is not the impossible can’t-be
That perpetually it seems—
And I can prove this conundrum,
In my personal life, is true,
For it happens that though it’s wildly unreal,
I’m actually loved by you.
Daybreak ReturnsFrom the grasslands, from the marshes, from the margins of the moor
Rise up misty ghostly creatures in the pearly light of dawn,
Some mementos, revenants or sylph-like spirits past and gone
To the brink of ancient memory and up to its creaking door,
People whom we, fond, remember or with some frisson of heart,
Those who populate our past, storied as fabled gods and kings,
Filled with magic and wild treasure and a million pretty things
That we wish we might have honored as such value from the start—
So at daybreak they come whispering, returning, silver-grey
Without tarnish in their sterling, as they rise up in our sight
And return to us those memories had fallen into night,
Bringing back that love and loveliness of theirs to present day
With special love to all of my Canadian friends!
Out Cold
Do not the hockey puck invite
Your flaxen brow to cleave
By wearing not your shining helm;
And do not tear your sleeve
Upon the blade of someone’s skate;
And don’t assay to test
Opponents’ blows, save if you wear
A Kevlar hockey vest;
Avoid, if you are able to,
A stick thrust at your sternum,
For whacks like this are undesired
Even by those who earn ‘em;
Above all things, I recommend
You not enrage the goalie:
Though wounds are bound to happen here,
Some risks are just unholy.
Art-Colored Glasses 