Watch Out for those Kids
We were playing at boules and pétanque
In a park not so far from the Seine
But the children we played were so bloodthirsty there
That we vowed not to play them again
Tough Neighborhood
2
Tag Archives: poem
Silence may not be Golden, but Control of Noisemaking Keeps Everyone Safer
Practice as though Your Life Depended on It
Two singers strolled into a wood, and I
Followed the one less skillful; why?
Starved beasts will flock to an anguished cry,
As they did that day; in the wink of an eye,
I was on the road less traveled by,
And that has made all the difference.
[With sincerest apologies to Robert Frost]
Dizzily Dark Imaginings
Getting Singed
Is it my imagination, or is it a little bit hot in here???
Femme Fatale
Barbara is standing by to cut my scruffy hair:
but, say–doesn’t that look a bit like an electric chair?
Look at that pair of scissors–oh, boy howdy, are they sharp!
Will my coiffure just leave me playing sad songs on the harp?
I’d say it’s mighty hot in here–a preview glimpse of Hell,
Or maybe just a purgatory-hint, that hairspray smell–
I’m not so absolutely sure that something here is wrong;
and yet, what’s so darned horrible in leaving hair this long?
Is it sheer paranoia and delusion of myself–
Hey! What’s that creepy science stuff in tubes up on the shelf?
I’m getting awfully shaggy, yes, it’s true–but not a Nut!
(I merely hope it’s nothing but my hair that will get cut!)
Oh, Barbara, I am nervous, so please, kindly, Dear, refrain
from trimming quite so near my throbbing jugular, poor vein.
And if you have to croak me (does this happen very often?),
at least make sure I’m wearing stylish hair there in my coffin.
One way or another, I’ll be a hot number when I come out of here.
Final Residing Place
Residential Issues
The beaver builds a dam-fine house,
The mouse, a hole-in-one,
The moose and goose, while on the loose,
Take shelter in the sun;
The pigeon curls up in her nest;
Raccoon believes his den is best.
It seems that every one abroad
Creates his ideal home,
Yet every head at last, when dead,
Will end up in the loam.
Therefore, I say, enjoy your port,
Your burrow, hovel, cubby, fort,
And be advised that what you’ve prized
Won’t be your utter last resort,
But rather you’ll take company
With all the beasts moved on
To their reward under the sward,
And to the dirt begone!
The Wild West in the Computer Age
Though the wolves and rustlers may indeed have changed their guises many a time over the years, danger still lurks on every frontier.
Tombstone, Parts I & II
I
A heavy pall hung over the brush
And the sagebrush rolled with a whispery hush
Beware! Beware!, the townsfolk cried:
The killer’s coming! Take cover! Hide!
Call in your children, rescue your wife;
Tether the horse if you value your life!
Your grave is marked, man–hold your breath–
For your desktop bears
The Blue Screen of Death.
II
Well, it’s lonesome, lonesome, lonesome beneath the broad blue sky
If he weren’t way too manly, a poor cowpoke could cry-yi-yi
The Ethernet‘s gone silent and left me all alone
My email has been down for days; no voicemail on my phone
Yes, it’s lonesome, lonesome, lonesome beneath the empty sky
I know my days are numbered and I’ll soon curl up and die-ie-ie
As I slump down o’er the keyboard and draw my terminal breath,
I look up one last time to see
The cold Blue Screen of Death–
Yes, I look up one last time to see
The cold
Blue Screen of Death!
Dear Me! What was I Thinking When I Wrote That Thing?
Here Lies a Loon
Once upon a tombstone
I read an epitaph
whose sentiments ridiculous
were prone to make me laugh;
the information set thereon
gave me to ridicule
the marker and the makings of
some great exquisite fool;
now lest you think me callous and
a soulless Frankenstein,
you ought to know the coup de grâce:
the epitaph was mine.
Mysterious Phenomena & Exotic Doings
It’s hard to know what to make of such goings-on . . .
Sharp Objects Falling out of the Sky
On certain Wednesday mornings
Sharp objects from the sky
Come shearing down the sides of clouds
Like spaceships zipping by
And boulders, ashtrays, cutlery
And great meteorites
Come slashing from the heavens
—But clear up by Wednesday nights
. . . but I’ve come to expect the unexpected . . .
Meditations
Stillness at the Edges
I
We stood along the shore at break of day,
The water lapping gently at our heels,
And heard the distant crying of the seals
At gulls for stealing all their fish away–
The dawn was chill and misty, palely blue,
Our hearts in morning shadow just as cold,
And bone and sinew feeling early old
As soul and body waiting day will do–
The sea was restless, slowing at the last
To push up foam as streaky as the clouds
And gather shells and pebbles in those shrouds
Around our feet, we statues standing fast–
All this, because our spirits captive are
Until revived by sun, our morning star.
II
So lifeless, silent, still and cold are we
When gold has yet to tinge the morning sky,
So empty is the world but for the cry
The seals and gulls raise up in minor key–
So heartless is the morning chill ashore
We stand like stone and cannot take a breath
Until the sun releases us from death
And brings the flame of sentience once more–
At last the light of day draws us to wake,
And we’ll bestir ourselves to act and thrive,
Rejoicing to discover we’re alive
Until the world’s foundations start to shake–
We know the night will come again, and fast,
And so must live each day as if our last.
Better Off as Compost
Snaking Suspicions
Bartholomew’s bones are now buried
In a bag in a box in a berm,
And when he has fully recycled,
He’ll become a new breed of a worm.
In life he was lousy and lurid,
Licentious and lickerish he;
Bartholomew Bogle was wicked
As one creepy creature could be.
So down in the dirt he is digging
New depths better suited his sin,
Alive, quite the snake, let us make no mistake,
Now interred, he’s the same in new skin.
Let Bartholomew go to the devil,
Worming down to the deep for his due,
And at least we can bless in our hearts the good lesson:
I won’t be a Bogle–will you?
Art-Colored Glasses 