Traveling at Speed
When I was just a little tad
And full of zest and vim
I never thought the day would come
When eyesight could grow dim
And hair fall out, and memories
Impossible to keep,
Or that my middle would go soft
Or I would fall asleep
Just trying to sit through the news,
But couldn’t sleep at night,
Get creaky and arthritic
And develop underbite,
But, over and above these things,
No way would I have guessed
The day would pounce so suddenly,
So early. I’m depressed!
How Cocooning Relieves Stress among the Hardworking
Behold the moth: he waxeth wroth, and sure has cause if any hath:
A life so short and labor-filled that many lesser moths hath killed;
Yet all’s not tragic, dire, dark things, for, briefly as he hath his wings,
He waxeth too his Silver Wraith; it shineth like a ghost, i’faith.
As caterpillars of his ilk produce the finest bolts of silk,
Yea, marvel at such industry, and bitter butterflies ne’er see,
For, selling such rich bolts of cloth, they’ve little cause for waxing wroth.
Yes, I do know that my photo here is of a butterfly and not a moth. Just as I’m sure you know that this poem is not a scientific treatise on the relationship between entomology and high-end automotive art. Anybody coming to this blog in search of hard data on virtually anything is clearly lacking in logic anyway, so welcome, all! And may none of you fall into the clutches of any lepidoptera with anger management issues or delusions of being silkworms, either one. Also, if you happen to be the computer programmer who designed my auto-correct function, to my knowledge a TelePrompter is in no way related to or a straight-across substitution for a lepidopteran in either linguistic or physical form, though it might amuse you greatly to experiment with such things. I do give thanks for the laugh.
A Little Antsy Now
If I could do just as I wished and not a nickel more,
I’d not sit still just listening to any tiresome bore,
But I’m in well-bred company (I’m told), so I must stay,
Attempting to pretend it’s deep engrossment I convey—
Meanwhile, my nostril starts to itch and twitch, and I suppose
No one will take much notice if I subtly pick my nose.
Bumpkin’s Comfort
I am not wholly ignorant
Of what a fool I am
But if you’d keep me happy
Just give me a slice of ham
A piece of cheese a bit of bread
Some butter, if you will
And I’ll continue happy fool
Slumped up here by the still
This post may require some appeasement on my part. I do, however, excuse this peas piece by saying that I genuinely love eating good sweet peas. Raw or cooked, cold or hot, plain or in a well prepared recipe, green peas are a treat no matter how they tickle my funny bone. That they have nutritive value is merely a bonus.
Smashed Green Peas make a smashing spread when lightly steamed, mixed with butter, orange zest and juice and a touch of salt and cayenne. Of course if you want them to be truly smashed you can add a dash of orange liqueur, too. If you drink most of the liqueur yourself it is *you* who will be smashed.
Wounding Wonders
One needn’t be a Visigoth or Hun
or carrying machete, poison, gun,
or be eight Samurai with flashing swords,
to do the deeds of such marauding hordes–
Supposed lovers, intimates and friends
have other weapons to achieve such ends,
devising and divining fresh new schemes
for making misery on endless themes–
Have irritating nettles, needles, knives
plus-perfect for the ruining of lives–
Imagine if invention, by intent
so much the sweeter, how life would be spent!
On Not being Quite Specific Enough
An Athabascan lady and a young Mauritian man
Met on the bus while shuttling to the airport in Japan
And planned a summer get-together in the town of Dent,
But didn’t think of all details—yet still, one day they went
To meet each other in that little place—the town so small
They didn’t guess there would be need for detailed plans at all—
Sadly, the lady was in Minnesota, with no clue
Her friend was off in Cumbria, the Dent of English hue,
Completely unaware as well that continents away
His lady-friend awaited him, unknowing, that same day—
And so they never met again, each sad the other failed
To know how much they’d hoped to meet, and what it had entailed
To reach their distant rendezvous and keep their destined date,
And neither learned there were two towns named Dent until too late.
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.
Art-Colored Glasses 
