Psychedelic Pstarfish
Seems sillier than psyllium to sing of starry seas,
Yet so the ocean’s silken shore’s sufficient proof of these
That sparkling in such shady deep, something is sure to gleam
In stunning stellar specks and sparks in that submergèd stream,
So sing we sweet and shining songs of starfish as we wish
Upon the evening star to see a firmament of fish
The Wriggling Jellybaggle
The Wriggling Jellybaggle and his relatives all laugh
at their own selves, each other, and at each faux pas and gaffe;
at funny things, ridiculous and silly things, and too,
at serious and sober stuff and fretful folk like you;
if you think you’re too dignified to snicker, laugh, and giggle,
you obviously haven’t seen a Jellybaggle wriggle;
and, furthermore, if you have failed to join the goofy gaggle
and goggle and guffaw a bit, your average Jellybaggle
would pity you, at best a fool, at worst, a stubborn stinker,
too stupid to enjoy yourself and thump your sullen thinker
with just the touch of tickling that takes the harm and haggle
out of your life, when you could be a Wriggling Jellybaggle.
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.
Art-Colored Glasses 