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A Sonnet for those who lack Love

Sustained in one pure note of heaven’s score
That falls from one composing angel’s hands,
Then finds its way through ether’s grasps to soar,
There lies one essence that a heart demands:
This thing called, “love.” For ev’ry human love
Will rise toward God’s Elysium to plead
A case. Yet, when black ravens fly above,
To such ill fortune’s force love may concede,
But still solicit from the dreaming youth
Desires that likely lead to pain and rue
And battle to attain an absent truth.

Cowboys’ Scary Night

(a Ballad about Dental Hygiene
Sung to the tune of “Ghost Riders in the Sky).
It was a chilly desert night,
I cooked some pork ‘n bean;
the cowboys chewed tobacco cud,
their teeth were not too clean.

They brushed them only twice a year,
not caring 'bout hygiene—
till from the hilltop came a sound—
the scream of someone mean:

It was the Haunting Dentist Man
who came down from the hills;
in tow he had a hundred men
who hadn’t paid their bills.

The Secret Behind Mona Lisa’s Smile

Mona Lisa, Mona Lisa,
kisses are like stars; so they say.
Oh, your clamped down lips are tempting—
but, why would I wish to kiss you
and, by chance, touch those concealed
crumbling, pearly . . . whites?

La Giaconda, La Giaconda! tsk, tsk, tsk;
me thinks—perhaps your locked lips
mask centuries of neglected dental hygiene?
Open wide, or I shall tickle you and draw
a toothless laugh. Tickle, tickle . . . . Giggle, giggle . . . .

Flight Of Might

Fly you high, a graceful bird
We speak about you yet;
Soaring o'er the clouded blue
Lest we should forget.
You dive and swoop then rise again
Adroit in every way
A drifting gliding sight to see
Though still a bird of prey.

Tail upright and wings aspread
As through the clouds you dip
Winging o'er the air waves
Fleet from tip to tip.
Your beating, faithful, merlin heart
Performs her loyal chore.
Driving, powering on and on
Amid the mighty roar.

Socrates and Xanthippe

(The Tribulations of Socrates)

Socrates, the sage old Greek,
married his Xanthippe and soon learned
that patience must be clad with the thickest skin.
“Xanthie,” he was wont to say,
“am I condemned to bear the pricks
of your needle-pointed words?
Go and buy a pincushion, but spare my hide . . . .”

Sonnet to my Therapist

Today a sonnet I set out to write;
My goal? Perhaps to exercise my mind,
And therefore, nothing clever, something light;
So, don’t expect to read the serious kind.
Let’s talk about my home massage a bit;
The therapist showed up at 9 o’clock;
How I now wish that she had quit and split
Before she put me in a hammerlock,
Then twisted, jarred those tender vertebrae
And turned me into one odd pretzel form
Until I hollered “That’s enough today!”
But one more thing she needed to perform:

Getting My Undesirable Visitor to "The Other Side"

Yes, that’s right; I live in Arizona,
Just on the other side of Old Sedona . . .
But listen: Let me help you figure out
How you might find the safest, shortest route.

That runoff?— It looks just like a clearance,
Somewhat strange and risky in appearance,
But right there, on top there is a highway—
Or at least a very pretty byway—

Ignore those crumbling boulders at the edge;
Drive straight ahead; keep hugging that steep ledge . . . .
And if you go the merest inch too far—
You'll surely reach THE OTHER SIDE by car.

The Poetic Life of a Walter Mitty

Oft a poet might leave his readers
with the impression that his work is
based on true occurrences.

If the reader were to, unquestioningly,
accept words from babbling tongues
of inventive poets—like this one—then

such creator of great lines should be declared
a wizard. But that he isn’t; only an entertainer,
and as such he might be a somebody or nobody—

who transforms himself at the drop of the pen
into someone he is not— In short, he'd be a magician
who puts on the no-wash-no-ironing sheet metal suit

It's my Funeral; I can joke if I want too

“He was the best . . . .”
My waning spirit hears
but can’t see
except the glow of a lamp
through closed eyelids.
Requested funeral dirge;
Beethoven’s Eroica
. . . tum tum—ta dee . . .
no “Amazing Grace
Be still my Soul, Rock of Ages.”
I try probing my confine
with rigid limbs,
attempt to imitate
dissonant trumpets
(great music, Ludwig).
No breath I make no sound . . .
except for internal movement—
darn this inevitable corruption!
audible farting--

This, my Autumn Day

A fall day such as this I’ll keep
Emblazoned in my memory;
A finer one, with friendly skies,
I doubt that I shall ever see.

Soft winds drive lamb-shaped cumulus
Across the sky; this is the end
Of summer’s heat, and I rejoice,
Applaud this overdue godsend.

The air is crisp, and my two dogs
Run non-stop through the yard and play
With fallen citrus, “catching ball.”
Oh, such pleasant autumn day!


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