From his hands a melody unfolds
That flits like butterflies through hastening crowd
Seeking stillness on which to alight.
Summer’s fire sags like an overripe peach
And bursting on October’s horizon, splatters
Cool evening across the sky.
I really ought to exercise
With ample perspirations,
But I’ll likely follow otherwise
More laconic aspirations.
In this new light, dancing low
beneath the trees, we all still glow
as bright, but differently.
Please, friend, consider me a missed chance:
I simply like you better at a distance.
Consider, friends, the chickadee
Which bears no golden filigree
Nor any cogent pedigree
Yet is a splendid sight to see:
Content is he in modest gray
To call his tune amidst the fray
Of us poor fools, as if to say:
Unbrand yourself, and fly away.
Poetic day? I wish it were.
No fodder for pentameter
But plodding gray. I’ve nothing to say —
As I expect you’ll now concur.
The chicken is up the tree again,
And not, as she should be, in her pen.
Raccoons can climb! This hen (gee whiz)
Is not half as smart as she thinks she is.
Another day drips unheard silence
From uncounted possible leaves
And puddles on the ground.
We are the slick of oil atop the puddle,
Shimmering rainbows from our pollution.
And! Special bonus poem because that last one was such a downer!
Upon the occasion of Little Leopard’s birthday
Now we frost a birthday torte
For one who wasn’t born, but sort
Of purchased. We’ll not speak of that.
We’ll say only that she’s a cat
And a friend, if largely inanimate.
Have we got milk? There was a quart
Last time I looked. Then raise a glass
And toast this furry little lass
And then, for heaven’s sake,
Let’s eat our cake.