Thursday, May 21, 2015

Send back the clowns

From earliest days, right on down,
I couldn't stand the circus clowns;
They'd frighten me, and made me hate
The "Three Rings," where they'd congregate;

And when the "Big Shows" came to town,
Clowns' hijinks at them made me frown;
They were the villains that I'd see
In nightmares that they gave to me.

Forget the grotesque troupes of clowns
who honk their horns, and run around.
Their zany acts are just absurd;
Their exit would be much preferred.

Wednesday, May 20, 2015

Leading the simple life

When I retired, I made a vow
To simplify my life, and now
Five busy years have come and passed,
And each one simpler than the last.

I used to don a business suit
Before I made the day's commute;
T-shirts and sweats now see me through,
And sneakers are my only shoes.

Before I left for work, I'd shave,
"No facial hair for me," I'd rave.
If I shaved now, I'd think it weird;
Today I sport a handsome beard.

Food shopping was a mighty chore;
Now, the web's my grocery store.
Bills are also electronic;
Mailing them would be moronic.

Simplicity remains my aim,
It's my obsession, not a game;
It always was the way to go;
I learned that late, but now I know.

Sunday, May 17, 2015


With English, sometimes, you just guess,
And trust your luck will find success
With words as spelled, and how they sound.
(The differences can be profound.)

The natives rhyme the name with "cow,"
In England, for a town spelled, "Slough";
The local folks think that's a breeze.
(Don't mispronounce it, if you please.)

If you're a snake, you'll shed your skin,
Whatever odd-named town you're in.
In Slough, you'll stand out as it's "sloughed."
(Make sure you rhyme the word with "stuffed.")

In Slough they won't slough off a romp,
But don't attempt it in the swamp;
Another word for swamp is "slough."
(This time, you rhyme the word with "goo.")

Saturday, May 16, 2015

This thing called love

I'll never understand this thing called love.
It's like temporary insanity,
Or the pinnacle of inanity,
A puzzle that I'm always wary of.
Love's habits fit us closer than a glove;
Its presence trumpets our humanity,
Overcoming selfishness and vanity,
But makes us foolish as a turtledove.
Maybe love's just a dream that we create,
A fragile equilibrium we build
to end confusion over want and need.
When we're in love, we hold our breath and wait,
With hope our heart's desire will be fulfilled;
If true, that dream should be our only creed.

Wednesday, May 13, 2015

The spoils of war

On a cold and bitter winter's day,
I swore a solemn oath, to say
I'd serve my country for three years;
The Army needed volunteers.

That doesn't seem so long ago,
Though fifty years have passed, and so,
The memories are sharp, I find,
And now and then, they come to mind.

Old soldiers like to brag, and pitch
Warm tales about their army hitch;
Whenever army buddies meet,
they tend to relive every feat.

They talk of passes into town,
Where willing women could be found,
And hint, at times they were uncouth,
But always blame their gaffes on youth.

They push away reality,
Old fears for their mortality;
They know that they were there to kill,
Or, be listed on the butcher's bill.

Their memories fade, and turn into
Old snapshots, with a softened hue,
And sanitized, as if a war
Is what men were created for.

It wastes our time to moralize;
It's plain, that war is what we prize.
It must be true, go take a look,
The proof'is in every history book.

One far-off day, when men are gone,
And earth still turns around the sun,
What reader of the cosmic plan
Will sorrow for the loss of man?

Thursday, May 7, 2015

Waking on a May morning

I hear the birds of morning sing
Their song to mark the end of night,
And soon, they'll rise up on the wing,
And sun will cheer them with its light.

Their singing swells, begins to soar,
The music blends and it promotes
Sweet harmonies in close rapport,
A love song from a thousand throats.

The lambent earth approves their song,
Reverberant throughout the day;
As flowers bloom and days grow long,
She celebrates the joys of May.

Monday, May 4, 2015

Writers write: Right?

I've learned some wise words that I heed,
On how a writer can succeed.
Work hard; the formula will prove
The way to get you in the groove.

Distractions woo us from all sides;
Excuses roll in like the tides.
For best results, here's what I say:
Do some writing every day.

Sit right down and write a sonnet;
Good or bad, don't dwell upon it.
The lazy man will take a fall,
But enterprise will conquer all.

Or, start a novel, fiction's fun,
Your words will flow while crafting one.
The true joy's in the work itself,
Not just some book upon a shelf.

It's lonely, staring at a page
That's white and empty at first stage,
But think how happy you will feel
When your own words are down for real.

One caution, though, and you'll agree,
Life gives you choices; nothing's free.
Ideas may sparkle, shine and gleam,
But work alone fulfills your dream.