Friday, June 27, 2014

On losing direction

Much like a ship that's lost its sails,
And unequipped to weather gales,
A feckless person often fails
To heed a number of details,
If he insists that lowly snails
Bear no relationship to whales

Thursday, June 26, 2014

On the penguin

The penguin, with tenacity,
Seeks dinner with audacity.
His wings, as flippers, help him find
The seafood always on his mind.

He swims quickly under water,
And eats a squid, once he's caught her.
He's flourished well from early times,
On South Pole shores, his favorite climes.

His costume cries out, "elegant!"
Black suit, white shirt, quite swellegant,
His style's suave, it's a clincher:
He could dance with Fred and Ginger.

Tuesday, June 24, 2014

If time means nothing in eternity

If "time" means nothing in eternity,
And "space" means nothing in infinity,
In infinite eternity, why waste
Our breath, in seeking to define the case?
Why should the universe lack any flaws?
Why posit order, unforgiving laws?
Do we demand a cosmic elegance
To prove an underlying relevance?
Can we observe a rhythm to the dance,
Or, are its movements random, merely chance?

Sunday, June 22, 2014

The elephant

A mighty beast, and well-renowned,
This pachyderm in packs is found.
Elephant strolls, he doesn't bound;
His tread can really shake the ground
If he decides to run around,

On land, the only true colossus,
He's not the kind of guy you crosses,
And prehensile, his long proboscis
Is useful for the stuff he tosses
When requested by his bosses.

Quite often he plays celebrant,
And always waxes eloquent;
He boasts to Missus Elephant
About each new development
That makes his job quite relevant.

Saturday, June 21, 2014

It's the berries

Yogurt for breakfast, what a treat!
It's good for you, just slightly sweet.
Blueberries wait on the bottom,
Hiding well, but soon I've got 'em.

Their location makes me work,
To find out where these berries lurk;
My spoon fills up when they're in sight,
To solve my empty stomach's plight.

Friday, June 20, 2014

The old computer's down blues

                                                          Pick your own tune

Well, I sat down and booted up the old PC,
The darned screen stayed black - I guess it had it in for me.
I pressed a few keys, but it did no good;
It still stayed black, like I knew it would.

Must be on strike. Wants a raise. More vacation.

So I called my pal at the computer fix-it store.
I kept my story short, so I wouldn't be a bore.
He said, "I can't come now; I'm here in the store alone.
I'll be there tomorrow; if I can't, I'll phone."

Best offer out there. Had to take it. Read the paper.

I shut off the computer, put more coffee in my cup.
Now I had a list of "couldn'ts"; I was one sad pup;
Couldn't check my email, couldn't work on my blog,
So I grabbed the leash, and I walked the dog.

Dog was happy. Humped my leg. Quality time.

Before computers came, I did lots of stuff;
Most of the time, I was busy enough.
I listened to the radio, and read a lot;
The librarian was surprised at all the books I got.

They were on paper. Made outta trees.
Had to turn pages.
Saved on ee-lec-tric-ity

Friday, June 6, 2014

The frog

Let's praise the cheerful, jumping frog,
As full-grown bull, or polliwog;
The frog, who loves to swim around,
Unlike the toad, who likes dry ground.
The frog's tune is ubiquitous,
At dusk, it never quits on us,
His "rivet! rivet!" casts a spell;
When night comes on, its echoes swell.
The English call the French, "the frogs,"
(Because they eat frogs legs, the dogs!)

Thursday, June 5, 2014

The immigrants

Give me your tired, your poor,
Your huddled masses yearning to breath free
                                          - Emma Lazarus
                                    "The New Colossus"

Throughout the nineteenth century,
New immigrants, each steady wave,
Braved the vast, uncaring sea
To reach our shores, so they could be
The masters of their destiny,
And celebrate what free men crave.

The ocean's dangers to be crossed,
On steerage decks of sailing ships;
Despite the risks, by storm winds tossed,
Their golden dreams were never lost,
To live free men at any cost,
That goal held strongly in their grip.

What was there to deliberate?
The families, children in tow.
Refused serfdom's dismal fate.
They kept their pledge to immigrate,
A pledge they soon would consummate,
On distant shores they'd yet to know.

The Irish, Germans, Czechs, and Poles,
And others, bitten by unrest,
Their purpose now under control,
Planned fuller lives and richer goals,
And scorned their former lowly roles,
Determined to achieve the best.

Their "welcome" was a cruel disgrace;
Rejected by each "patriot,"
Contempt was what they had to face,
As though they were a lesser race,
Intent to steal another's place,
Revilcd work would be their lot.

And work they did, denied all aid;
And learned the language day by day.
They dug canals; though poorly paid,
Worked more, and railroad tracks were laid,
Long tunnels carved and bridges made,
Improved the land, and there they stayed.

They spread throughout the good young land,
Established roots from sea to sea,
On dirt-poor farms, or ocean strand,
Or frontier cities, man by man,
The strong, the weak, from every land,
The builders of democracy.

The pig

The animal we call a pig
Might teach himself to dance a jig,
And tap the time with cloven hooves,
While checking other piglets' moves.

And when he grows to be a hog,
He might teach himself how to jog,
Emitting happy grunts and squeals
As he gets hungry for his meals.

Warm, he might plop down with a thud
To cool himself in gooey mud,
And muse upon each porcine rule
That young pigs memorize in school.

Monday, June 2, 2014

On a promise

Her words were swallowed by the wind,
But her eyes met mine in promise,
As we stood on that promontory,
while white-capped waves crashed below,
On boulders buttressing the shore
Against the ceaseless, pounding surf
And the hunger of the endless sea

Sunday, June 1, 2014

On painting a still life

The still life he did was almost perfect;
The pert, umbrageous flowers bravado'd
In a riotous cascade of colors.
The painter stopped his brush in mid-gesture;
On the canvas, below the vase of blooms,
He drew a scatter of dead, dry petals,
And dabbed on appropriate, dark shadings,
To complete the picture