Sunday, May 31, 2015

The pterodactyl

The pterodactyl was a sight,
A dinosaur equipped for flight;
He ruled the skies before the birds,
But now, alas! he's been interred.
As evolution's plan can show,
When birds arrived, he had to go.

Saturday, May 30, 2015

The praying mantis

When Praying Mantis couples court,
Their love affair is soon cut short,
For, after hot sex with her date,
The female gobbles up her mate.

Wednesday, May 27, 2015

The scent of love

The scent of love's a rare perfume
That conjures spring, when flowers bloom;
It haunts us like a song, once sung
When we were innocent - and young.

The telling scent of love will make
A man risk all, and undertake
His heart's desire to be complete.
Oh, love's alluring, love is sweet!

The promise in his lover's eyes
Will tease of where his future lies,
Beguiling him to think of ways
Their love may perfume all their days.

He hatches plans, and she concurs,
And calls his soul a twin of hers;
Two joined as one, she's sure they'll be
In love for all eternity.

Their love is real, and makes it clear
Its heady fragrance has no peer,
But, conquered by love's perfumed spell,
Perhaps they trust the scent too well.

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, in 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";
(A synonym for Slough is "slough.")

Saturday, May 16, 2015

Temporary insanity?

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.

Some fifty years have passed, and yet,
It was a time I can't forget.
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,
And 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, and if you look,
The proof's 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.