All writing

A rooster's life's much harder than you think.
To satisfy his hens in pecking order,
and jealously defend his rights and border,
the cockerel can hardly grab a blink.

Then, of a sudden, news about T-Rex,
apparently a cousin on his cock side,
(genetic test, with ethylene based oxide),
thinks all he needs to do is strut and flex,

and feels no need to crow, or call, or hustle,
since after all his nature should suffice.
He thinks himself the terror of the coop,
though truth be told, has more white meat than muscle.
That said, the owners thought about it twice
but in the end, they wanted chicken soup.

her kisses are hisses, she's speaking in tongues
our marital bliss is a scream of my lungs
her scales on my skin, tattooed by her squeeze
her irises tinted with scandalous ease

seduced and enslaved, lacking reason or will
I cannot be saved, filled with terror and zeal
and know of no other, no break or escape
no thing I would rather, I worship her shape

forbidden desires mix pleasure with pain
the ritual fires can't make me abstain
each sinuous curve demands my attention
I live but to serve -- serve what? I can't mention

she draws out her hooks I am chilled to the bone
and yet, as she looks I'm, as always, to stone

how often have you
rushed passed the cherry blossoms
in fruitless searches

Author notes: image from bostonherald.com

Leap off the canvas -- will you? Come to me.
Embrace me in your gentle, loving arms.
If only you were as I wish you'd be,
more than the sum of innocence and charms,
and if you could return a fraction of
the feelings that well up, and guide my brush;
My folly, the absurd attraction of,
the thoughts that even now do make me blush...
Why do you look as if you'd rather leave,
the corner of your lips a subtle frown,
as if you somehow can't even believe
that you wound in up in this, my part of town.

If only I could draw you as my own.
The paint is drying, and I'm all alone.

The truth may yet come from the mouth of babes,
especially if truth is goo goo gaga,
but let us not pretend that truth behaves
the way it is portrayed in ancient sagas.

"Oh look, babe speaks the truth, is that too cute??",
it works so well in fairy tales, the reader
might be excused for thinking that she should
bring truth and nothing but to fearless leader.

An emperor stripped naked by the truth?
More likely the truthsayer drawn and quartered,
while sycophants work feverishly to sooth.
The truth is never what the doctor ordered.

In truth we learn the emperor is splendid.
Around him, best leave disbelief suspended.

debating how many will fit on a pin
the boffins consider all angles
the sharp, the obtuse, and the rest in between
in rooms once lit only by candles
but now in the glow of warm, natural lights
provided by new LEDs
attempt to uncover unearthly delights --
well, somebody has to, and these
are certainly issues of utmost import...
regretfully, there's nothing new to report

My mistress’ eyes are nothing like the sun.
Dark, brooding wells of ravenous desire;
one look and all is lost, too late to run.
Too late when she consumes me whole, entire.

No, nothing like the sun, more a black hole.
and I'm a comet, hopelessly in orbit,
to strut my tail and prostitute my soul,
in secret hopes the goddess will absorb it.

Though like the sun she singes with her stare
she's nothing like, no warmness in her lashes,
and just as angry when her nostrils flare
reducing me to cinder dust and ashes.

No, mistress, she is nothing like the sun.
The sun's one star of many. She is one.

Umbrellas mushroom as the drizzle
accelerates from drip to drop.
Splish splash, the raindrops hiss and sizzle,
the melting street a cooking top.

The air, infused with noxious vapors,
expels the acid from its veins,
but long before the downpour tapers,
debris and flotsam clog the drains.

This deluge, can it break my fever?
I'm drenched, rain mixing in with sweat.
Can water finally deliver
relief of any kind? Not yet.

The rainbow colors stick together
and wait, like me, for better weather.

"'magination", says my daughter,
"easy peasy, just add water".
"is that so?", I ask her, "pet,
won't you get your noggin wet?"
and she giggles, baby's four.
"Daad! It's just a metaphor."

Author notes: image from freepik.com

The architect of fertile valleys
and rugged mountains raised sky high,
presents me with a forest alley,
a landscape easy on the eye.

Snow glories paint its shallow fences
and spill onto its sloping walls.
The architect spared no expenses
to canopy its vaulted halls.

Can you imagine lovers, walking,
their fingers tingle at each touch,
and on occasion, interlocking,
until the hunger is too much,

and they fall to the grass below,
where heaven bathes them in its glow.

The other day, Hell searched for woman's fury,
but no such luck  -- it may have never had it.
Appealing to his peers, if not his jury,
the Devil then proclaimed: "but we must add it!

What are we, if we cannot trap or capture
the wrath of even one rejected lady?
We must, or else we're furthering the Rapture,
go, get me some, be devious and shady."

With these instructions, every demon lover
set out into the world in search of this
most rarified, and hardest to discover,
and truth be told, the opposite of bliss.

But though they've tried their hardest, tailed and horned,
still got no fury like a woman scorned.

her lustrous hair as smooth as satin
she wills her wrinkles: smoothen, flatten
and scans her neck and naked shoulder
for any sign she's getting older
a nagging fear she can't forget
and sighs: none visible, as yet

Author notes: image from smithsonianmagazine.com