All writing

You look so distant, sitting right across,
it might as well be on another planet.
Quite palpable, the sense of utter loss,
a gravesite monument in sterile granite.

Lips pursed, ensuring nothing, not a smile,
no, not even a hint could try escape.
Say anything, and it is drenched in bile,
Malevolent intent reveals its shape.

How did we get to this? What evil spirit
converted us to mortal enemies?
A subject we don't broach, cannot go near it,
as if no thing was wrong, no thing amiss...

Woke up one morning, and just said enough.
Let lawyers figure out that other stuff.

My memories and recollections,
all gathered neatly, in a bunch,
await instructional directions.
Resolved to do it, after lunch.
Well, maybe shortly after dinner.
The pile's not getting any thinner,
but then again, that's been the goal,
producing a coherent whole.
Autobiography, hard labor,
and I do have some things to say,
procrastination, though, holds sway...
Ah, look, I think that is my neighbor.
I'll start tomorrow, won't forget.
My story isn't written yet.

premise is that Nemesis
is out there for revenge
and her Fury -- judge and jury --
hiding in the henge
will not save you, cause in their view
it has been established
guilty pleasure, by no measure
shouldn't have been published

Author notes: 1) Nemesis

how does one define desire
using only show, not tell
as I sit here and perspire
nothing really rings a bell
should I just revert to scripture?
never mind, just found a picture

Author notes: image from dreamstime.com

when an obstacle
appears to be designed
just for you
you're on the right track

let me be, you restless spirit
and I promise to obey
rolling thunder, do not fear it
heaven opens up to play
soon the snow will trade its glories
for the flower shoots beneath
mama bear will share her stories
suckling bear pups are all teeth
and the prairie runs with bison
heavy hoofs kick up the dust
elken antlers are enticing
and the does do as they must
let me go, you restless spirit
where the winter birds have flown
where the silence rules, you hear it?
I am off to Yellowstone

come winter snow queen, decorate my window
with delicately crystalline designs
invite me to your kingdom, where the winds blow
I'll trace and search your messages for signs
of castles in the ice and frozen roses
and rosy colored cheeks, and reddish noses

Author notes: image from dreamstime.com

The meadow is awash in Black-Eyed Susans,
Plain dandelions calling a retreat.
Her ripe, full crimson lips smile as she loosens
the brightly colored skirt, then kicks her feet,
releasing each enraptured woven sandal,
its leather soaked by early morning dew,
and free now, and as naked as a scandal,
she laughs and swallows your faint "I love you."
What have you done, mere mortal, to deserve her?
You do not know. The thought fills you with fear.
It seems to you no judge, no sane observer,
would give you two a week, much less a year.
And then she hugs you tight, you grab her hips,
and heaven overwhelms your burning lips.

A sucker may indeed be born quite often,
though every minute seems a bit too much.
That rate, were it determined by a boffin
I might find it believable as such.

But as it were, P.T., he ran a circus,
a showman to the core, if ever was.
There must have been a calculated purpose,
that man would never act without a cause.

Did Barnum take his customers as chumps,
the suckers are the ones that bought his tickets;
the ones that having taken all their lumps
would press to shove their money through his wickets?

He sold you the illusion that you're able
to spot the sucker at life's poker table.

Little Red Riding Hood
she's no relation
to Robin of Loxley
though likes, on occasion
to trape through that forest
like the infamous thief
the wolves up at Sherwood
they get no relief

Author notes: Image from dreams time.com

Where the President resides
while he governs and presides
often called the people's house
whether virtuous or louse
he will sleep where giants slept
we the people should have kept
better track of those who rule.
And the President? A fool.

Author notes: wc 41  lc 8 couplets 6 comments

Tradition, Tevye tells us from the stage,
is how the universe maintains its order.
Oh sure, since he's a milkman, not a sage,
and rarely been outside his shtetl's border,
he talks of prayer shawls and covered heads;
of how to eat, to sleep, to die, to marry,
but all the while tradition weaves its threads,
forsaking neither synagogue nor dairy.
Is that, then, the best measure of a man,
how fervently he meets God's  expectations;
adhering to a rigid, best laid plan,
indifferent to the rise and fall of nations?
God knows the answer but remains aloof.
You'll have to ask the fiddler on the roof.