Poems

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.

The leaves are blushing for the fall,
as if the weather is their call
( as if the summer's little flings
and not to mention of the spring's...)
Well, let's just say they've had a ball
The leaves are blushing.

Author notes: image from pinterest

so much power from our flour
that if I had built a tower
all without any yeast
I would rule from West to East
flour power -- in one hour
from a powder to a bread
or finagle to a bagel
or if nothing else a muffin
or a cracker in its stead

Bacchus didn't know tequila,
nor the other stronger spirits.
Lounging in his Tuscan villa,
stuck to wine. He didn't fear its
fruity, sweet inebriation --
be Iberian or Thracian
you were welcome to partake.
served with mutton or with steak.

Had he access to a brandy,
bourbon, vodka, scotch or whisky,
they would surely come in handy --
though already fairly frisky
the god, properly enamored
(you might call it simply hammered)
would greet sunrise on the beach.
Good tequila within reach.

the sunlit moon soon works its charms
and as he grabs her in his arms
and draws her in for that one kiss
and later, both will say that this
this was the moment love began
their eyes light up, as they did then

Author notes: image from pinterest

In Tuscany's green, grapevine covered hills --
it's Bacchus' old playground, don't you know --
he roamed its gentle slopes and sought his thrills

and on occasion would put up a show:
a Bacchanalia, if I'm not mistaken.
Chianti and Brunello run and flow.

Regrets, if any, for a road not taken,
were not in the god's nature, and besides,
I've heard it said that Bacchus would awaken --

broad daylight -- thank Diana for the tides,
and fall right back asleep. His pretty maidens --
used loosely here, as charity provides --

would belly dance and chant, seductive cadence,
with Venus and Voluptas as their guides

Slick cobblestones, eroded to the bone
by patter of a myriad stomping feet.
The slope is rather gentle. It's not known
when it was first constructed, but the fleet

would have been visible for many miles,
returning from a raid as young ones root.
The bloodied Viking warriors, all smiles;
their heavy vessels lade with slaves and loot.

Out by the cruise ship dock, no sign of blood,
or moans from those they sacrificed to Odin.
One hears just the occasional loud thud;
the laborers are loading and unloading.

Some will not disembark: seek plain diversions.
And others rate four stars. Want more excursions.

Author notes: https://allpoetry.com/poem/16028969-The-Ship-by-Agee

A Muse's work is surely never done.
Imbuing thankless poets with their sparks.
She's out there hustling, always on the run,
in search of ever wittier remarks.

Her work life balance -- please, don't even start.
Collapsing on the couch, a glass of red,
but mind still spinning, tries to do her part
for those whose only goal is to be read.

And they? They'll put acknowledgements and such,
with platitudes like "package deal, we share",
then frowning say: "you do protest too much"
if any shred of fame should fall on her.

You won't hear her complain, cause what's the use.
She longs to be the poet, not the Muse.

Author notes: https://allpoetry.com/poem/16994641-All-In-a-Day-s-Work--His-Version--by-Agee

A Muse’s work is surely never done.
She leans this way and that, to spur her lover
while he, transfixed, attempts to rediscover
that faint, elusive spark -- could it be gone?
In any case, it’s nothing like the sun,
but she will persevere, and loving, hover,
and aid, abet, and labor to uncover
those barely tepid embers; be the one
that’s on -- whenever he is on or off.
Encourage, mollify, and reassure.
Adore and praise when others tend to scoff.
Her consummate devotion simple, pure:
be there for every valley, every trough,
above all, and whatever comes, endure.

Author notes: https://allpoetry.com/poem/16996684-All-In-a-Day-s-Work--Her-Version--by-Agee

fruitless labor, endless toil
nerves unwilling to uncoil
water mixing in with oil
her slow simmer comes to boil