Poems

Those were the days! When young and strong,
he lorded over the new fence.
When it meant something to belong
and future was the only tense.
And now? He's bending like a willow,
and counts the days. Wet grass, his pillow.

aging muscles cling to bones,
colors shift to monotones
most erogenous of zones
didn't bargain for these moans

welcome morning, come again,
glad to see you now and then
I can still remember when
writing meant using a pen

Come, musketeers, come if you shall
join in the siege of La Rochelle.
Come fight for Louis and for France.
The Huguenots won't stand a chance!

Your azure cloak, it bears a cross
come, rid your soul of sin and dross.
You'll join the likes of D'Artagnan
and fight until the day is done!

Your sword may hang on your good side
true musketeers will wear with pride
and when the foe is at arm's length
your fencing skills will be your strength

But it's the musket in your name
the musket that will give you fame
Come fight for Louis and for France.
The Huguenots won't stand a chance!

after a long search
he finds the perfect picture
Darth Vader's decorator

Author notes: image from plumvillage.org

The Devil came on Sunday, of all days
and said to Bess: "I'd really love your soul."
And followed up -- you know he has his ways:
"What wouldst thou like? Got any special goal?"

You should have seen her eyes, they lit right up.
"Oh, I would durst be Queen, my demon friend!
Canst  thou perform, or dost thou prance and yap
but art thou helpless in this realm, pretend?"

Her fingers, playful, traced the glowing line
the pentagram had burned into the rug...
"This realm, Your Highness, or perhaps of mine?"
The Devil chuckled, his demeanor smug.

"This one for now", she answered, "Do proceed,
we'll think about the other when I'm gone."
The Devil nodded and produced a deed.
"Your signature, my lady, and it's done."

He then retrieved a needle from his belt:
"To prick thine finger, lady, it won't hurt".
She did it quickly, though the pricking felt
like a deep cut.  Signed, and wiped hand on skirt.

"Your sister will not carry Phillip's child",
the Devil added, checked the paperwork.
"Disease will take her whilst thou are exiled,
Thou wilt not have to see it."  Face a smirk,

he made a deep, exaggerated bow.
"Your Majesty, thou surely won't regret..."
Bess waved him off, no use, she'd made her vow.
And added: "A great playwright!  Don't forget!"

Author notes: image from GPT

the scientists now have their proof
a little puff, a little poof
that smoldering enhances
your reproductive chances

Author notes: wc 18

if verse is truly free, who pays for lunch?
you're getting what you paid for is my hunch

The virtuoso's eyes are firmly closed,
no need to see the notes he knows by heart.
The bow takes flight, raw fingers, unopposed,
life of their own, each chooses where to dart,
as Csárdás, oh sweet Csárdás fills the air,
and picks up pace, smiles break out in the stands.
And as you follow, the composer's flare
astonishes, how do the metal strands
not set the bow on fire? How can man
even come close to Monti's breakneck pace,
and do it with such joy, how can his plan
defined in these majestic notes that race
each other in a frantic, splendid dance,
how can it be? Just listen. Here's your chance

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9fuJvPwsGAA

I find I'm losing interest
in offerings on Pinterest
and fairly certain Meta
has gotten all the data
it needs on my mundane affairs
I feel that our new billionaires
should focus on some harder issues
(like no more running out of tissues)
well, yes, and maybe Mars
let's try and make it ours

someone's god is livid
someone else's proud
some will beg, so timid
some will cry out loud
God, what is your will?
Listen to the bells!
but despite their zeal
god answers someone else

Quite recently, I've found a new technique
for complimenting my disgruntled lover.
No need for mystery, nor for mystique.
It is the Bard himself that gives me cover.
You see, I've found he has one fifty four.
One fifty four! And each a better sonnet
than I could ever write, so I adore
and serenade her with them. How? I'm on it:
I wouldn't dare to borrow from the Bard.
His ghost would haunt me and disturb my slumber.
The answer, and it's really not that hard.
She says: say something nice. I pick a number.

The Fall was harshest on Despair
whose wings are stunted
She cannot take into the air
ambitions blunted
Snakes in the grass are her domain
and her companion is Pain

Author notes: image from makersplace.com