Poems

where is prince charming?
can't wait much longer, or I'll
turn into pumpkin

a murder of crows
on vakay from their towers
sat in a neat row
while discussing their powers

they call me a raven
said the crow on the left
and my master, craven,
is fearsome and deft

I simply solve riddles
said the crow in the middle
my scientist master
is quite a bastard

there's one that was silent
the crow on the right
she dozed, her dreams violent
she'll wake for the night

Author notes: wc 74 image from Pinterest

Today is my 39th wedding anniversary.

Easy to remember, right? May Day?
Never forget the flowers.

I have great memories of that day
and of the many celebrations since,
Three kids, four grandkids, and counting...

My earliest memory of May Day, though,
comes from carrying the red flag
for a few minutes, at a May Day
parade. I was six or seven, and
my grandmother, a card carrying Communist,
was walking next to me, and she gave it to me.
She was so proud, so proud...

This was more than fifty years ago
back in Transnistria, which at that time
was simply Moldova, but today might be
next on the tyrant's checklist.

What a May Day it was.

I've got a poem in my pocket
neither a limerick nor Nantucket
it's not a haiku or a sonnet
no children will be taught upon it
no triolet or villanelle
(there's no refrain, that's how you tell)
It's not an ode or a cinquain
I haven't written it for gain
and most of all, it's not free verse
though if done well, I'm not averse

free speech
is just like free lunch
someone has to pay

stop tilting at windmills
it's time to save Sancho
today's Don Quixotes
still don't have a hunch, though
if truth to be told
I don't mind them at all
the birds, I agree
wind up paying a toll

some poems die from strictly common causes
a heart that breaks too often, meter running
yet others die of boredom, misplaced pauses
or not enough, or sometimes too much punning
most often though, they die from strangulation
while still in draft mode, having not been saved
through lack of oxygen, or adulation
they're rarely -- though it happens -- well behaved

what's Babi Yar?
ravine made for disposal
to kill both out of sight
and out of mind
how natural
when there is a proposal
exterminating
those not of our kind

what's Babi Yar?
it's unrelenting stain
requiring no monument
or plaque
each time that you
abandon or abstain
or, faced with horror
choose to taunt and mock

what's Babi Yar?
it's what you do
while hiding behind
"that's not who we are"

that's Babi Yar

Author notes: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Babi_Yar

the alien rebellion first started with my wife
"Enough!" she said. "Of love" she said, "until I get a life"
"But hon..." I mumbled, spun and fumbled, "wasn't this our deal?"
"Our species' done with being Mrs.", she said, turning teal

my rhyming feet
tend to compete
without regard
and no holds barred
when needed, though
they'll pose, just so
and meter will
still fill the bill
but when I see
fait accompli
where meter's off
it makes me scoff
it's not that hard
draw the right card
and keep to beat
those dancing feet

in winter, we are discontent
by summertime, we look for snow
and, sitting closely to the vent
in winter, we are discontent
what can be done to circumvent
this constant feeling, I don't know
in winter, we are discontent
by summertime, we look for snow

The factory where syllables are molded into words
ran into unexpected issues, and,
as consonants and vowels diverged, their separated herds
were getting quite hard to understand.
When asked, the cunning linguists said: "supply chain is at fault.
We need to bring our syllables back home.
'Cause otherwise, our language risks recession and default
We can't outsource our verbiage to Rome!"
Yet others said: "Let's tax those vowels! They're far too free today.
We can't just have a syllable at will."
That effort beaten back, with vows that "liberty must stay!
I say wow-wee, you say wow-wee, just chill."
Well, in the end, the syllabi adjusted to supply,
and if your consonants need stretch, a vowel you must buy.