Dorian on Wednesday

They dropped the flags at the beach!
Storms have moved farther offshore;
Time to power down the generator—
Be thankful for calmer days more,

A thankful sunset majestic,
As the rains soften and fall.
Come out, come out everyone—
Dance in Jupiter’s thrall!

Pray for Bahamas;
Pray for they of the islands;
We must offer succor;
We must do all that we can.

More will come out from Africa;
More storms to vex we many;
We always sure ready;
We always plan uncanny!

They’ve dropped the flags at the beach!
Storms have moved farther away.
Hold the children close;
Hold onto Life and pray!

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Hey Mom, Hey Dad

Hey Mom, hey Dad
I have some news,
It’ll make you glad:
Lilly’s finished college,
She’s done with school;
Has bunches of job offers
And she’s still nobody’s fool—
Aint she something!

Hey Mom, hey Dad
There’s a little more news,
But this may be bad:
It’s about your eldest son;
There’s spots on some x-ray;
Nothing more to be done—
For me, it’s always something.

Hey Mom, hey Dad
I’ve something to say,
Hope you don’t get too mad:
I hate it you two weren’t around,
Seeing Lilly born, happy and growing;
See life worth living per every pound—
And that’s saying something!

Hey Mom, hey Dad
I guess I’ll go now
To face my own version of jihad;
Meet looming troubles on the yon side of living
With the grace to see the better in all,
Or at least yield to loss with a heart forgiving—
I hope this all meant something.
By Mom, Bye Dad

[I’m fine. Xray verse for poetic effect.]

Where Are My Stars?

Where are my stars?
Why hath my comforting night lights left me
To blacked out windows in this small room
With not even full curtains to reel with the spring breezes;
Blinds keep the outside away and reflect my aloneness.
Leaded words with dissonant chording try, but fail
To stir thoughts of brighter days and warming evenings.
Dark thoughts, cachectic dreams attend me now.
Do not come this way: the path is unsure, and the end obscured.
The roof needs repair?
The steps brittly break and the animals snort their disdain.
Mothers hurry their kinder swiftly past the door.
In this late-March cold winds sink and lank rains linger.
Sore joints and crookt fingers lift but cannot reach.
Dark thoughts, cachectic dreams attend me now.
Do not come this way: the path is unsure, and the end obscured.
The tree killers have done their deed.
The cable lines are now safe to carry each and every thirty-minute fat show
With prospering inanities, but you can do better; if I may have a word—
Dark thoughts, cachectic dreams attend me now.
Do not come this way: the path is unsure, and the end obscured.

My Ever Lovely

I fear it is too late for true love
Waiting on now broken yet bent knee.
Is it even possible to capture happily ever after?
How do I find she, my ever lovely, from Gurnee?
Callow gazes have passed over to gray hair
As the dimples sink beneath the aged wrinkles.
A once-charming visage is but only hinted at now,
Though sometimes the eye can conjure crinkles.
And children have come and soon spouses fled—
Those great matches of youth are like history, all dead.
Is it now our time to trip lightly and fancy free?
Can we meet for just breathing on the streets of Gurnee?
But the sun sets on our seekers of real love;
Knights errant stumble now when bending to knee.
Is it even possible to capture happily ever after?
How do I find she, my ever lovely, from Gurnee?

Progression

Now she’s gone
And it’s just me left here.
No, I don’t really think
I’d like another beer.
It’s a progression
In the park where
We used to walk over,
Is now all covered up
In a new spray of clover.
It’s a progression
And memories of us
Are now hard to hold onto;
The doctor says perhaps four months
Then I’ll be gone too.
It’s a progression
All the happy turns sad
About the time of sunset.
You wouldn’t like it here;
That I had agreed now I regret.
It’s a progression
Our kids are good;
I think we did pretty well;
Now nurses and lawyers—
All grown up from Farmer in the Dell.
It’s a progression
Yes, it’s time to rest
And for you to go.
I love you for coming,
I just wanted you to know.
It’s a progression

Sky Too Green

Sky so green
Grass too blue
What I may tell you
May not be too necessarily true
Poets often wrinkle
And scurry over the rhyme
So sue me tangential
Versification has never been a capital crime
Riddle me plastic
Cauterize those peeps of joy
Life tarries aslantlike
I hope they have a baby boy
Roses be red
For her with eyes so too blue
Oh, another butterfly release—
Could you free me one day too?

The Unforgiveable Crime?

Oh, the horrid errors of Yule
We have all committed:
Mixed up colors to patterns;
Ribbons tied so misfitted.

Gave ‘em the wrong present
Or left on the price tag;
Switched the main big one
With the present that’s a gag!

Quick wrap on Christmas morning—
Oh, what an unsightly cut.
The paper just won’t fold
And I cannot get the box to shut!

Such perils of childhood presenting
On every December 25th;
THEN: Missing one’s front teeth
So every time it’s Saint Nicholith!

Then the unforgiveable crime,
Even if only a kid—
Someone (?) had somehow discovered
Where all the Christmas presents were hid!

So I became a Santa agnostic,
But it was really alright:
And I still get that soul-tug
Whenever we sing “Silent Night.”

And now I have my own child
The best present I ever had!
And should she find where I hid those gifts—
Well, ya know, it just won’t be all that bad!

“Jingle bells, jingle bells…”

December Trees

Twas a fetching kind’o December wind;
Blew poor Sally Gossamer Wingstep so very far;
Out of the copse across lands of the fairiekynd,
Past The Queen’s Tree and Jonathan’s guardian webstar.

Twas over by Fablehaven where the three girls dwelt,
Playing with the new puppy as music wafted from the frosted windows.
Such a nice place with goats and cats and one lone fox: Redpelt—
Mind, stay out of his way, hast no sense of humor, goodness knows!

But what a curious thing was occurring inside that house!
My fairy dust, what are they doing? Caressing a fir tree?
With boxes of shiny bulbs, and spikes, and stringy tinsel;
All the while singing strange songs were those sisters three.

Sally flew in the barely open mail slot to listen:
“Jingle Bells, Jingle Bells, Jingle All The Way,”
The three girls warbled at full joyous throat.
Sally liked the little ditty, but what’s a “sleigh?”

Sally exited through the mail slot and headed on home,
Grateful for the December trees and the Queen’s leave to roam.