Oh such sadness
Oh such deep remorse
The old poet has lost the rhyme
For him there’s no recourse
In vino veritas
Has left for brighter shores
The laundry needs folding
Our simile likes whatever’s yours
Oh my my, O mercy me
Here comes that Kentwood child
Scrumptious in all her filigree
Goodness gracious, why must she sashay so wild
The taliban slaughtered some high schoolers
Six o’clock news as old as Cain and Abel
Want to understand the matter black of it all—
Best lay all your cards on the table
Oh dearie dear me
One’s mere life is no bull
9-1-1 has lost your address—
Hope your unsurance is paid in full
Cold front coming:
Get some blankets and extra socks.
Passed up on a life
With a sweet goldilocks.
So, I’m back in my own
Doing some laundry
While composting soliloquy.
I’m not in the photo,
Entered Seventh Grade.
Tossed from senior rec room,
Still ain’t yet made the grade.
It’s still all an illusion,
My calculus was all wrong.
Ennui neck and neck with nostalgia
With second thoughts coming on strong.
How can you leave the concert early?
The Force has left the room.
Remember when 6th grade H.W. Allen math
Was interrupted by a Keesler sonic boom?
But here come the rains
As the winds turn to flip North.
Who wants to meet in Ashland?
Its Train Day November 4th!
Cold front coming!
Morning’s temps will bite.
But forever will I be
Rooting for that Green and White!
Will I be so well regarded
When I achieve some past tense?
Foster a puppy?
Get it together,
Hang on you guys
We’re in for some nasty weather.
Spin some ‘Stones,
Maybe Moonlight Mile?
She’s gone to the theatre—
Can I hang with you awhile?
Or Doobies ‘White Sun;’
Does that make me a racist?
We’re just swaying to the groove;
Please put your PC into cease and desist.
Teachers in tights,
Boots above the knee.
It’s not the clothes, moron.
It’s the quality of the preceptor, see?
The A/C is back on,
The kid’s at St. Ed’s;
All that folded laundry
And, lately, unmade beds.
Waiting for your call,
Ringer turned up high.
Jack the cat stretches
And turns over with a sigh.
The only interrogative:
So, how did it go?
If I only knew,
I would let you know.
Time is skip slipping
As the rain comes misting down
I think I really like you
With you I can sing and clown
Time is a sore pouring
The wine is half gone
Dance we again across the floor
We spin and spin until half-passed dawn
Time stops stupid short
You skitter sweetly out the door
You seem positively unsure
If you’ll come this way anymore
Time comes to do laundry
Separate the lights from the sweats
But we’d danced so hand-in-glove—
Always seem to lose at these kind of bets
Time for my daily bread work
Cloths are all neatly pressed
On a misty kind of rainy morning
One must always look one’s best
Because when the time seems right and the Sun supershines
The world may yet crash down but you still must work the mines
the grass is cut,
the clippings all swept away,
as the sun whittles down
the end of this third April Sunday.
cat meows for dinner,
his feed dish piled up high;
as the laundry waits for folding—
the clothes at last are all dry.
what nonsense will the week bring?
will I continue being so alone?
as unanswered are my dreams
and dusty the bell inside an unrung phone.
see, the Moon rises
and Spring toddles on,
as a one-row Cajun accordion still calls
after all these long years gone.