Along rue de Whimsy

Is it true bubbles make things better,
Like a sunny day doesn’t hurt;
Like a lithesome newly met lady
With a surprising yielding tight skirt?

Or, regard granite-rendered shoulders
Attending a chin suitably cleft.
But, then, the storm is awash the bulkhead
And all Joy has upped and swiftly left.

Can you tell me the way back to happy?
Or, the land over near next to not bad?
We all need a Springtime vacation
From this our time melted into so sad

Paris plans wrap their Arch,
But the Old Caesar is so very dead.
And I can’t abide those self-gilded Trumpettes—
I’d very much rather someone else instead.

Magna Laude will discover une baguette,
As I count the steps to the third etage:
Gray, overcast, with a soft Parisien rain—
All cares forwarded to Le Voice Message.

Is it true bubbles make all things better,
Like a sunny day doesn’t at all hurt?
Salut, Soleil, comment ca va?
Our days grow short, time to be alert.

A Safe Place

I’ve lost that place to let a tear;
My heart’s gone to its safe place.
How could things go so wrong?
What new horrors must we face?

Barricades fall from Seattle town,
But nothing’s better, not at all.
I’ve no stamp for my letter
Begging to be allowed to call.

Things today sing with a minor key,
But youngin there’s just one thing:
Passion stills, for just a moment, the longing—
Yet loneliness in old age still prides its sting.

Did she survive the novel virus?
Will she return to us fully alive?
Glasses for all to share the sauterne!
Breathe the air! Dance! Sing! Thrive!

I’ve lost the time to shed a tear,
My words go without a decent rhyme,
The End: how will we deeply know?
What new pain unfolds with wrinkled time?