Blog Archives
Skip Skipping
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
Wanna dance?
Something Else
Ran out of red wine,
Ate all the almonds;
Ain’t this healthy living
Something else.
Managed a mile run;
Piled on the push-ups;
Ain’t this healthy living
Something else.
But I ain’t got you,
And no love is no good.
Aren’t you coming over?
Oh, if only you would.
Starting with several sit-ups;
Onto the overhead press.
Ain’t this healthy living
Something else.
Stemming the saturated fats;
Diving after the Vitamin D3.
Ain’t this healthy living
Something else.
But you’re still not here
As all these alleged muscles get sore.
To fully complete this course
Requires I be with you a whole lot more!
Don’t want any more red wine
And you can keep the nuts:
Please get over here—
No ifs, ands, or buts.
Wrong-Sized Glass
Sorry, I know it’s the wrong-sized glass
but it is a pretty nice red.
we can crack open this bottle
or go for walk instead.
usually just down to the gulch,
it matters not how far,
or maybe off to the zoo
we can take my old car.
I just want to spend some time
and get to know you better,
even though my stupid old cat
won’t want to meet your setter.
So, I’ll put the merlot up,
since you’ve turned me down.
I really wish for you the best
and hope to see you around town.
the old poet saved the page
and powered off his computer;
tomorrow to try again
imaging the life of a suitor—
heartbreak, in crisp 64 RAM,
meets: “I yam what I yam!”