The Less Serious Poems
With apologies to e. e. cummings.
Upon Discovering the Bones of Richard III beneath a Leicester car lot (with apologies to R. Frost)
Upon Discovering the Bones of Richard III beneath a Leicester car lot (with apologies to R. Frost)
[In Now-]
In Now-
fall when the world is leaf-
calloused the little
spry pumpkinchild
scythes close and near
and frankandedna come
creaking from canasta and
jeopardy and it's
fall
when the world is wind-different
the familiar
old pumpkinchild scythes
close and near
and loisandlola come bending
from coffee-talk and grandchildren and
it's
fall
and
the
black-hooded
pumpkinChild scythes
close
and
near
Upon Discovering the Bones of Richard III beneath a Leicester car lot (with apologies to R. Frost)
Upon Discovering the Bones of Richard III beneath a Leicester car lot (with apologies to R. Frost)
Upon Discovering the Bones of Richard III beneath a Leicester car lot (with apologies to R. Frost)
Whose bones these are I think I know.
His house was in the castle though;
He will not see me stopping here –
He died here centuries ago.
My little horse must think it queer
To stop beside this graveside here
When once, in Bosworth field nearby,
A voice rang out so loud, so clear:
“A horse! A horse!” This man did cry.
But ghosts of those he killed stood by;
From him all horses did they keep
And on that field, they let him die.
So park your car, your truck, your jeep –
Your keys, attendants here will keep.
This lot is lovely, paved, and cheap.
This lot is lovely, paved, and cheap.
A Poem by Mayzie, the Yorkie Poo
I save my pee for Jonathan
(So that he knows I care),
And when I see him after work,
Release it on the chair
Or on the floor—where ever—
I know he doesn’t care.
Because when he’s at work all day,
He might forget I’m there.
So when I go out walking,
I hold some back to share.
My offering is simple--
Not fancy, no flair.
I just save my pee for Jonathan
(So that he knows I care).
To My Lawyer Friends, Appropo of Nothing
O if I had an hour or two,
I'd think of things Devine,
And feast upon a loaf of bread,
And sip from off the vine.
O if I had a week or more,
The idle hours I'd measure
Dallying on some distant shore
And waste myself in pleasure.
And if I had a year to live,
The hours and weeks I'd pace
Devising poems, words, and hymns,
To memorize your face.
I have, alas, no time to spare--
My singular devotion
Must be but this: to sit right here,
And draft this stupid motion.
Another One For My Lawyer Friends
When spring on the air shall be winging
(The tulips swollen and gay),
The thrush and the jay shall be singing
As April melts into May.
When summer’s hot gaze shall be stinging
(The bees romancing the rose),
Young lovers in fields will be clinging
As madness and joy juxtapose.
When autumn’s cool fires are yearning
(The apples now ripe on the bough),
Age recalls youth with a burning
While gasping for breath on the plough.
When winter’s white blanket is falling
(And death rides the landscape aglow),
The daffodils still will be calling
From somewhere under the snow.
To seasons of change I am willing
To yield my life’s fairest flowers.
But all seasons are one when fulfilling
Your yearly billable hours.
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