The Girl With the Cullender on Her Head

She was a disciple of Wilhelm Reich
He of the orgone box.
She had fair skin and dark brown hair
That fell in flowing locks.

She wore a cullender on her head
As she puttered around the apartment.
She hoped by this means, on a smaller scale,
To replicate Reich's compartment.

When I first saw her dressed in her scullery best
I assumed that it wasn't for fashion.
She confirmed this and said that the sieve on her head
Brought her bigger and better orgasms.

She wore a cullender on her head,
It was made out of tin, a base metal.
She wore it while baking her pumpkin bread
Or lifting a whistling tea kettle.

There is no moral to this poem--
A metal head's no vice;
But Reich's long gone so I conclude
With this unsought advice:

If you would wear an orgone cap
To strengthen your libido,
When leaving home, remember that
The hat should stay when you go.

Mouseover to enlarge

A Culinary Proof of God's Existence

You should ask the atheist
Who it was made lemon twists
Carved in widths so very teeny
All to grace a dry martini.

Who was it wed P-B to J
And introduced B-L to T?
He who breaks the days like eggs--
The man upstairs—and only he.

If you would see the godhead’s face
Drink Pickwick Ale, and by the case.
Those who doubt the man divine
Have not yet tasted eight buck wine.

When God looks down on his creations
He dotes on yogurt-covered raisins
and says “With this thumbnail confection
I achieved at last perfection.”

Where Are the Beers of Yesteryear?

Tell me in what hidden bar is
Pickwick Ale still served today?
Where is Carling, where is Hamm’s?
Both are gone, I hear you say.
Where is Falstaff—Shakespeare’s brew?
Drunk but in memory I fear.
He whose belly held twelve ounces--
Where are the beers of yesteryear?

Where is Schlitz, where is Blatz?
Where’s Miss Reingold, Subway Queen?
Lost her head, so unlike Piel’s,
She has no foam coiffure to preen.
Who now savors Champagne Velvet
The scorn of decent men must fear,
They who buy Bud by the case.
Where are the beers of yesteryear?

If I spy some Ballantine’s
I buy that ale when’er I can.
A work of art, thought Lichtenstein
In its cool green neon can.
If you’re having more than one
Schaefer’s the one to have—that’s clear.
Special Export, Old Milwaukee--
Where are the beers of yesteryear?

Never ask a bored barkeep
Where they are gone, that once were here,
Except with this for an afterword—
Where are the beers of yesteryear?

A Get-Well Card for Fidel Castro

From the streets of Havana
To Guantanamo's beaches—
Hope you get well real soon—
We miss 8-hour speeches!

Ode to Chicken Skin

I can't imagine a world without chicken skin--
It wouldn't be one I'd want to live in.
People who want to stay or become thin
Will often eat their poultry sans skin.
I may be (and am) fatter than them
But I eat the skin, and I'm a happy man.

I like barbecued chicken skin best,
But I'll eat it roasted or fried, put me to the test.
I'll eat it separate or attached to the fowl
Deny me chicken skin--hear me growl.
My health might be better with less chicken skin but I doubt it.
Just ask a chicken to do without it.

On the Similarity Between Poets and Chimney Sweeps

One of the great perks of this job is that, when we find ourselves puzzling over something in a poem or wondering why a particular choice was made, we can go straight to the source and put our poets on the spot.

The Editors, Poetry

The poet should not stand apart,
one thumb upraised to judge his art
or say from whence it came or why.
He’s better off not even to try.

A poet’s like a chimney sweep
who works on high, up roofs pitched steep.
He risks a fall, his trade’s fell quirk
if he steps back to admire his work.

It's Not Too Soon to Feel Crabby 'bout Christmas

News item: A Boston-area radio station began playing Christmas music on Veteran's Day this year, the earliest date ever. 

Holiday people, being too cheerful.
I'd like to give one or two a good earful.
Jolly like Santa, talking too loud-
I can't avoid them, I'm stuck in the crowd.

It's Christmas time-
Bah, humbug to you.

No man is an island, but I'm going to try, man.
At least for this Christhmus I'll stay on my isthmus.
Or better, if we get shut in by the snow
I'll be on my own archipelago.
 
It's Christmas time-
Bah, humbug to you.
 
We're gathered round the Christmas tree-
Enflaming my misanthropy
Call it Chanukkah, call it Kwanzaa
Whatever the name, I just don't wanzaa!
 
Holiday sentiments flow much too cheaply
For me to feel mine very deeply.
So just in case you think I'm a snot--
I hope you're happy this Christmas, even if--I'm not.

With Emily Dickinson, as Walt Whitman Walks in the Bar

You speak of Mr. Whitman. I never read his Book—but was told it was disgraceful.
--Emily Dickinson, letter to Thomas Higginson

Oh no, here comes that Whitman man
I’ve heard he is a bounder.
Don’t look his way or catch his eye—
Just get another round, dear.

I hear America drinking, the varied drinks I hear—
Those of stockbrokers, each one ordering his vodka,
straight and strong.
The lawyer with his gin and tonic as he gauges his odds of
winning a case.
The advertising man, with his first of three martinis, as he
thinks of jingles to sing.
The venture capitalist, smugly contemplating his
carried interest in a risky start-up--
Drinking with open mouths their strong reviving drinks!

How dreary to be so full of one’s self.
Concentered on one’s soul.
I’d rather be a can on a shelf,
Stewed prunes, or pineapple, Dole.

Speaking of pineapple--
See the bartender’s fruit caddy!
I am the poet of the lemon and the lime!
Of the maraschino cherry sublime—
Of the pearl onion, and the celery stalk that graces
the Mary that is Bloody,
And the olive, a mere surplusage perhaps,
but without it, the martini is too modest, too plain,
Put on your adornment, o drink of gin and little vermouth--
vile no more, your brothers and sisters approach you!

He drinks and talks too freely--
A downspout in the rain.
I do not like this bar and grille—
Let’s not come here again.

I'm Thinking About a Poem

I’m thinking about a poem . . . .

you know the kind I mean

it has words scrambled all over the page

like leaves on my driveway, here and there

or like an electric guitar painted grape-gum purple,

how it looks is almost as important as

how it sounds.

I could read it but

I think I’ll just wait ‘til my next

eye exam instead

Lament for Fluorescent Cats

South Korean scientists have produced cats that glow in the dark.
-MSNBC.com

You may think all’s copacetic
As the pet scene you survey
I have news that’s quite pathetic--
Glowing cats are on their way.

Cats are currently quite sneaky
When they leap on sleeping chests.
Phosphorescence’d make them freaky
Sometimes change ain’t for the best.

Imagine seeing in the dark gloom
Creeping cats that glow at night.
Keep one handy in the bathroom--
No more fumbling for the light!

Cats are haughty balls of fun,
It’s their world we’re livin’ in—
If I see a fiery cloned one
You can call my next of kin.

About a Hangover

I sought oblivion in a cup
and there I didn’t find it.
I stopped when all had been drunk up,
I thought I wouldn’t mind it.

No hellish fire, no blackened hole
was found at bottom of that cup.
Before I played the tortured soul
I had to wait ‘til I woke up.

The House With the Grave of the Girl Out Front

There was, in the town where I grew up,
A house with a tombstone laid out front.
It was flat, not upright, and on it was sprawled
A forlorn girl, sculpted from stone.

We used to wonder as we passed
Whether underneath there lay a corpse.
We’d joke in nervous tones about
The stuff that the worms were eating below.

One day on the way to the town swimming pool
A boy named Marty thought of a jest
He lay down upon the cold granite child
And curled his arm ‘round the girl’s stony breast.

We laughed at his antics, the guy was a nut.
We walked on but he continued his joke
When out from the door overlooking the street
Came the girl’s angry mother and her sister too.

“How dare you disturb the sleep of the dead!”
The mother said shaking, her grey face contorted.
“Hey lady,” said Marty, “Don’t get mad at me--
you were the one put her out on the street.”

The mother, enraged, flew back in the house,
The rest of us scattered, fearing the worst,
But Marty just laughed, and taunted the girl
‘till finally she spoke, in a mesmerized voice.

“My sister was no one that you ever knew,
She did you no harm—not poor Tara Lee.
You’re evil—there’s no other word to describe
The hurt that you’ve brought to my mother and me.”

Marty got up, and brushed off his pants,
And started to walk with the rest of the gang,
But before out of view he fired one last shot
“I’ll bet,” he yelled loudly, “your mom kills you too!”

The girl stiffened sharply and drew herself up—
“You horrible boy, you’re awful!” she cried.
Marty just laughed and hollered back “Skag!”
While we ran ahead, and he lagged behind.

 · · · · ·

We grew up together, then drifted apart,
We each wandered off on our separate paths.
Marty stayed local, and worked for his dad,
He never aimed higher, and didn’t much change.

He dated around, but didn’t get serious
Until it began to be noticed a bit.
“That Marty, how come he can’t find him a girl?”
The townsfolk would ask, and he heard the talk.

And so in the span of couple of months
He wooed then he won a girl none of us knew.
She lived south of town in a house they would share
Once they’d slipped on the rings and had said their “I do’s”.

She was borderline tacky—to give you a flavor
Her bangs flipped up à la Farrah Fawcett-Major.
Her bridal flowers were baby’s breath.
And she went by the name of Liza Beth.

They walked down the aisle to Mendelssohn’s music.
And then slipped away, for their honeymoon.
They kept to themselves, we never saw Marty--
We figured they had what they needed themselves.

And then just as quickly as it had begun
The marriage was over, said Marty “It’s done.”
He moved back with his parents and stayed home at first
But then we would see him in bars by himself.

“Come join us,” we’d say, but he would refuse,
He’d stare in his glass as if oceans it held
And we wondered why—what was wrong with him?
Where was the quick laugh of boyhood days?

I happened to join him one cold New Year’s Eve
There was only one seat at the town hotel bar.
He looked straight ahead at the foam on his beer
but couldn’t avoid my inquisitive tongue.

“So tell me,” I asked him, intending no harm,
“Whatever happened to your Liza Beth?”
He turned and he looked at me, cold to the eye,
And recited these words with a chilling regret:

“We met and we sparked but we never made love,
She said we’d save that for our wedding night.
When under the covers I embraced her body
It turned into cold stone and spoke these words,”

“’The woman you married is the one who was buried
Beneath the stone marker in front of the house,
Where my sister and mother endured your crude joking
And you walked away with a cynical laugh.

“’And so the worm turns, as always it does,
If one has the patience to wait long enough.
Now I am the one who gives you an embrace
That unmans you now and forever my spouse.’”

“She grasped me,” he said, “her hand hard as stone,
And said these fell words, in a harsh, loveless tone:
‘Just as I am, so shall you be,
as lifeless and cold as death only can be,”

Thus spake the wraith named Tara Lee,
Then paused and spoke again, did she.
 “’You will never have a son or daughter—
You will never hear their laughter
Because impotent you shall be,
From now through all eternity.’” 

I gazed in his eyes, but saw nothing there,
They offered a view like a bottomless well.
“I’m sorry to hear that,” I said with alarm
And tried to escape from his gaze and his grip.

“You got off lucky,” he said, “but not me,
“I’ll be paying forever the price of my jokes.”
“Too bad,” I said standing, leaving him with this unction,
“There’s all kinds of pills for erectile dysfunction.”

“You don’t understand,” he said and started to cry,
“I haven’t said yet what she then did to me.”
I trembled as manically he gripped my arm,
Made no sudden moves, lest he do me harm.

“’You’ll get an erection,’ she said, “hard as a bone,
And once that has happened, ‘twill turn into stone.’”
His tale ended there, he hung down his head
Finally crushed by what he’d just said.

I reached to console him, I patted his back,
I said “You’ll be fine, pal, I know you’ll be back.
In fact,” I joked mildly, “If you want my view,
There’s plenty of guys who’d trade organs with you.”

“Granted,” he said, “I had turned hard as stone.
You’re kind and really, I don’t mean to cavil--
But she reached in her nightstand, removed her hot comb
And whacking my granite, she smashed it to gravel.”

Moral: A smart remark can come back to haunt you.

To Make a Long Story Shorter . . .

I write to make cruel but justified sport
of people who use the phrase “long story short.”

You can bet--if you happen to think that I’m wrong--
but when those words are heard a tale’s gone on too long.

To say them, of course, just makes the thing longer
which makes my objection, well, by that much stronger.

I’ll tell you one thing and I mean it, old sport—
Why can’t you contrive to just keep the thing short?

You say that you dropped excess words-- “To make a."
I appreciate that, but I think you’re a fake-a.

Your story is still near the size of King Kong.
It’s a PBS pledge drive—a Grateful Dead song.

I’m not very fond of you rambling sorts—
who seem to think talking’s a spectator sport.

Your monologue dates from a prior millennium
If there exist any longer, I’d sure hate to see ‘em.

And so let me close with some linguistic mortar—
To stick ‘tween the bricks of your verbal disorder:

If when next I see you your mouth is still talkin’ it—
I’ll take off one shoe and I swear put a sock in it.

Where Are the Beers of long ago?

I remember drinking a Pickwick Ale
at the foot of Mt. Monadnock
And one in a bar on Church Green in Boston
where dejected men sat and drank what was called
The “poor man’s gin” during the Depression
fifty years after the Crash.

Where are they now—
The beers of long ago?

Where is the Falstaff Beer
that my father would drank in his living-room chair?
I would steal a sip from his near-empty bottle
As I carried it back to the kitchen, hidden in the pantry
By the phone that I would later use to call girls
named Carolyn, and Stella, and Peggy.

Where are they now—
The beers of long ago.

I remember Hamm’s Beer—
“From the Land of Sky Blue Waters
Comes the beer refreshing.”
We would steal cans of it from Tommy Barbour’s dad.
In the Hogans’ basement, behind the bar,
was a sign with water falling, sky blue water.

Where are they now—
The beers of long ago.

My Wild Feline Boy

It’s three a.m. and the cat wants in,
My wild feline boy.
He’s made his way home from a night of sin,
My errant feline boy.

With a notch in his ear from an honor-mad fight
And a tail that is shorter than at last sunlight
He stops to eat, then he curls to sleep
My satisfied feline boy.

He recalls for me a time when I,
Like he, roamed the streets at night.
He unlike me, sleeps an untroubled sleep.
My antic feline boy.

Three Philosophers and Their Wives

The chief difficulty which Husserl (not to mention Hegel and Heidegger) encounters is the allowing for the existence of other selves.

Walker Percy, The Message in the Bottle

Three German thinkers whose last names began with h’s
were in many respects remarkable sages.
Still, as mortals, they lived in houses
and for domestic tranquility, got married to spouses.
Their wives, without exception, had birthdays,
which if forgotten, were much-less-than-mirth days.
Omit a gift from your list of things to do
and you’re much less successful when pitching woo.
Birthdays are available in any given year,
but screw just one up and the price is quite dear.

Anyway, to get back to the philosophes
who are the subject of these strophes;
These fellows—all of whom came from mothers—
nonetheless found it hard to conceive of others.
This is a trait that is less than topping
when you must remember you ought to go shopping.
When Heidegger needed a gift for Elfriede
he frequently found himself all-at-sea’d.
“Does she even exist?” he would thoughtfully ask,
‘cause if not, I’m not up for a mall-prowling task.”

Hegel, who excelled at things dialectic,
if confronted by sales clerks would grow apoplectic.
“Try this,” one would say, “made from natural fiber.”
“If she ever wore that it would be ‘cause I bribed her.
Thesis, antithesis is my stock-in-trade.
She wears off-the-rack frocks from synthetic threads made.”
When Marie tore the gift wrap and started to pout,
He wished her existence a bit more in doubt.

As for Husserl, well, the less said the better.
He’d gift, then he’d re-gift a cable-knit sweater
‘til his wife, Malvine, in the throes of insanity
would demand he explain his persistent inanity.
“You see, dear,” he’d say, “I’m not trying to be funny,
but if you don’t exist we can save lots of money.
I’ll give a nice present each year without fail
And we won’t have to wait until things go on sale!”

The Poet's Embezzlement

Every poet cheats his boss.
--Russian proverb.

Into the middle distance
I fix my blankest stare.
I nod my head
at what is said.
My brain is God knows where.

“Our revenue’s declining”—
so says our CFO.
I hear the words--
it’s too absurd--
I care not ‘bout his dough.

With every idle moment,
My fancy ventures free
spelunking mines
within my mind,
committing vagrancy.

My body sits upon its chair
To earn its daily bread.
I’ve picked the lock
while on the clock--
the ghost within has fled.

Too bad we’re not in textiles--
at gathering wool I’m good.
Perhaps like Melville’s Bartleby
I’m just misunderstood.

The folks down in accounting
can’t figure out what’s wrong.
Lyric’s gain is mammon’s loss
‘cause every poet cheats his boss.

Ode to Three Forgotten Boxers

Whatever happened to Pipino Cuevas
With balletic feet like a dancer by Degas?
When eighteen he won the welterweight crown
Beating Angel Espada, whom he thrice knocked down.
For fourteen years, every schoolboy learns
The title was his till he hit Hit Man Hearns.
A body mod blade, with his golden tooth.
That's Pipino Cuevas, welterweight of my youth.

Next, consider Vito Antuofermo
Who chose for his totem not the lowly wormo,
Nor snake, nor gecko, nor even the python;
The pesky mosquito he took for his icon.
That's quite apropos, for though he had guts
He'd bleed very freely when he suffered cuts.
He won fifty fights, by seven was beat-o
The middleweight champ with the first name of Vito.
Finally, I give you Hector Camacho
It was fated, no doubt, that his nickname be "Macho".

A man for all classes--light, welter and featherweight,
He was also "Sub-Novice" champ in 1978.
He lost his lightweight crown to Rudy Carmona
Who was not then, but is now an unknowna.
He held four titles, had some trouble with the law
I'd rather watch, thanks, than feel his punch on my jaw.

To a Young Tom Cat, on the Eve of His Gelding

Sweet and fearless cat, brazen climber of tables—
The appointment has been booked,
The vet will cut your cables.
Your gander, as it were, is cooked.
For a few, brief shining days
Thou lusty feelings knew.
Spring arrived, you prepared to make hay,
Your concupiscence grew.
Now, Rocco, you never love will know,
Nor seed shall sow, nor breed
An heir to bear your ebony mane (white ruff below).
Forget the procreator's creed--
An urge is thus interred, as if within an urn.
You will hardly miss what you barely learned.

Ode to a Transparent Frog

Scientists have created frogs whose internal organs can be viewed through clear skin. --MSNBC.com

I do not share the point of view
That favors frogs you can see through.

If I'm the one who must select them
I'd take opaque and just dissect them.

Common toads have creepy skinnards
All so we don't see their innards.

Froggies hop where'er they're going
It's best we see no organs showing.

Scientists with excess time
May frown upon this caustic rhyme

But nonetheless here's my two cents--
Frogs should not be translucent.

Lines Composed on Waking After Spending the Night at a Kosher Vegetarian Commune

This is kosher, this is trayfe—
One unclean, the other safe.
All day long we work and slayfe
Keeping kosher from the trayfe.

Valentine for a Homely Couple

Carl's wife sits shotgun in his truck
Her doughy face baked whitish red
He gets out and climbs the semi--
Smiling, he asks "How's it going?"
We just grunt and nod our heads
at the auger hole, and how it's stuck.

"Better you than me, boys," he says.
"I'm enjoying Sunday off.
Got a beer and my old lady.
It ain't much, but it's enough."

Bill and me look at each other;
He's the type to make a crack.
Me--I just want to get this load done.
We've got 18 miles to drive back.
"Your wife, she sure is lookin' sweet,"
Bill says--I don't pay him no mind.
Carl's wife smiles, then she says thank you.
"You ever seen her walk the streets?"
Carl asks, all innocent.  "From behind
Looks like two hogs fightin' under a sheet."

Carl's wife laughs, she likes attention.
Backhanded flattered, and it shows.
Her flabby arm hangs out the window
What attracts him, God only knows.
"Have you lost weight since I last saw you?"
Bill asks, and then he calls her "Dear."
"Naw," Carl says, "she's like the State Fair--
Bigger and better every year."

We see her laugh, she's missing one tooth.
It's clear she's heard this joke before.
Old Sam arrives to check our progress--
It's his dough that we're wasting now.
He kicks a dead mouse out the barn door
As we prepare to tell untruths.
"Howdy, Carl," Sam says surprised
to see his foreman in the bay.
"I give you the day off and what do you do?
You just can't tear yourself away."

"You know my wife, Earlene--right Sam?"
Carl says with somewhat misplaced pride.
"I don't believe I've had the pleasure."
Can he be pleased by one so wide?
They talk of things, while in the trailer
Bill and I unclog the jam.
The fescue seed begins to flow
As if from out a hydro dam.

Carl takes his leave, with mock regret.
"Sorry to see you break a sweat,
I'll keep a cold beer waiting," he says,
"In case I haven't drunk it yet."
Carl starts his truck, Sam farts around,
He sticks his hand into the seed.
"This stuff's too wet, it's got to dry out,
A day in windrows is what it needs."

Sam stands up straight to watch them go.
"That little peckerwood's a card.
Before too long they'll have them six kids
And a beat-up truck in their front yard.
I know that it ain't none of my business,
where ole Carl puts his prick.
But for me, I sure know one thing;
Them Bohunk women go to pot quick."

We're silent, Bill and I, for once,
as we attempt to take this in.
It's true, of course, there's no denying,
and yet to say it seems a sin.
Happy the man, and happy the mate
Who care not what the world may say.
Here's to the two whose matches are few--
May they find love on Valentine's Day.

Curse Upon a Family of Annoying Italian Neighbors

You can take all the San Severinos
Toss them into the deep blue sea
Both the folks and the little bambinos
It's perfectly all right with me.

Say Something Nice to Your Wife Tonight

Say something nice to your wife tonight—
Even if it hurts.
Say something nice to your wife tonight
Or you won't like your just desserts.
When she asks "Does this skirt make me look fat?"
Just say "You look lovely—in that hat."
Say something nice to your wife tonight,
Even if it hurts.

Say something nice to your wife tonight,
It's the thing to do.
Say something nice to your wife tonight.
Even if it's true.
If she says "Say something sweet to me!"
Say "You've got nicer in-laws than me."
Say something nice to your wife tonight
Even if it hurts.

Later on, when the guests are gone
And you're thinking of pitching woo.
If you weren't real nice early on
She may not accommodate you.

Say something nice to your wife tonight
I know that can be tough.
Say something nice to your wife tonight,
She can never get enough.
You need to compliment her now and then.
Tell her "I admire your taste in men!"

Say something nice to your wife tonight
Even if it hurts!

Civic Homage to My Home Town

I come from good old Sedalia--
Home of Scott Joplin (and others)
I grew up there with two older sisters,
But as far as I know, no brothers.

A Band of Feline Brothers
Upon the Poet's Learning That His Cats Had Chased Off a Pack of Coyotes

You wish for assistance?
No, my cousin Okie.
If we die, it is our master's loss,
But if we live, the fewer cats,
The greater share of honor.
With God as my witness,
I wish not one cat more.

I am not covetous for catnip,
Nor care where I sleep at night.
It irks me not who takes my
Favorite chair, or swats me off a table
That I have leapt upon.

Such things get not my dander up.
But if it be a sin to covet honor
On the field of battle,
I am the most offending cat alive.

No, coz, wish not a cat from Wayland
Over yon stone wall to climb and save us.
I would not lose so great an honor
As one cat more would share with me.

O, do not wish one more.
Rather proclaim it presently
To the host of coyotes before us
That we've the stomach for this fight.
Let them depart. Dry catfood pellets shall
Be put in their purse to ease their convoy
Back to the hills from whence they came.

This day is called the feast of St. Gertrude
The patron saint of cats.
He that outlives this day, and comes safe home
Will stand on hind legs when the day is named
And rouse himself at the name of St. Gertrude.

He that shall live this day, and see old age,
Will yearly on the vigil feast his fellow-cats
And say "To-morrow is Saint Gertrude's Day."
Then will he part his fur and show his scars
And say "These wounds I had on St. Gertrude's Day."

Old men forget, yet all shall be forgot,
But he'll remember with advantages
What feats he did that day: Then shall our names
Familiar in his mouth as household words—
Okie the King, Rocco the Prince,
Spooks, Chewie and Chester--
Be in their flowing cups freshly remember'd.

This story shall the good cat teach his kit.
And St. Gertrude's Day shall ne'er go by,
From this day to the ending of the world,
But we in it shall be remember'd.

We few, we happy few, we band of brothers;
For he to-day that sheds his blood with me
Shall be my brother; be he ne'er so vile,
This day shall gentle his condition:
And gentlecats in Weston now a-bed
Shall think themselves accursed they were not here,
And hold their cathoods cheap while any speaks
That fought with us upon Saint Gertrude's Day.

The Poet Persuades His Wife to Go to a Bruins Game

Whose rink this is I think I know,
He makes his home in Buffalo;
He will not see me stopping here
He stays up North—he must like snow.

My little wife must think it queer
To sit and watch me drink my beer.
I stare out at the frozen lake
I slowly sip and rarely cheer.

She gives her string of pearls a shake
To ask if there is some mistake
The only other sound's the sweep
An odd-man rush on Raycroft makes.

The playoffs end, I grimly weep.
We two descend from bleachers steep.
She says next time please don't ask me
Or watch at home on our TV.

Of the Glorious Poetess

She reaped all the prizes
While she was alive
No critic was there who would doubt her.

But now that she's dead,
And now that she's gone,
We find we do quite well without her.

The Prodigy

There once was a young man who from date of birth
Showed promise of one day achieving great worth.
His parents sure thought so, his teachers did too--
He'd really be something when upwards he grew.

It might be in science, or maybe the arts
He wouldn't end up like the other old farts.
And so all and sundry dandled him on one knee
And pronounced him a wonder—a child prodigy.

He studied and studied, earned prizes galore,
And on every exam got a curve-busting score.
But somewhere and somehow he wandered astray
And was lost to wool-gathering off well-trod ways.

He'd worry each thing while hours flew by
'til each thing succumbed 'neath his gimlet-like eye.
He's now quite mature, though his prospects have dimmed
And he takes on new projects with faltering vim.

So sometimes his friends feel compelled to remind him—
He has a great future; it's somewhere behind him.

What Do You Do With an Erotic Poem?

What do you do with an erotic poem?
I've parsed 'em, I've scanned 'em--believe me I know 'em.
From Sappho of Lesbos, to Marvell, Andrew--
Once you have finished, what do you do?

I can't think of anything quite so assailable
Than for an author, who such verse has mothered or fathered,
To be miles away, and thus unavailable
Just when you're, ah, all hot and bothered.

I don't want to create a gigantic schism
But when you're blown away by an amatory barrage
The only solution's auto-eroticism
And not the kind you do in your garage.

Illustrations by Sage Stossel