A corollary proposal might end
Our vicious modern wars effectively.
Let us adopt a universal law
Requiring ev’ry male from sixteen
To sixty—ev’ry male in this grim world—
To get laid ev’ry day of his cold life.
(To be fair, a few medical waivers
Might be granted, if clearly justified.)
The result, pleasant and benevolent,
Leaves no testosterone to fuel those wars.
(10/16/13)

Two or three unruly souls just ogle
Waiting for their chance, looking to embrace,
They peer with lust, predatory eagles,
And plan to place themselves face to chic face.

The other day one of them sprinted by
Determined to meet Paula, claim his hug;
Not one of those demure hip slants to side—
He forced full pelvic press (poor Paula—ugh!).

Though pleasure gleamed, desire all a-whet,
Deep down he knew that hug was all he’d get.
(6/29/13)

Sometimes it irritates, when bright headlights
Flash across the dim, cataracted eyes
Of ancient drivers, make things much too white
And threaten to induce a quick demise.

Today, down at the paddle tennis courts,
A young woman wore a skillful outfit
So provocative, each man’s eye was caught
By sheen reflected off her ample tits.

The afternoon sun painted those pristine,
Oval breasts with a sheen I’d never seen.
(4/4/13)

“Boy, school is really tough this year,” he chats,
“Especially biology.” A pause.
“The boys are studying girls, the girls [of course]
“Are studying boys, what makes us tick, all that . . .”

The child stops walking; Dagwood peers, nodding,
Patient, waiting for the culmination.
Quickly it comes—“So far everybody’s
Flunking.” A child’s insight to creation—

In one three panel comic strip, enthralled,
We find the hist’ry of the world writ small!
(1/31/13)

Our Kim’s promoting charities,
And Gillian’s busy learning law;
While Lisa works the dark, dank, docks,
Patricia works so hard she’s sore.

That furry-biked East-Asian lass
Has disappeared—her muscles flawed.
Andrea’s got a job, alas!
They’re seldom here, those girls that awed.

We miss their skin, their shapely shorts—
Excitement’s drained down at the courts.
(8/24/12)

Was gonna flame another hottie glow
To palpitate the leering watchers there
Until I spoke with her, and came to know
The stress-filled life she’d lived (beyond compare!).

She left the streets, procured a G.E.D.
Stopped hanging with those grungy pimps and whores.
She earned a B.A., Masters—two degrees—
Then—college-bored—became a stevedore!

To gain her trust, I read a poem I wrote.
Her keen eyes revealed how well she knew me.
Her crimson lips responded with a quote—
Lyrics from that ancient poet Rumi!

I gulped, amazed, delighted at my shock—
At Lisa’s depth—Our Lady of the Docks.
(7/22/12)

Some Hebrew Bible poems
Are not too bad.
After all, they are
The words of god
(Reported by stenographers).

But some are plain grotesque.

If I were teaching poetry,
I’d have my students read
The Song of Solomon’s
Fourth chapter,
And cherish
The growls, grins, laughs
Its similes create.

“Behold, you are beautiful, my love.”

Not a bad beginning.

But then comes
The flood—
Divinely wrought similes:
“Your eyes are doves”
“Your hair is like a flock of goats, moving down the slopes of Gilead”
“Your teeth are like” (wait for it)
“a flock of shorn ewes that have come up from the washing, all of which bear twins, and not one of them is bereaved.”

Yahweh, please—
Teeth like shorn ewes,
Each followed by twin lambs
Yearning for a teat?
When my beloved smiles,
I bask in the effulgence
Of shorn postpartum ewes?

Then, a torrent,
Bemused as a mountain waterfall.

“Your lips are like a scarlet thread,”
“Your cheeks are like halves of a pomegranate,”
“Your neck is like a tower of David, built for an arsenal
Whereon hang a thousand bucklers,
All of them shields of warriors.”
Mama mia! That is one prodigious neck!

But the best
Worst simile
Embedded in the long
And varied history of poetry,
Remains: our beloved’s breasts—
“like two fawns,
twins of a gazelle,
that feed among the lilies.”

Got it? Reclining there,
The most beautiful woman
In the Bible:
Doves for eyes,
Goat hair,
Sheered sheep teeth,
Thread lips,
Pomegranate cheeks,
Arsenal tower neck,
With hungry baby gazelles
For breasts.

We must,
I suppose,
Gratefully
Thank god,
Or its stenographer,
For not imagining
All the bulk
Of that ancient book
In verse.
(6/29/12)

Those quirky forms—sestinas, villanelles—
Hurl hefty gauntlets. challenge brain lobe cells.
Pantoums and tankas, tercets and rondels,
Engirdled verse, slim, trim, sexy as hell!

But formal traits—the rhyme and style and beat,
The images, and metaphors, and shtick—
Are, finally, an uncooked meal, raw meat,
Poets’ pride displayed—plain narcissistic.

I’ll tell you what a poem’s supposed to do;
Dredge out our muddled minds, focus blurred view.
Poems shape our mist, mould spirit into fact—
Exploding stars that change the way we act.
(4/21/12)

So it was Thursday last. I watched a game
Featuring Andrea and three trim males.
Her gaudy hair blossomed—long, loose, untamed,
Her well-toned body not the least bit frail.

This year, no doubt, her grandchild will be born,
Though time has been most generous to her.
I note the shape her spandex pants adorn
And mourn my lost libido—yet still stirred.

Plush hemispheres! And, though I know it’s crass,
I, stunned, admire Andrea’s darling ass.
(1/30/12)