In olden times, the laureate was forced
To celebrate occasions—that new birth,
A coronation, perhaps the grim course
Of recent history. To prove my worth,

(Though no laureate), I’ll accept the task
Because this event’s a true occasion—
The birthday of a neighbor, who, unmasked,
Amazing—requires no persuasion.

Her gleaming virtues are unique—she gives,
And gives, and gives without a need to take—
Love for her large family—the motives
That drive her midwife life for infants’ sake.

She’s forty-eight today—and we are blessed—
Her beauty argues for two decades less!
(10/27/12)

Poetry 101 lays down stiff rules—
Each word must count, strike hard! Eschew clichés!
But rules (the cliché holds), often just tools,
Are made to be broken, and clichés say,

Quite deftly, the taut words that must be said
To solemnize sacred, poetic truth.
Hence clichés (consider!) became the bread
Of discourse and description’s able sleuth.

I lay this out because a neighbor chick
Of certain age, an RN wise beyond
Her years—able, strong, emanating slick
Energy, laughter, despite life’s desponds—

Demands cliché, the only course for us,
Because that woman’s plain drop dead gorgeous!
                    (10/25/10)

Self-interest, that humble plant, blossoms
Into greed, distressed by the encroaching
Weeds that limit obscene growth. “Wit and work
Grow my spoils—weedy morals blight my crops.
For what? To save the fools, the indolent?”
This question’s not so simple as it seems.
Listen plutocrats! To exploit your world,
You must first save it, must nurture those fools,
Those indolents—be both right and righteous—
And next, consider: How Much Is Enough?
And thus—both seemly rich and generous,
Embracing karmic virtue—serve to quell
Desp’rate anger, armed, raging to rebel.
Cultivate the weeds; save yourselves from hell.
                             (1/21/10)

The sun, lifting night’s curtain, lights the stage
Whereon Cash, enthralled, perceives mystery
While fierce cognition, stokes, flames his nascent
Mind, creating there thrill-filled history.

My play is closing; the trite, worn-out tunes,
The cold, heaped ashes of my life, endorse
That blunt, ancient view: there is nothing new
Under the sun! That grist mill, Time, grinds coarse.

While my days, dark, menace with dry thunder,
Gleeful Cash greets his with wide-eyed wonder.
                                  (9/8/09)

Here’s the skinny: Joe’s an Art Director,
Retained (for journeys to exotic wilds)
By an ad agency. Sent to detect
(Creating subtle sights that might beguile,

By styling food those natives never saw,
Benighted peasants, easily enticed)—
His visuals would charm them to a store—
The client pleased, enriched by his advice.

But here’s the thing—the client’s Burger King!
I say again, you can’t make up such things.
                                       (11/9/08)

Erin and Joe and Cash and Blue abide,
Quietly, in a house across the walk.
I don’t know them well; I stroll by, wave “Hi,”
And, sometimes, pause for neighborly brief talk.

They rescued Blue (with eponymous eyes),
A border collie, skillful, nervous, bright.
No doubt that dog completely changed their lives,
But not so much as newborn Cash, the light

Illuminating both their toil and dreams.
They asked me (as I passed) had I the wit
To watch their house? They both are primed, it seems,
For travel-time—Joe’s off to Reykjavik—

But Erin’s bound for Boise. Who minds Cash?
Keeps Blue from wand’ring off? Why this strange dash?
I yearn to learn: why Iceland, Idaho—
Abandoning our endless Venice show?
Myriad questions, burble to the top,
Beset my soul—you can’t make such stuff up!
                                 (10/22/08)