Now, Ah ain’t no picky eater
Ah cain’t hardly hunt no more
But Haller-ween? Ain’t nuthin’ sweeter!
Piggies holler down mah door!
I woke up with a simile
Refracting in my head
Bright shades of meaning bathing me
As I lay still in bed
But as I drew my fingers through
My oily, knotted locks
Those wondrous words
Like frightened birds
Flew off, as lost as dryer socks
‘Til five remained
Torment me. What am I to do
With“…like a box of rocks?”
And once again
My poem’s late
It isn’t midnight
Though, and so
I’ve time to write
Before I go
Three hundred second
Verse this year
It won’t be reckoned
Worth a cheer
But better this
Than nothing, right?
[Boo! Rhubarb! Hiss!]
Well, tough. Good night.
Creepy shrieks from boarded windows
Creaky floorboards, squeaky door
Groaning, moaning when the wind blows
No one “lives” here anymore
Darkness falls on Idaho.
Has Emily returned to thee?
Alas, the Gem State whispers, no.
Esto perpetua, says she,
The Tater State is not for me.
The Mountain bluebird, cutthroat trout
And huckleberry do without.
The Western White Pine watched her go
And darkness falls on Idaho.
Diabetic dogs received
Injections made from pancreatic
Aqueous extract of cattle
And from symptoms were reprieved.
Though they must have been relieved,
Their net gain, overall, was static,
Drafted as they were for battle
And for Science’s sake deceived.
As it happened, protests loud
And long ensued, but not from PETA:
Nicolae Paulescu’s racist
Views turned off the Nobel crowd.
And Banting–managed to repeat a
Lot of N.P.’s work, the basis
Of their Nobel, they allowed.
Credit should be jointly shared
By all concerned, since all were cogs
In that Great Med Machine. Who dared
Contribute most of all? The dogs.
Castles built on clouds are dumb.
Heavy stones on water vapor?
Why not armor made of paper?
Sure, the harp and goose are happy,
But this giant’s life is crappy.
Looking downward makes me shiver.
Pizza drivers won’t deliver.
Now this beanstalk’s poking through
The cirrus. Seriously, who
Would ever choose a life like this?
Cloud 9 does not equal Bliss.
I pressed a freshly-baked potato,
Damply wrapped, against my eye
For twenty minutes thrice today
And now I can’t remember why
Happy as a clam–if clams are happy, which I’m sure they are
Or people wouldn’t say that, ’cause if clams are sad then how bizarre
Would someone have to be to say they’re “happy as…” a thing that’s not
As happy as a clam that’s glad, or…wait. Where was I? I forgot.
Oh, right! The happy clam! I mean, the me: I was the happy one
Until that thing that made me sad as…pancakes? puppies?…had begun.
I don’t know why a puppy would be sad, unless it lost a toy
Or something underneath the couch, or had its tail pulled by a boy
Who only wanted it to play with him and lick his face instead
Of scratching him with puppy claws by accident and while he bled
And cried for mom to make the hurting stop and put a Band-Aid on
His cuts the puppy pulled the tablecloth and CRASH! The pancakes? Gone!
So, anyway, I’m happy, then I’m sad, and then I try to do
This thing that I forget what was but cheers me up when I feel blue–
Not blue like cold, or “blew” like what a house of straw or sticks might feel,
But blue like sad the way a wolf-blown pig would be if it were real
Except of course it’s not because, let’s face it, could a house of bricks
Be something that a pig could build? Come on! You’re stretching it with sticks!
I mean, the straw house might make sense if pigs could build a house at all
But cloven hooves and snouts can’t lay foundations or put up a wall
That any decent architect would ever think could pass a test
For earthquake safety, not to mention huffer-puffer wolves…. The rest
Of what it was I meant to say escapes me, so forget I said
A thing. It’s late. I’m hungry. I’ll just have some chowder, then to bed.
The Coot eats varmints, plants and eggs
And runs with vigor on strong legs.
His toes are long, which keeps him stable
On soft surfaces. He’s able,
Too, to travel far by air
Though oftentimes he just sits there.
His bright white forehead’s quite a sight
If you should spy him late at night.
He’s covert, though, and hard to spot
Unless he’s swimming; then, he’s not.
Hear him honk as he rails on:
“Hey, you kids! Get off my lawn!”