Countdown

It’s difficult for me to say
What’s in my heart St. Patrick’s Day.
The raucous, alcoholic mobs
Recall the words that Thomas Hobbes
Laid claim to in Leviathan
In sixteen one-and-fifty when
He wrote of lives of men at war.
He called them, “solitary, poor…”
— And here’s the phrase I wish he’d left
For me; I’ve none with quite the heft
With which to crown a leprechaun
As those he chose when he went on–
“…nasty, brutish, and…” — wait for it —
“…short.”  Ka-pow! I just adore it!
Every rancid adjective,
Each golden nugget in the sieve
Of Hobbes’s placer mine of loathing
Calls to mind the garish clothing,
Sick-encrusted facial hair
And boldly buckled hats they wear…
Or is that pilgrims? Puritans
Aren’t known for vomit on their chins
And swilling vats of tinted beer
In outdoor crowds, are they? Oh, dear,
My train of thought just jumped the track.
Perhaps I’ll try a different tack:
Drunken leprechauns are dumb.
Eleven weeks until they come!

Oh Team

A is for Ambivalent!
The M is for Morose!
B is Boo-hoo-hoo-hoo-hoo!
Inside I‘m feeling gross!
V is for the Victory
That’s slipping — AAway!
L is for the Loss that we
Expect — that’s E — today!
N is Nothing: Dead inside!
T is Taco soup!
I know that last one doesn’t fit
But I don’t give a poop!

Horseshoes

It’s true that much of what I write
Would not attract the kind of light
Diogenes was wont to shed
In places where his lamp had led,
But equally a fact is this:
As often as my musings miss
The nail head on which Truth would strike,
They graze the shaft–they’re truthy-like.
A hammersmith would disavow
Responsibility, but how
Can I in all good conscience claim
The tool was that which skewed my aim?
Inaccuracy is my curse
But strict perfection would be worse
For in the narrow gap between
The lies and facts, life’s acts are seen.

2014: A Celebration of Anti-Climax!

Is it already Christmas Eve?
It came so fast I can’t believe
It happened. I look back a year
And can’t quite figure how we’re here.

You know how, when a week’s been frantic,
Saturday is like a tantric
Interlude of blessed sloth?
Cool LEDs if you’re a moth?

That’s what Two Thousand Fourteen
Has been for us: A year, I mean,
That wasn’t packed with thrills and Wow!
But we enjoyed it anyhow.

Kari’s still a Teacher’s Aide,
Michael’s still a geek. We stayed
In Salem almost constantly,
With just one trip. Two? Okay, three.

Iain’s on IMDb
For working on a show you’ll see
On Amazon if you’ve got Prime,
So that’s how he spent half his time.

Siri’s still a student in
Chicago–a DePaulean–
And working as a photo pro
At DPAM. Eighteen months to go!

Let’s see, what else? You might have heard
That Michael’s an enormous nerd?
Well, now there’s proof, ’cause it’s in print!
And that’s where Michael’s summer went.

Siri had an internship
In San Diego, but the trip
Acquired a vacation spin
When they reneged…so, still a win.

See what I mean? The year we’ve had
Was quiet, which is far from bad.
A little boredom can be nice,
The rice behind a meal of spice.

Our year won’t be a bore again,
Though, if you come to Oregon,
So take a Northwest holiday
And visit–you’ve a place to stay!

Was your year more exciting? Less?
And if to either you said yes,
Here’s hoping it’s a product of
An annum filled with joy and love.

So, Happy Holidays to you!
Enjoy the things you have to do
And treasure those with whom they’re done,
And may your year be filled with fun!