Wast Employ’d A Handsaw?

William Shakespeare used to have a head
In which he kept his pentametric brain
And nimble tongue. However, now he’s dead,
His jests are much more finite. I’ll explain:
Researchers focused radar on the tomb
At Holy Trinity where Shakespeare lay
In state, if not intact, and when the boom
Bounced back, it seemed his skull had gone astray.
The crime, if one there was, has not been proven–
Disinterment isn’t on the table–
But if I had to guess who’s been removin’
Bardly bones, there’s surely one who’s able:
Did Hamlet’s kith and kin all perish? No!
One pal survived. What ho, Horatio?

Why So Pail?

I put a bucket on my head
Each evening when I go to bed.
It’s noisy and my neck is sore.
It echoes every time I snore.
My dreams are weird. My sleep is poor.
I don’t know what the bucket’s for.
Hey, look, it’s time to go to bed.
Best put the bucket on my head.


Why is it that I’m standing here?
Whence came this now from yesteryear?
The road on which I strode has gone;
Where weeds now lounge was once a lawn.
Have I the nerve to turn around?
Would what I’ve lost be thusly found?

I had a purpose, way back when.
I knew where I was bound for, then.
My weight upon my lesser foot,
I forward did the better put
Toward glory! Bold, into the night!
To…what? It’s vanished, like the light
On this dark porch…dark…why so dark?
Oh, right.

Still Under Warranty

For eighty years I’ve had a Daddy.
Lucky me! It’s just too bad he
Didn’t get the word to me
‘Til nearly 1963.
He’s served me well since he arrived
But all the same, I’ve been deprived
Of 26-odd years, so I’ll
Be holding on to him a while.
If you’ve got next, too bad for you!
Check back in 2042.

A Moon In Full

The moon will have its day tonight
Its belly broad
Its platter white
And empty as an orphan’s eyes
Gaze eastward
See it silent rise
And slice the stars
And dark
Arc earthward
Forward like the shark
Awaiting its descent into
The western ocean
Cold and blue

English Major Problems

I thought I had a word that wasn’t,
Then I found it was. That doesn’t
Usually make me mad
But since it blew a verse I’d had
Half-written on its nonexistence
I’ll admit to some resistance
To the notion that to be
Was less infinitive than de
In re my non-neologism.
How’s my mood? Like Al’s: Abysm.