Tuesday, February 28, 2017


The shortened second month comes to its end,
And I am unsure that I can defend
What I have done as I sought to wend
My way through each of the month's too-few days
That, although few, have stood tall as a maze
And hindered passage. I've been in a daze
As I have walked about and done too little well,
Doing nothing to avoid the hell
To which I seem bound upon death's knell--
For I have not fought Stupid God's desire
Or th' wrinkled citrus avatar on hire,
Not fought against the building fun'ral pyre
That even now is kindling. Soon, the blaze
Will leap up and devour all our days.

Monday, February 27, 2017


I did not watch the Oscars.
I find I do not care
What movie wins awards
Or loses over there.
I rarely see a movie.
I rarely have the time.
More rarely have I money.
Can you spare a dime?
But when the hours are free
That I may movies watch,
I stay instead at home.
I do, perhaps, too much.
Ever have I done so;
I've always been this way,
Staying back at home
While others watch and play.

Sunday, February 26, 2017


Birds are chirping, cattle low, and I
Can hear the dogs a-barking at the sky
As people here begin to stir. And why
This would be so, I cannot fully tell.
I know not why, when looking on the dell,
Thing proceed and appear to be well
When I know in my heart that much is wrong,
That notes are missed in every chirping song,
The droning lowing sounds a bit too long,
The barking strangely changes in its pitch
That comes in cadence from the ornery bitch
And from her son. It is as if a switch
Has been turned off, somehow, or else turned on,
And in the flipping, something became gone.

Saturday, February 25, 2017


It's ten scant months to Christmas Day,
And I know that some will say
It is too early to display
Trees and tinsel, toys for play,
Wrapping papers bright and gay
(The last in the old carol's way),
Santa Claus riding the sleigh,
And calls for all to come and pray
In the one approv├ęd way--
Finding things for which to pay
And filling for part of a day
The empty hole that they betray
By retail worship. Anyway,
It's ten scant months to Christmas Day,
But I'd swear I've seen a display
Of stockings and the like.

Friday, February 24, 2017


I often think about the passing days
And how I spend them, all the many ways
In which I waste my time by seeking praise
Instead of doing what deserves the laud.
In doing so, I serve the Stupid God,
And that one's power needs no further prod,
Nor yet the wrinkled citrus avatar
Thereof that casts Stupid God's influ'nce far
And hot and churning gassy as a star
Example offers of praise-seeking's fault.
But still, I find I'm unable to halt
The search for commendation. By default,
Innate or trained I would not care to guess,
I need more said of me in praise, not less.

Thursday, February 23, 2017


I wait to hear back on the work to do,
And, while I wait, I try to carry though
One idea or another to
Make some decent use of all the time
I must spend in waiting. Making rhyme
Is one such use, and it is no crime.
At least, it is not yet, but that may change
Given that the current day is strange
And the work of power to derange
Those who hold it. Those who seek it are
Likely of a sort who have not far
To go to become raving. What odd star
Shines upon their birth and on each day
They live to shape them to our long dismay?

Wednesday, February 22, 2017


I seem to have been sleeping in,
And so it seems that I begin
Each day a bit behind again,
And I never catch up.
I always have a lot to do,
And I see most of it through,
But I wonder if I screw
It all not getting up.
Such thoughts, of course, for truth depend
Upon the thought that, in the end,
What I do matters, a mind-friend
That may well not bear up,
Because, of course, I merely teach.
Doing, for me, is out of reach,
Else why would it seem that each
Job says to not show up?

Tuesday, February 21, 2017


I labor yet within the ivory tower
Because I am long come under the power
Spread about by learning's open flower,
Because I have been touched by the delight
Of bringing forth new knowledge, spreading light
Amid the darkness of prevailing night,
But many turn away from what I bear,
Or seek to turn me back, or do not care,
And so I have to wonder if I err
In following the long life of the mind
Within a world that is far off from kind
To such, begrudges e'en the rind
That the work of the mind will scrape away
From luscious fruit for feasting on each day.

Monday, February 20, 2017


Something in old jingles works.
I know, because I hear them even now
As I sit on the commode with a fan on
And nobody has YouTube up that I can hear.
How Gatorade quenches a "deep-down body thirst"--
Or is it "deep, down-body," and does it matter?--
Rings between my ears
And strangely.
I don't like the stuff
And I am no athlete, to be sure,
So I am not the target audience.
Still, I have it in my head,
I cannot get it out,
And I have to wonder what it has displaced
That actually would be of use.

Sunday, February 19, 2017


My dear Ms. 8 is three today,
And we are likely going to play
Somewhere normally called "away"
Because today is her birthday.
Even now, she wears a smile
And sits, talking all the while
In lilting voice and toddler's style.
Today is her third birthday.
I recall well when, years ago,
This day seemed altogether slow,
Although why, I do not know;
It was, that day, her birthday.
I hope Ms. 8 has many more,
And happier than heretofore,
Ranging into several score
Of those things we call birthdays.

Saturday, February 18, 2017


I am glad there's fog outside,
For it gives a excuse to hide
Away from things, remain inside,
And turn my attention to grading.
The students' work has come to me,
And so I must go and see
What they have offered as a plea
For my kind and gentle grading.
I have not gotten very far
In the task; it feels like tar
Into which I've sunk my car,
But I'll continue the grading.

Friday, February 17, 2017


They said that if we did the thing then we
Would get another in return and see
Stretch out before us opportunity,
But what they said was wrong, and so were we
Who trusted others to our own paths see.
Now we pay the price for our great folly,
As many see and chide us when we say
That we were unaware this is the way
That thing work out, that we were led astray
By trusting those who to us oft would say
That we needed to go in a certain way
If we ever meant to see a better day.
But a lesson has been learned and well,
Even if the teachings' cost is fell.

Thursday, February 16, 2017


I sit and think and lines of verse recall,
And as I think, I soon reject them all
In part for how they'd make my cadence fall,
Or else my rhyme scheme force to make a turn
I would not care to follow. Still, I yearn
For a time I might use what I've learned
Through years of doing that for which I trained,
The training which has left me since in pain,
At least as strikes my pocketbook again.
But I know now what I should have then,
Though how to turn that knowing to my end
Is far less clear to me. It is no friend,
Such knowing as I have. And what to do
Eludes me as its ghost laughs, dancing, too.

Wednesday, February 15, 2017


Sometimes, my daughter does not want to sleep;
She instead wakefulness decides to keep,
Even as nighttime hours on her creep
As they upon us all advance each night
And put her parents' waking minds to flight
And leave them dreaming, perhaps in delight.
But she resists the coming somnolence
Until it, with soft force, will drive from hence
Her conscious mind, or it, at last, relents,
And her cherubic face goes slack with sleep.
The image made is one I gladly keep
In mind; it's succour when I weep
And prone to making smiling time each day.
Not much affects me in such happy way.

Tuesday, February 14, 2017


I'm not the man I want to be.
I still hold to the fantasy
That I can be such as we see
On silver screens or on TV
From whom evildoers flee
And who has abundant money
From doing work that we don't see.
But such a man, he is not me,
And I know that I can but flee
From what is now pursuing me,
From which I never will be free.

Monday, February 13, 2017


A truth is that the night will always fall,
Each person feels Thanatos's quiet call,
And everything will pass under a pall.
What then remains, when they have gone away
And we without them must face each new day?
Of what effect is anything we say?
Words offered kindly often do no good,
Although it seems it is words that should
Be offered against the polished wood
That is planted in the ground, an inverse seed
That answers the all-taking dire need
And shows that we the one last call all heed.
So it is I such words as these write
And offer to them finding final night.

Sunday, February 12, 2017


I find I feel a little drained.
The reasons need to be explained.
So I will make the point in plain:
I gave blood yesterday.
I'd never given blood before,
Not because I shy from gore,
But from how needles make me sore,
But I gave blood yesterday.
Doing so was not too hard.
The process has not left me scarred,
And I want no congratulation card,
But I gave blood yesterday.
I confess, though, that I do itch
Where I was stuck, and I could wish
I did not. Perhaps I twitched
When I gave blood yesterday.
Even so, I'm glad I did.
It might help save somebody's kid
Or help a new researcher's bid
That I gave blood yesterday.
So, in time, I will again
Be a blood-drain's leading end
And parts of me to others send
By giving blood that day.

Saturday, February 11, 2017


Work continues, as ever it must,
That it does is a fact all too easy to trust,
But at least the working will prevent any rust,
And my joints need no more stiffening.
Still, I confess that I could use some oil,
A something to ease the effects of my toil
But that will not the results of those efforts foil
While it keeps my joints from stiffening.

Friday, February 10, 2017


I know I sometimes miss my mark,
But I'm not walking in a park,
Or, if I am, it's in the dark,
And I miss all the scenery.
But I'd not note it, anyway.
I try to go about each day
And get through in most any way,
So I miss all the greenery.
But the plants get their revenge.
My ignoring they avenge
From tree and bush, from grass and hedge;
I find the green ones meaner.

Wednesday, February 8, 2017


One vote to rule them all, one vote to find them,
One vote to bring them all and in the darkness bind them,
For it is not just a lidless eye that ways to evil sees,
But also white-haired complaisance that evil's ways ease
And pave the way for ignorance to spread across the land
So that more of the people fall into Stupid God's hand.
Who serve the citrus avatar long wrinkled and bitter made
Are getting the promotions for which they have paid,
And nothing seems to stop them, as of us is outlaid,
And no Mount Doom fires can be found. How will they be unmade?

Tuesday, February 7, 2017


I know that I'm running well behind
Of where I want to be, and I do mind,
But I cannot rush blithely; I am blind
To what will come, as most now living are.
None of us sees ahead all that far,
Not even if we still sail by a star--
And looking at the stars is looking back,
Which is still good, for all too many lack
The knowing of their long ancestral track
And could use a lesson in the past.
But many who look thus proceed half-assed
And should not wonder but that they are sassed
By those who know. But those who know are few,
And there is but little few can do.

Monday, February 6, 2017


Yes, I watched the tricorn hats succeed
Against a Southern team. I might a lesson heed
Of history in it and give a screed,
But did I do so, I do would overreach
In practicing the skills that I would teach.
I have no choir to which I might preach,
Not for this. I think I'd be ignored
Did I go on. I'd leave most people bored
To aim at such an end my deep word-hoard
And say I saw again the seaward march
In last night's game, played under heaven's arch.
Of victory, the Southern team is parched,
And I have to wonder if 'twill rain
And such a team have chance to rise again.

Sunday, February 5, 2017


The football game is the big thing today,
Or so I've heard; I don't exactly play
Such sports or watch them often. My own way
Is more to read and write than out to act.
That I do poorly in the world is fact
As all my works attest with little tact.
But with a pen in hand, or else on keys,
I can do well and still remain at ease,
And such results do certainly me please.
I can but little mind to many pay,
For I too little know how them to sway
Whom I know not from seeing in each day,
But those I know I hope to happy make
As players on the field will glory take.

Saturday, February 4, 2017


There is a tendency towards nostalgia
Towards looking back
And thinking
Things were better then.
They were not.
Were they
The people then
Would not themselves have looked back
But they did
Longing for a better time
That never was
When massacres on bowling greens
Were not yet fancies in the mind
Or thoughts of attacks to come
Staged by those who seek yet more control
Because it's easier to gather rocks and throw them
Than to fly planes
And it's easier to buy guns and shoot them
Than fertilizer and a truck driven into children
But the same label applies
At least in one case
The same results are ready to hand

Friday, February 3, 2017


I sit upon a throne and think, no king,
Nor lord, nor emperor of whom bards sing,
But merely one who has to do such things
As many others shun. They turn away
From the kind of work I do each day,
The work they thought was more like idle play.
Many are the tasks for me to do,
And few are those who ever see them through,
But did I not, I know that I would rue
The failure incompletion would bespeak.
I'd rather not such ruin on me wreak,
For to face it I know I'm too weak.
To do what I do is no easy task,
But doing it permits me not to bask.

Thursday, February 2, 2017


Oh, yes, I know today is Groundhog Day,
But what it celebrates is far away
From those concerns with which I have to play.
The money's flowing out, not coming in,
And I am balancing on wires thin
To try to cover debts; I may not win
The fight that doing so always entails.
Against all things, the interest rate prevails,
No matter how much each against it rails.
I suffer now for young adult delight,
And many I know will say it is right
That I do so, that I now must fight
To stay afloat. I do not know why
I feel I must, but I feel I must try.

Wednesday, February 1, 2017


The Stupid God is by too many heard
And heeded. Every single stupid word
The wrinkled citrus avatar, that turd,
Will speak, an audience abundant has,
And every lie therein is made to pass
As broken wind and so us all harass.
Who is like Absolon to Alisoun,
Who, farted on, return in anger soon
And answers those who think to act the loon
With heat and piercing point in driven deep?
Few. Too many still will think to keep
Themselves outside the fray and only weep.
The Stupid God forever must be fought,
Lest by inaction we all lose our lot.