“Write what you know,” wisdom conventional,
Threatens to morph into ironclad law.
Fearing aggressions unintentional;
The best lack all conviction in its claw.
Sympathy is nice; empathy divine,
But you’d better think twice (or more), you cad,
If you think your words can ever touch mine;
If you, you WASP, you geezer robed in plaid,
Dare deign to make artist’s gestures this way!
What you know (not much!), keep it over there,
While I sit here and type, to my dismay
Using all your best English words with care.
Forsooth! Never could I more clearly see
That your culture appropriated me.
Photo: Feeding Time, Tracy Aviary, Salt Lake City, Utah, October 2016.
A comma belongs between each of your great thoughts;
Otherwise folks might confuse your “is” with their “oughts.”
Verbs make the world go ’round, ’tis true,
But for their acts, nouns are the glue.
To end a sentence, a preposition is more
Apropos than something else you could use it for.
“Every day” is an everyday phrase,
But using it rightly earns you great praise.
The rain in Spain stays mainly in the plain.
Why that matters is just too hard to ‘splain.
“If Ogden Nash could see me now,” I said,
“He’d tell me, ‘Write about a cow instead!”
Metered verse constrains the form of these words,
If only we could trim these thoughts by thirds.
As I survey my lawn so brown,
Thunder gurgles across our town,
Lightning blisters my rods and cones,
Promising rain soon to come down.
‘Tis not to be. Oh! life’s unknowns.
The storm rolls on to moister zones.
We want it so. That’s the kicker.
But we cannot drink from these stones.
In the distance fades the flicker,
I can almost hear the snicker
Of the crickets humming dryly,
Thankful as a parched picnicker.
Water tempts with hope so wryly.
Imagining rain so nighly,
That the sound of droplets shyly
Dancing in clouds gets me smiley.
Every month, it so happens, has an Ides.
Each one’s days come and go just like tides.
Why, among all, do we act as though March
Alone has a keystone in its arch?
Of course! Blame Caesar’s untimely demise,
Or smarmy Antony’s over-dramatic cries.
I don’t buy for a moment
That filthy soothsayers foment.
For me, this foul murder is chalked up to boredom;
That late winter tedium was what floored him.
Before spring had found its full greenth,
We made quite a mess on the fifteenth.
Now he’s the hero, his death Rome’s acme,
While I hang my head, waiting for someone to whack me.