Sunday, November 21, 2010

(not a good limerick)

A good limerick should tend towards the bawdy
Undermining the timid and haughty
The next couplet should rhyme
Keep the cadence and time
Be suggestive or at least a bit naughty.

Wednesday, March 5, 2008

To the Capitalists: To Make Much of Time

Invest in me my love and see
Returns within the fiscal year
The yield is well past five percent
My equity is clear.

Take stock, my dear, of what you have
and what you may accrue
I fell you ought to know the risk
Before you say "I do."

I've no insurance nor do I
Own cars or real estate
Which makes things that much easier
When it's time to allocate.

I may not be well certified
(or have my CFA)
But I've got a nose to smell a find
And sense enough to stay.

Within these bonds we both shall find
A stabilizing force
Which seeks to mature year by year
In the running of its course.

We shall not index, for to base
Our fare on other's fortunes would
Betray anxiety of taste
I hardly thing we should.

Our love between these margins calls
Our options are derived
To tell the truth no trader knows
No kiss is fungible.

Now actively we'll strive to beat
The market and the yesteryear
And if we hold together then
We shall survive the Bull and Bear.

O, pool our funds together and,
Though we may start out beggarly
We soon shall see the beauty of
Our love compounded quarterly.

Vatican Roulette

The Pope says there's no contraception
That doesn't flout nature's intention
And so Catholics must wait
For the infecund state
Before they enjoy copulation.


Paramecium, dull and void
With swift flagellates on your side
Your carbon pressed and aged in stone
Helps to get me to my home.

Igneous time spilling forth:
Slow-metered increments of worth
Metamorphisize with age
In a fortnight are a wage.

Eyes expand to take in light
Contradicting evening's right
Yet cannot change their shape to stem
Their natural myopia.

Saturday, January 5, 2008


I should like the Wisdom

of Solomon who saw

The virtue of cutting

a child in half,

And at the same time kept

seven hundred wives

Pent up in his palace.

Monday, December 17, 2007

A Quick Benison to the Sundry at the Bar

(loquacity being our chief fault)

The day is late as you well know
and I must soon be on my way
Tomorrow's pains will soon be now
a fact of life we can't allay.

Forget the past weeks pecadillos
the sturm und drang of life
And briefly rest in this night's laurels
ignoring last night's strife.

Besotted louts across the hall
stare pleas beneath the tumblers
"Kindly please do not disturb
our atavistic slumber."

Sly ladies perched upon the bar
pick up your noses from your plonk
You'd do much better with a man
to satisfy your want.

Blithe lads with quick and eager glances
in search of this night's tryst
Don't overplay a hurried hand
I'd like to wish you best of luck.

The moon shall wane, the sun will rise
And in the hollow of your heart
The ache will fade but still abide
You've made of emptiness and art.

Let's drink our sorrows, drink them down
A toast and then we're through
With hops and malt I bid you all
Vertiginous adieu.

Ode to Bacchus

(for Fred and Donna)

Bacchus, canst thou, O liberator of a million tortured souls
Confine thy merriment amidst the constraints of a meter?
Never mim for the onset of a ravishing temper,
No qualms regarding whom we hack and chew
So long as it's a warm, full-conscious body:
Let your blessings grace our fuggy minds to rest.

And as we sleep, sleep to dream, grant us the comfort
That we may know that all we say and do remains
Unsanctioned by the sun: yes in that time we are things
To hand, unwitting objects not of wrath (non, c'est cliche)
But of a far subtler servant content to name our fidelities
Fool and make light our easily undone expectations.

Serving you, those Thebans, did they wake rejoicing
To find bits of small intestine strung out across the rhododendrons,
Viscera compounded with the earthen soil? Or did they rejoice
To wake at all? You were always more for the nocturnal romp
Than sober machinations over coffee in the early morn. Yes,
Ethanol exacts is homage: odious orisons over a stringent altar.

Not Our Father, surely, though no doubt the sometime-patron
Of our dreams, play us a ditty on your pan-pipe, let not
The revels end in the screams of those unfortunate enough
To defy you: prohibitionists, prudes, all of a kind, their punishment
Is their own neglect - a handy cup of hemlock and rational discourse
Over death - no, we protest, optimism shall not be our hubris.

You ass-tutor imparts, with no qualms, his quick wisdom
Which we stoutly refute in our classrooms and commons
Blank teachers, we are sad to say, can't confirm our logic
At midday. Would that we could casually dismiss his claims
With a nod towards Homer and a tip of the hat to any well-dressed
Octogenarian, pipe in hand, out for the Sunday morning stroll.

First among all gods vying for my homage and Last
Among those I'd willingly deny, I know the truth
Now: your all is none, there is not place
For me among your permanent adherents, no niche for you
Upon my windowsill. Let me choose the flesh I feast, the sanguine
Cup to sip, for the outcome is too dire to abdicate that decision.

But maybe, just for tonight, lend me your blessing again...