Winter’s olden, damn-dawn fog–
Teacher glow’ring ‘mid the bog.
Earthen eyes at soulless stares:
Inmates fastened to school chairs.
Stare I back, heart stake at stanchion;
God has stated His injunction.
Do that deed I dare not mention–
Face His dread eternal truncheon.
Note: I found this deep in some records from an especially dark day at work. It may be 18 months old. I mean the good Lord no ill will. In fact, I don’t quite understand what my meaning was. Comments would be, in this entry’s case, most welcome.
Liza Minelli’s first name is said wrong.
The long Ī’s a ruinous, clumsy diphthong.
But Liza’s—like Pisa’s name—soars like a tower
And leaningly swages with love and with power.
My uncle gives me pause, a scare:
He frets to stare at Fred Astaire.
Hum’s humble Haze’s home.
A waif is here
Who has high hems
And hame-like nettings
Down her gams.
Hum hums hymns to her.
Hum hums inside himself.
Wants to make
Her do his own name’s
Clement grew potent, got caught in the moment.
He swelled out his monument—started to foment—
As Ms. Clement donned an erotical garment.
He: “Quotients of marriage are my just emolument.
“My seeds need to vomit a certain emollient.”
She: “Don’t froth so, dear—for me it’s a condiment.”
Hankered after spirits Scotchy.
(Barring that, some Nippon sake).
Sunday! Closed! He knew a gaucho,
Macho, Sunday-selling nachos.
Fibonacci’s macho gaucho nachos.
Henry 8’s wife was lawn bowling.
Henry Percy saw, eyes rolling.
“Did he see more?” asked Jane Seymour.
“You may lose your head, Boleyn!”
A question that’s novelly dry, sir:
Is the “s” to be soft in
Or should it be “
Conundrum to me
That spurs me to drink down Budweiser.