Let's not lose our lunch
or get our undies in a bunch
when apprised of
all those male vicars
compelled to infiltrate
choirboys' knickers
they may think it jolly
but I believe
they're off their trolley
at best they're jesters
at worst molesters
within the hierarchy
no matter what ranking
deserving of more than
just a damn good spanking
indeed why not weed them out
and of all the unkindest cuts
below the belt
relieve them of their nuts
Pattern baldness depends on genetics.
It’s a matter, for some, of aesthetics.
Since toupees replace hair,
it would seem to me fair
if we thought of toupees as prosthetics!
On the other hand, some men instead
will embrace fate, and not filled with dread,
they swallow their pride
and take things in stride
when they shave every hair off their head.
Some smart men have set high the bar.
Michael Jordan’s come very far.
Charisma we see
in men who can be
like a Dwayne “The Rock” superstar.
Being follicly challenged won’t do
if when called “Mr. Clean,” you feel blue.
If you hate when they call
you Kojak or Cue Ball,
then a hair transplant might be for you!
When you put on your coat
and light a smoke
on the front stoop, December
gusts tear into you. But
that drag rides all the way
down as you shut your lids.
A hat like your dad
wore when he thrummed
his bass at the clubs, skitters
down the street, no one
to chase and bring it back.
For the first time you notice
a distant train bellowing
like a bull past consolation.
A man in his 20’s wanders
under a streetlamp, snuffling
now unmistakable. You offer
your handkerchief
but the wind is fierce
and deafening. The night enfolds
him like an endless black
curtain. You barely make
out the whimper you follow
for blocks, until you find
a spaniel too afflicted
to stand. Why is tonight
different? Saturday or Wednesday
you’d have returned home.
But now, at 10:37, something
rough bruises your chest.
You remove your jacket
and wrap him delicately, singing
in a whisper. You bend
to kiss his sloppy snout.
Now something turns
your bones to light.
Morning routines are getting tougher.
It's hard being the sexy alpha male.
Sometimes forget I'm getting older.
Wordku: 5-7-5 words
AP: 2nd place 2026
Salsa classes
I learned to dance at
family and friend’s parties.
I learned by watching.
Not very structured.
When I dance with my husband;
he complains that I don't let him lead.
My mom taught me,
women should be in control.
I danced like this for many years.
At 50, following my soul's desire.
I took my first salsa class.
What a surprise!
Maybe,
my husband was right.
Just let the other take the lead.
Let go and flow.
Perhaps. I can change
my unconscious dance
into a more harmonious
sensual movement
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Mystery of Pumpkin
One upon a time, not far back,
Grew in my small backyard garden
A pumpkin, size of a tortoise,
A monster, with weight of a ton
And had to be chopped with an axe;
Friends wished to have its seeds to plant,
Alas, it was a seedless male;
News spread fast in the neighbourhood
Leading to police enquiry
For concealing information,
But after investigation
Turned out to be a mystery.
They came in packs,
shoulders knotted with gym weight,
smelling of Axe and iron,
boys who scraped knuckles on lockers
just to feel something slice.
At lunch, they stalked the quad like wolves—
every joke a blade,
every girl a mirror they wanted to crack
or crown.
One leaned too long
on the freshman in geometry,
his eyes doing the talking his mouth
was too full of teeth.
They had trophy girls,
not lovers—prizes they unwrapped
with grins in the backseat,
then showed off to each other
like kills in the forest.
Behind it: the need.
To be taught something gentle—
to understand fractions, how to read a face
without splitting it.
One, behind the field house, cried
when I read his paper aloud.
He said don’t tell,
and I haven’t.
Until now.
Okay then, I’ll admit it. Yes, I’m lazy.
Not quite the hardest worker ever known.
My talent is a Motorola phone:
to drink the colour of a mountain daisy
or taste a mirror (doesn’t that sound crazy?)
I need to keep it charged: I have to hone
those Pasolini “pentals” of my own
(“that’s mental petals”, says the Bolognese).
I enter things without the least compunction:
no sooner enter, than believe I’ve won:
no sooner win (excruciating pun)
Narcissus-like, than find the photo-function
to say that, on reflection, it was fun:
like playing chicken at a railroad junction.
Fanning his tail is the male’s trick
Beautiful colors prove he is a Mick
Trying to impress a plain brown peahen
His feathers better be thick, not thin.
When Joe was young he had tonsilitis
In grade school he developed bronchitis
Later, elbow bursitis
And Colitis, Neuritis
Now that Joe’s old ~ he aches with arthritis
Little wonder Joe’s gender-conflicted
It could easily have been predicted
Sick of sports injuries
Joe made some inquiries
Plays dolls injury-free ~ he enlisted
He was lilliputian size
Which works for some women
Never for a man
He is rather diminutive, his blind dates are warned
Teensy-weensy would have been more accurate
His arms are the width of yard sticks
He never found love
Because he never met a faerie
her boobs and caboose
got him so horny turned on
same size and same curves
Female mosquitos live forty-two days
Feeding on our blood in brutal mean ways
Causing itchy bumps on our tender skin
Healthy male mosquitoes die ten days in
A flash of shiny blue silk waddles into view of the bamboo stalks
a distinct crown and Egyptian painted eye; his beak is golden
Male peacock, shows his glorious feathers,
his symmetrical design gorgeously done
He courageously wanders onto a cliff of gray shale,
The moon is not any shinier than his magnificent feathers;
Other creatures are in awe, marveling at his unique costume
A feathery concoction that his wife does not dare wear,
Her muted browns help her keep their eggs in hiding.
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