A man brought
a Mockingbird
home from the park
It perched on
his mantle
from morning till dark
It chirped
the same song
again and again
To wake the
house up
at seven a.m.
A cat was
brought home
one day as a pet
To keep down
the mice
it hunted as pests
The Mockingbird sang
as the cat
plied its trade
Till one fateful
morning
knocking over its cage
And out flew
the songbird
away from its pen
To never
be seen
— or heard from again
(Rhymes From The Nursery: May, 2026)
you have goals for you
I have goals for me
yours are your own
shared with no one I see
mine are eagerly shared
I have nothing to hide
meeting them daily
keeping my muse happily plied
The bartender mixed metaphors
smiling her sweet simile
Allegory she would not settle for
serving up a passion-filled sonnet to me
In the throes of rhymes without reason
couplets stuck in my craw, mercifully died
She offered me a drink apropos to the season
~ plied me with iambic tetrameter ‘til I ‘bout cried
Baby bat was somehow on the loose
the day he got into the liquored pumpkin juice
his head was swimming, his eyes were crossed
He was snizzled and snozzled, kind of lost
I will never drink this orange stuff again
he told his best friend, a black cat named Finn
Finn plied him with coffee which sobered him up.
He was irritable after his fifteenth cup.
Family foibles and festive baubles to share
Frivolity frolics jollity & alcoholic histrionics
Swilled fables & tables filled with similar fare
Suggestive seasonal strolls for restive souls
Cast bitten still smitten bestilled by chilled air
Bedevilled dishevelled by some distilled wares
Pagan past perch in their old peculiar church
Dare to revel with another level devil may care
No graces or airs just familiar faces and lairs
Don't be reckless or feckless this Michaelmas
Feuds rude moods eschewed along with despair
Plied with yuletide pride bliss of this solstice kiss
At last no faff or fuss for us secular Christmas fayre
Part One: What I Love
After seven decades I am satisfied
with the me I see, the inner self is beautified,
wounds of youth have healed well
and every scar to no longer dwell,
they were absorbed by tears I cried~
I write the words by which I tell
stories rich and maybe plied,
but absolutely bona fide!
Part Two: What I Regret
I admit I used to runaround,
party and carouse until I ran aground
against days-long blackouts
and poor decision fade-outs,
knowing my next stop was a grave mound~
Momma said the only way out
was for me to turnaround,
and become a sober devout.
Part Three: What I Hope
I have no grandiose plans for the future
because the future is unsure,
the present becomes my habitat
and I have no desire for idle chit chat,
time grows short, there is no cure
to stop death’s scat* whereat~
I will sing the words allure,
and dance upon the welcome mat.
* scat: singing jazz; the singer substitutes nonsense syllables for the words of the song and tries to sound like a musical instrument
The bordello camp
Morning in Aruba, the cock has crowed three times
Men get out of beds that hundreds have slept in
of other men, they are silent, waiting for taxis
to take them back to their ship
Sad men, there is no jubilation here, cigarette smoke
A cold morning beer while waiting for the transport
A seaman, overcome by the tardiness, tries to run away
There is nowhere to run; the whore camp is in the desert
on a desert, sand, bushes, and snakes.
The madman, plied with alcohol, is sleeping.
The other carried him onboard.
In the courtyard, a woman swipes the dance
floor, doesn't bother to look up, when this day ends
They will be back again, or someone like them
will come, here, drink, dance, and pay for sex
Such throaty timbres – oboes and bassoons –
such gowns! My Lady, apricot and plum,
her sleeves ablaze with blue October moons –
for one short night, her villa had become
the very essence of elysium!
To “fortify” us, as My Lady said,
against the winter tedium to come,
to banish melancholy, drive out dread,
she threw an Autumn Ball. Delirium!
We met the equinox with pipe and drum.
The quality of Florence all attended,
and never were Their Graces better fed!
The sun was up before our revels ended –
and Isabella? Still no thought of bed!
Three further galliards she’d yet to tread.
It seems I hear those trumpets even yet,
and taste the sweetmeats of that epic spread
(she’d plied us with light moscatel to whet
the palate) – I believe my mortal head
will throb for ever more, autumnal red!
As the presented light peered to cross the meadows yawn
the timbre of the winds hollowness plied through the forest arches low to high as daring darts two squirrels did fly to here and there if only to dine upon the seeds of which they-had in mind. Against the grass she howled once more to twist the branches as they bore then sail this melody as she had before.
There above it all where trees not stretched the wind unbarred
lest the clouds which etched thick tumultuous breaths tween here and there unmet and unkept…
Allusions lead to absence?
Believe it, sir and ma'am.
Hold the door? Then get ye hence?
Why the constant slam?
Truth be told, the terror tells.
Tollbooth of the dead.
Nebula, will-o-the-wells.
Stray to look ahead...
Young the yellow yearling?
It's right there in his name.
Hornets, honeybees. Same sting?
Stake it on thy claim.
Frame of usual story?
O kindness, are you real?
Would if could, morning glory?
Flicker as ye feel!
Unity the ugly damn?
Indeed. That's been true.
Summertime, the crowds thin. Ham?
Blow away the blue.
Hated is the world outside!
Woe betide, landslide.
Pace of poet, poison plied.
How the cockerels chide...
RIGHTS & DUTIES
(t)o (u)nder
(b)e (f)uture
(a)plied. (o)bligations
only if duties
(a)re
(a)ctioned
(a)lso
An imp plied Guinness to a Banshee trick
The wraith in anger gave him chase right quick,
After her gold he did dig
The Leprechaun danced a jig
But lost her rich hoard in a Limerick.
Mojito Conjuring
When the bruja in the red dress
sends me out this time,
it is for the taste of
sour oranges and garlic.
Once, when I plied her
with a cigar called Hoyo de Montyerrey,
she coiled the smoke,
said that I was still feral and untamed,
sent me out for sugar so that
I could learn my true name.
Scythe-swinging, field-slave-singing,
I could not return to her coven of one
until I had learned that my “Suarez”
meant that I was the son of sugar itself –
the child of wild ingenious devouring
the rows of cane like a dragon.
Now, red-dress bruja breathes out
clouds of tobacco *****,
turns the cigar round and round,
tells me to gather garlic and aurantium oranges
so that the sour and the sucre may jibe
together in me,
and leave me properly christened
for when it is time for me to work,
time for me to sweat,
time for me to sing.
Hawking pillows and pea-shooters
a pied-piper his path to fame plied
Picking up a penny here, dropping a penny there
ever-poorer and poorer ~
the piper’s psychic sighed
I was a young girl from New York
And I plugged my hole with a cork
A young boy plied me with beer
The cork it did pop
My knickers did drop
And that is why you are here
(Thanks to my fondness for pork)
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