I feel most at home in bed,

With my own pillow for my head,

Where snoring signals I’m not dead.


Oh, jeez!

Chester poemmatized about some cheese.

Of which my daughter, Emma, would be mighty pleased;

She’s an archeologist—who consumes history with ease—


Whenever a group works on a dig,

If they find a bit, they flip their wig,

Bits, or 30-pounder big!


The older the better,

Gouda or cheddar,

Wheel, wedge, or ball—

None go to waste. Uh, can I have a taste?

They gobble them all.


Velveeta out in Cairo, in a three-sided box;

Cream cheese in Jerusalem, with bagels and lox;

From Milan to Uzbekistan; Feta down to Whiz—

What you dig, you get to chow; that’s just the way it is!


Pompeiian Piazzos to Rome’s rubble ruins

Cheeses are the thing they dig, and heavily pursue ‘em


Because, of course, it has survived, in a perfect state of aged,

And now it’s been disturbed, it will soon decay.

Sometimes they find them crunchy,

Or covered in blue mold;

No matter who, how blue—who knew?! even how old,—


So, nibble what you can, from Scottish moor and bog,

From mountain top and villa; from desert sand to slog,

As archeology goes, it can’t be very long,

Til all the old-old-older cheese gets dug up and gone!


Oh, dear bank, here is your ode:

I owed, I owed, so off to work I go.

And as I go, heigh ho, heigh ho,

I thank you for another loan!

I carried my load

and mailed out my loan,

So my car won’t get towed;

So the debt collectors will not goad;

Dear Bank, dear bank,

thank you for lightening my load!

Poem Popper Peep

I think my rhymer

Was set with a timer,

At 23 and a half.

And the rhythm-ist-ick thingy,

Has busted a springy,

As I cackle pentameter laugh.


I have verse laced with vocab,

That could send me to rehab,

Like last year—and the year before.

And I’ve eaten so much;

Grazed a ten-hour lunch!

I don’t think I can fit through the door.


But that doesn’t matter—

Braindead or fatter—

There’s only one cure for this Peep.

Nonet for the win,

Be it post it or pin,

I’ve gotta catch me some sleep!

XXI Shakespeare’s Nonet



Love is blind;

Et Tu, Brute?

Till death do us part;

To be, or not to be;

Shuffle off this mortal coil;

Soft, what light, in yon window breaks?

Heavy is the head that wears the crown.

Man in the Moon

The Moon, full, and pumpkin bright,

glares through my window blinds tonight,

searching past my window pane,

some hidden truth to ascertain,

of keeping nightbourne hours well—

a secret kept and cannot tell—

and pay no homage to the gibbous god

of rest; from tilling of the sod,

from to and frow at tidal whim,

rendering a slave of him.


Jealous of these night-owl words,

he pokes the blinds with golden swords,

seeks entry to my poet’s world—

my freedom from the daylight lords—

whereon the page, his piercing falls,

caressing words. The night-owl calls.

Moon-feathered light, the winged-words fly,

to distant stars in the glistening sky;

my page bereft of captive thought.

Unchained ideas, no longer caught.


The granite sky, he drinks like ale,

and drains the night, then morning pale

refills the goblet with sparkling wine,

as sunlight limbos through the blinds—

drawn tight from dusk until dawn intrudes—

dulling, once more, Me and Moon.

The words, full-weight, fall back to earth,

to slumber on their parchment berth,

where pen and patter of moon-kissed verse

may yet recapture the golden words.

Jumping Off Point

It isn’t my favorite prompt of all time;

some dubious quotes about life on the line,

paired with a shot of a desolate bridge;


Good thing we’re

too tired,

too worn,

fighting asleep,

to climb, jump, or dive.

into something that deep.

XVI. In Another Sense

We might say we have a sense of timing,

Used in rhythm, but rarely rhyming.

Sense of value and self-worth,

Sense of humor, joy, and mirth.

Sense of direction (unless we get lost),

Sense of style, because we’re boss

Come to our senses, and talk sense too,

Sense of purpose for what we do;

Some things don’t make sense, so we find,

There is common sense, and sense of mind,

Sense of belonging, sense of fair play,

Horse sense, sixth sense; we could go all day.

A sensational word; its potential immense,

Without losing our senses, at least, in that sense.


I’ve said “Yes” too many times to count,

Which leaves massive space for a case of No Doubt,

I doubt that ‘no’ would have changed a thang,

And doubt any happiness it could’a brang,


N’Doubt, such a loss, was a tragic shame,

left Lil’ Doubt, sibling, of lesser fame,

to whose Gramps, the Father-of-all-Doubts, made claim,

using fear to bolster the Family name.


Cousin Whatif, of Cleveland, you might recall—

the most ambiguous N’Dout of all—

Still spells his name with Old Country flair—

Drops the B to add ‘Watshudikare’.


N’Doubt, you know—won the great war

to banish all ‘Maybees’ from near and far—

now plays the harp, of Old Mitaben.

but we don’t have time to listen to him.


‘Cause likely we’ve already spent too much time

on the unfaithful N’Doubt and his long family line,

instead of embracing the ‘Yes’ we picked out—

with Whatifs and Maybees, and their likes, no doubt.

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