Stroller Coaster

Got stuck in a traffic jam today,
But not the most usual kind.
For this was a jam of baby prams,
That surrounded me on all sides.
Just could not avoid,
Those pushers annoyed,
Trying hard not to bump or collide.
I was stuck on a stroller coaster,
Hanging on till the end of the ride.

An Ode To Winter’s Cruelness…

Snow and ice can be quite nice,
But makes your walk a trip,
Careful judgment every step,
To guard that you don’t slip,
It’s precarious at best,
With each step you take a chance,
Still that’s magnified by far,
When you add the toilet dance,
Because there’s nothing quite as scary,
Knowing if you fall you’ll very,
Very likely shit your pants.

Royal Gender

All this fussing and mussing over gender’s not right,
It may just be time for a Royal Hermaphrodite,
Or perhaps the question is much more complexual,
And it’s time for a Monarch to say they’re asexual,
Or rather as an answer to the question of glans,
The new one should be raised androgyne or trans!

Separate

Struggle and strife,
A subjective equation,
Separate your life,
From your life situation.

Burn the Goat

How long will you survive this year?

In a Swedish town ’round Christmas time,
There’s usually a most heinous crime,
Involving a gigantic decoration,
Going up in a massive conflagration.
A forty-foot goat made of out straw.
The biggest straw goat you ever saw.
It’s magnificent, this huge straw animal.
Though it’s also irresistibly flammable.
As soon as they’re done erecting it,
That’s when they start protecting it,
After setting it up so neat and nice.
From becoming the next goat sacrifice,
But most of the time, it’s all in vain.
Someone still manages to set it aflame.
Most years it burns right to the ground,
To the delight or the horror of the town.
As for me, I’m just happy either way,
If it burns or lives to see another day.
So come one and all, put on your coat.
Let’s get out there and burn the goat!

If I die

If I die, I’d like to have a glass of Johnnie Walker Black with Christopher Hitchens, and a cup of tea with Carl Sagan. Zealots want virgins. I’d much prefer discussion and a good library.

Rose-Colored History

Our times we like to criticize,
And tend to view with wistful eyes,
Those times, before modernity,
Before the twentieth century.
It was a simpler time for sure,
But so much harder to endure.
Things hadn’t been invented yet.
Like toothpaste and deodorant.
And if a disease didn’t kill you,
The standard medicine was sure to.
With all the flaws of modern life,
The class divide and daily strife,
The truth is that politically,
And racially, gastronomically,
Hygienically, financially,
Technologically, and medically,
With what we have today, my friend,
We’re better off than way back then.

We’re Interesting Creatures Us

People laughing on a bus,
Laughter seeming infectious,
What is the evolutionary plus?
We’re interesting creatures us.

My Beloved Books

I’m not a rich man. I do not have a Mercedes in my garage. I do not live in a ten bedroom mansion. I can’t afford to drink Champagne and eat foie gras for lunch. I don’t own a thousand dollar suit.

But I do not consider myself poor. I am surrounded by books ─ hundreds of them ─ hundreds of beautiful books. They are my treasures, my companions of solitude. Having books close by gives me comfort, passion, and feeling of oneness with the universe. My books make my soul feel rich. They are the fuel for my mind.