From flying dragons and other
psychedelic relics
to paddy wagons at my ex-lover’s
mountain cabin,
anything can happen
when I allow my muse to frolic
in the playpen
of my imagination.


 

On leave
from academia--
rum drinks and tiki torches
down in Tahiti.

Munching kiwi fruit
and macadamia nuts
on the leaky porch
of my rented beach shack.

Doesn’t matter.
It only rains for half an hour,
every day at four--
like the clockwork I left behind.

Bikini-clad wahines
keep the tropical punch
and chimerical visions flowing
under the mango tree.

Time flies.
Too soon, I have to leave
this Bohemian
paradise.


 

We dance amongst the fragrant roses there--
the rabbit, squirrel, faithful dog, and I--
cavorting in God’s garden ’neath blue sky.
My friends and I enjoy our pied-a-terre
away from the clamorous thoroughfare.
A meadowlark serenades from nearby.
It’s a wonderful life, I can’t deny--
even better than that of a billionaire.
A robin joins in lilting harmony.
We’re blessed to spend our time where lilacs sway
in gentle summer breezes all the day,
beside a mountain stream gurgling with glee.

Our little soiree is a splendid way
to sooth away the cares of yesterday.


 

Black feathers flap and settle, as
the crow finds a meal ripe for picking.

         A visitor surveys the grisly sight,
         intent on spreading the word.

The bird begins to peck at rotting flesh,
while others gather to share the feast.

         Young Tim sets up his apparatus
         to preserve the scene for posterity.

Raucous cawing fills the putrid air
when corpse-laden hills become a banquet.

         People must know about this tragedy
         before our country can be healed.

A clap of the hands sends scavengers flying
from the blood-tarred flax of windblown hair.

         Daguerrotypes record their sacrifice
         for all the world to see.

The carrion crows can only watch,
while Mr. Lincoln solidifies the cause.

         Historians will always remember
         when he speaks, “Four score and seven years ago…”

 

Come, my blossom. Join me on a journey
to the outer regions of Neverland.
We’ll glide across the universe
on gilded gossamer wings,
through wispy clouds of stardust
with kaleidoscopic plumes
of sunset’s iridescent aura
cascading over the edge of the sky.

We’ll sail on through the Milky Way
and constellations previously unknown,
until we reach the intersection
of Now and Forever,
where we can wash our dreams
in the river of life
and hang them to dry
on the horns of a crescent moon.


 

                                                                                                                     Sweet 16

                                                                                                    Sweet 16 spouts   sibilant slurs
                                                                                                beyond the bounds   of Babylon.
                                                                                                       Mystic motives   manufacture
                                                                                                    hasty harangues   that haunt the heart.

Orthodox is not the way for me--
trapped in the box of conformity
for our proprietors to see.
I’d rather sail the open sea,
where all God’s creatures can be free.

Iconoclast is more my style--
breaking the cast always makes me smile
with the albatross and the crocodile,
my brothers on this galactic isle,
sailing through time together for a while.


http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PMCJwab8Orc
 

My wife’s nagging me into the ground,
and my IRA’s not very sound--
worst it’s ever been.
All hell broke loose when
my girl friend caught me messing around.

A witch’s brew and voodoo curses
bring pestilence and rolling hearses.
When friends start croakin’
‘cause my mirror’s broken,
it’s time to chant some lucky verses.