My 2nd Amendment Bomb Pop

I have about 2 dozen poems in various states of completion. Some on summer themes, some not.
The easy ones need little more revision at this point, but the longer, more meaningful works will take more time.
Case in point - here's this, best described as a satire of the bane of warm weather porch time; Electronic Ice Cream Music.

My 2^nd Amendment Bomb Pop

If there ever was a reason,
  for a civilian like me
To own his own bazooka,
  it’s a truck like thee,
With your electronic Ears Hung Low
  all a blasting from your horn,
As on you roll, again, again,
  by day all day and morn
With your Doppler shifting music
  you change into second gear,
You go round and round the neighborhood
  you are both far and near,
With your ebb and flow acoustics
  you sound royally most queer,
And nobody buys your ice cream,
  so please go, get out of here
I see you selling cherry pops
  and also chocolate bombs
I’d like to pop your tires
  or have you run over my bomb,
But as I said at the beginning
  a bazooka would be best,
So you can sell ice cream in hell
  and finally let me have a rest

Fa-Pooom!
   Ahhhhh!

Humble

Humble

In the purple morning rising
  as we start our day of work
We greet a dozen sun portals
 topping tall green flower stalks,
Behind the petals from suns’ beams,
  a bee’s crawled in, and dreams,
Rests the cold and torpid Bumble
  numb at rest in his camp bed
The cool weather of evening
  has yet to leave his head

‘Dare you to pet it,’

Do not pet him on the wings
 for he’ll not like that kind of thing,
And don’t touch him on his stinger
 although he’s cool don’t risk your finger,
See there the hair upon his back,
 in that short golden hair, right there,
Just point out your index finger
 touch him gently and with care,

‘It feels like velvet, warm sunny velvet,’

With that the drowsy bumble
 waived a lazy flailing leg
As if to press the snooze bar
 on this digital clock, he begged,
Yet Bumbles are diurnal too,
 once he’s warmed up he’s chores to do,
So up the Bumble hummed away,
  and we began our working day

On Choosing A Cat

Today I received my first ever fan letter, writ by Mary R (can't read her last name) Treas. of The Cat Connection, the same cat rescue group from whom we adopted Max and Fluffly
Arguably it did cost me $50, as with a donation of that sum I also enclosed an earlier draft of 'On Choosing A Cat.'
She tells me they even read it at one of their board meetings. Yay exciting board meetings!

On Choosing A Cat  (for The Cat Connection)

You, you may think that you choose the cat,
  But the truth is quite reverse of that,
For cats bear aloof cattitude, and it’s
  The cat who chooses you

That scowling clowder, let them be,
  Sit on their floor, who’s at your knee?
When one inquires how might you be, could be
  The cat who chooses you

Sure, Tom will chase your bright shoelace,
  And Molly sits in Bast Goddess Grace,
But who’s this greets you face to face? embrace
  The cat who chooses you

Who takes your lap without a fear?
  Who makes this purr you’re pleased to hear?
You’ve found your friend, for year on year, take up
  The cat that’s chosen you

Such dear friends are for all nine lives,
  More faithful than husbands or wives,
Just wait for whom loves absent strife, 
  The cat that’s chosen you

PS - Yes, this is the picture they ran in the Waltham Tribune, in 2009, of he who was soon to be adopted and now known as Our Max.

The Black and White Johnson’s

After reading too much Langston Hughes I got a headache

The Black and White Johnson’s

I am the son of Madam Alberta K Johnson
 Who had her name spelt
Not in English or Roman
 But in American
‘Cause American was good too

I was named after a Barbie doll
  And my middle name is a Barbie doll too
In 1961 Barbie met her boyfriend
In 1961 Midge got dated too
In 1961 my birth got dated too

When did we become white?

My Immagrant Nudge Mamma
  Was told she need not apply
So she went back to Hungary 
  Relived how bad it was
And immigrated back again
‘Cause "At least the babies don’t die"
  Still she need not apply

After my Grandparents divorce
  My Dad went into the Marines
Came out and the GI Bill sent him to
  Syracuse University
Like a white paintbrush dun de-Minstrel Showed him
  And there he met my Mom

The name Johnson comes from the Ireland
  My Grandfather was a Hugh, and my Dad a Hugh too
Peoples used to call and dey’d say
  "Hello is Hugh dere?"
And we’d say "Yah I’se hee-yuh!"

After a revival Church sing
  We hosted a tenor in my brothers bunk bed.
Said the brother,
"I hopes I crawl in da right bed
"Cause I don wan a crawl inna bed wid no spook!"

Whenever I fill out forms I
  Always cross out () WHITE
  And write in the margins
Modern American melting pot need not apply son of a no club member mongrel,
  And a proud one too!

The Ice Maker

Every have one of those days when you just don’t remember turning it on?

The Ice Maker

Tap water hisses up the tube
In an esoteric spurt
And silently pools in the tray
With an equally mute squirt
Then crack a brack like everyday
More ice cubes in the tray
I know nobody has turned on
The ice machine today

It certainly was never me
It’s 35 outside
And Christine could have not done so
March requires no iced drinks
The cats are playing coy, of course
I asked and not a mew
There’s mystery afoot today
And I have yet to get a clue

Look, there’s water at the kitchen door
See it slides across the floor
To right before the fridgidaire
Where frozen things get stored
And, down the outside kitchen steps
New snow tracks have been made
They traipse the walk and cross the yard
Where to The Snowman stands unbowed

As a jest we made him yesterday
When the sky was cast in cloud
We’ve a clear blue dome above us now
And the sun shines high and proud
It melts my heart to know of one
Who can’t welcome warm Spring
I’m powerless to change his World,
Or hush what Nature soon may sing

Retreating in to where it’s warm
I’m heartsick of his fate
Then crack a brack like everyday
I see compassion’s way
I took the tray and cubes to him
I laid them round his feet
And said to him, soul without out sin
Pray these forestall the heat

Whitey Still Sleeps In

For the uninitiated, Whitey B is our resident Woodchuck. We named her Whitey B as, with a white muzzle she resembled that infamous Whitey B- who now wears orange and is soon to be played by Johnny Depp.
We thought she was a male, until the first litter.


Whitey Still Sleeps In

Whether six more weeks of Winter
  Or that Spring starts in Mid-March
There’s just been laid three feet of snow
  Like cotton sheets, flat starched

Our woodchuck Whitey dug her nest
  Beneath our screened-in porch
And as you’d think this time of year
  We have not seen her much

We’ve heard from Phil, he’s seen the sun
  Gen. Beauregard has too
Yet Whitey’s threshold’s all drift snow,
  One guess what Whitey knows

Today we ask Groundhogs to tell,
  When will our Spring begin?
But we’ve no answer poking forth,
  Our Whitey’s sleeping in.

This snow cloud day of overshade
  Will cast no silhouettes,
So what’s her grounds for stirring out?
  She’ll see no shadow,
   Anyway…

020415

While writing yesterday, out the window I watched a hawk soaring. But not for long.
Decided to call this '020415' 'cause at New England Audubon centers they don't believe in giving wild birds pet names.  

020415
That kettling Hawk circles like a marionette
  Strung from the grayclouds flyspace

A dip, a wing, a curl, and a stoop
  Open toes first fore his feather rudder legs

He dives behind the neighbors house,
  Have you seen the woodchuck?

I don’t even see the Hawk.