Her palm held a moonlit ocean,
Her eyes dreamt of a rolly polly seal-
Her stars glowed for a warmly vision,
Her back ached from standing still.

She took a step to fly that blue,
Whales and starfishes flew to the sky-
Coral and green moss before she knew
Rained down on busy passers-by.

Behind the crack of a small walled row,
Clouds clot where to make red bricks-
The little girl looked up on a tiptoe,
If she could soar from her super attic-

“Daughter, oh, daughter of sea marigold!
From razzy womb of a dreamy mermaid,
Don’t fly to the sky, I’ve become old-
Let’s have downstairs a cookie instead.”

Owner’s Risk

A calm football on the carpet, boom,
Cried a man with a flip slip disk.
A coy girl’s cootie in a concert, rock,
Rocked a skinny boy in a skeletal brisk-

The boy’s got a job for jabbering mambos-
Jumbos, peculiar to the prison shifts,
The jailor’s manner was at a moronic best-
Asked the boy out for his glazing lips.

The boy turned out to be a tingly doh-man,
Tossing and turning, a tantrum prick-
In a hinged bed, in a horrible blather-
Hearing heartbeats that made him sick.

Wiggling boy, oh so, scissorly waxed-
Woody foot wandering, a leisurely frisk,
This world, wacko, ain’t a worthy place
Parking, only at owner’s risk.

Death by a Tram

The girl did not hear it, the lonely girl,
Wrapped in the winter in a Kashmiri shawl.
Biddy nostrils in white fog smelled a musk
Of a strange, burly man who softly asked,
Come to the woods, girl, there we laugh
Soaked in the moon, to the sounds of harp
Dizzy we dance to the frisks of life.

A bolo dance, under the spell of a knife.
Splaying your boa skirt, swaying you in sleep
Over the stones, atop a stone of the deep
Piercing your hollow in a gurge of blood.
Merry men stray where in merry men’s flood
Floating in a smell of the crude things done.

The scent of an icky glue in the beret sun
Came to her nostrils and stirred her up,
Deaf to a cranky Borg in cold stirrups.
It screamed, “Bloody hell!” Screeched for a halt.
A witness told the TV, “It’s the girl’s fault.”
Hit by a tram, torn, quietly she bled.
Lying in a morgue, silly, dreamless and dead.

Wisdom of Clive

“Tell me Humphrey,
That Maharaja of yours,
Suraj Singh of Todi,
Didn’t he steal glances
With the fairy maiden Betsy?
Oh my my!
That’s a telltale.
Couldn’t you see, old man?

He’ll sign the treaty.
Trade is important.
By Jove,
So is fornication.

Tell you, Humphrey,
This strange land
Is not so strange after all.
Dust as dramatic,
Ice as tasteless,
Rules as silly,
Kings and their men
As vile as the hoarders of gold.

Only the chance they seek
Is narrow.
There Humphrey,
Is our retribution!

Someday, old friend,
At the loss of lust,
Slash of wrist,
In the sadness of damp soil
In autumn coffins,
Fools and heroes,
Will conspire together
With conniving men

For glory,
Graven in stone.
Tell them, Humphrey!
We rightfully won.”