Let me ease your burden
Concealed by a fern in the Best Western bar,
The hunter surveys the speed-dating bazaar
And lonely hearts gathered from near and afar
At the cowboy-chic watering hole.
Keen predator’s eye swiftly lights on a mook
In ill-fitting Wranglers and crooked peruke,
His un-ironed Polo the color of puke
And physique like a telephone pole.
Directly across from this charmless Don Juan
Droops a bland Aphrodite, more pigeon than swan,
A stammering wreck with too much makeup on.
The huntsman has chosen his prey.
Reaching into his quiver he draws out a dart,
Contagion a-drip from its pointiest part,
And shoots it straight into Don Juan’s timid heart
Then does Aphrodite that way.
“If you’ll pardon my sayin,’” the man says, distressed,
Blood suddenly boiling with amorous zest,
“Our two-minute date has been simply the best!
Let’s us be a pair, you and I.”
Deep passions aflame, she replies with a sigh,
“Like a chocolate fountain that reaches the sky,
I am your sweet gal, now, and you’re my sweet guy
Dipping pretzels as one till we die!”
The hunter, triumphant, retreats to the bar,
Celebrating the kills with a cold PBR,
And flipping a dime in the bartender’s jar
Gives his diaper a hitch reloads.
That’s just how it goes on Saint Valentine’s Day,
With violent cherubim firing away
In savage attacks from behind the buffet
Making storybook princes from toads.
Beneath, an ancient terror sleeps
Within a crypt of endless night
Its casket dreadful secrets keeps
Its cape a shroud to life and light
No breath of air escapes its throat
No heartbeat drums inside its chest
Not dead enough for Charon’s boat
But of no mortal spark possessed
It stirs within its Stygian tomb
Mind reaching up to taste the sky
The sunlit world falls fast to gloom
The hour of dark ascension nigh
It rises from its coffin bed
Unfurls great bat wings, left and right
A feast of blood served warm and red
Will sate unholy appetite
With awful strength and not a sound
It rushes from the ghastly vault
Through passages far underground
Intent on murderous assault
Erupting from the darkened heath
It wheels and pauses in the air
Surprised to see arrayed beneath
Its human prey massed everywhere
In knots and crowds, all eyes upturned
They peer to heaven, motionless
Yet of the fiend they’re unconcerned
Transfixed by grandeur measureless
Too late, the creature turns to gape
With yellowed eyes upon its doom
In vain it races for escape
To Earth’s impenetrable womb
A sun-bright golden beam breaks free
A shriek of rage dies on its lips
It wasn’t night, but rather the
2017 eclipse
On Labor Day the working Joe
Can toil and industry forego
And lounge about the bungalow
An idler by decree
For me, a slacker head to toe
It’s been a yearly source of woe
That shirking work is only so
For he a worker be
I find employment wearying,
Attached to Boss Man’s apron string
Nor would I venture anything
On pure initiative
In winter, summer, fall and spring
Of my own indolence I’m king
Persistently malingering
The bum definitive
To lift does not appeal to me
I wouldn’t tote for any fee
Indeed, to stand would disagree
Lest I should break a sweat
To ride a desk would seem to be
An exercise in constancy
Two things I hope to never see
Not even on a bet
Fact is, no useful chore do I
Have any mind to even try
The public weal to fortify
My social debt to pay
And so when each September’s nigh
I loaf upon my couch and sigh
And wish I had a job to shy
By right of Labor Day
A beacon from the firmament
A globe of fire in star-lit sky
An omen surely heaven-sent
To guide the wise to wonders nigh
“Our road leads west,” the kings agreed
“Our fortunes bound to yonder star.
With sturdy hearts and all due speed
We must away to lands afar.”
Assembling modest retinue
The learned three betook their quest,
Celestial pharos e’er in view
A burning purpose in each chest.
Across the plains of Samarkand,
And choking desert wilderness.
O’er gasping mountains toiled the band
Through regions strange and comfortless.
At last, upon a night divine,
Arrived they unto Bethlehem,
To there behold no stately shrine,
But rough-hewn stable waiting them.
“Praise to the Lord!” the wise men cried
“That in this humble place doth bide
Philosopher, exalted guide,
The child in whom all fates reside!”
At calm repose a newborn lay
Serene upon a bed of straw
Its mother rested steps away
The visitors approached with awe.
“Accept these gifts, Madonna Fair
For this, your Son of blessed birth,
We offer gold in princely share
To He who will bestride the Earth.”
“Rich frankincense, a treasure rare
Befitting Heaven’s champion,
And myrrh to sanctify the air
Surrounding this, our Holy One.”
The mother, clearly unimpressed,
Just took another bite of hay.
The child no gratitude expressed,
But bleated in an anxious way.
The Magi were confounded sore
Had they displeased the newborn king?
A shepherd boy rose from the floor
And said “You see guys, here’s the thing…”
“That gold and stuff is great,” he winked.
“For such as them what wears a crown,
But these are sheep. I kind of think,
You want the kid two mangers down.”
Tom Turkey was a thoughtful bird, and circumspect in deed and word
Yet in his feathered breast there stirred a grand ambition long deferred.
“We are too dignified a race to languish in captive disgrace!
We might a wider world embrace, if farmer’s fence we could erase!”
And turkey emperor he’d be, Tom often reckoned secretly
Who led his flock to victory and set the persecuted free.
He’d stalk the scratching yard by day, his warrior’s plumage on display,
And in the feeding sheds inveigh against their cultural decay
“No more must turkeys here inside this chicken wire bondage bide.
With strength and righteousness allied, we’ll rise in liberating tide!”
Tom forged his battle plans with care to catch the farmer unaware.
No quarter would commander spare in that most desperate affair.
The younger Jakes arrayed before, the older Toms a solid corps,
And in reserve those maids of war, determined Jennies by the score
With lightning speed the army struck. The gate swung wide – a stroke of luck!
Through breached defense they surged amok straight into waiting poultry truck.
Capricious are the winds of fate, as Turkey Tom found out too late,
No lord of sovereign Turkey State, but king of one Thanksgiving plate.
