If It Ain’t Baroque…

Nudism in cubism

Falls under The Abstract

And artist folk behind each stroke

Admit it’s inexact.

The avant garde can leave some jarred

So, should you choose to pose

Don’t be surprised to find your eyes

Where most look for their toes.

Mother of Invention

At Cana, water turned to wine

Delighting all the guests

And showed the world The Great Divine

Considers all requests.

Although some question Was it prayer?

Or did a son discover

The force behind a mother’s glare

Is unlike any other?

No Fly Zone

Where do storks nest during a war
As spires tumble and towns are no more?
What will deer eat when tanks advance
Over sweet meadows of young, tender plants?
What drives a cub out of the den
Crying alone for its mother again?
Gone is the gold
Dark is the dawn
Ghostly and cold
Best to fly on

Glamour Puss

The platypus unsettles those

Who organise their socks in rows

Who’d never sport a check with stripes

The this-goes-better-with-that types.

Is it both mammal and a bird?

The mere suggestion is absurd

A beaver that can lay an egg?

Now try and pull the other leg…

Although it doesn’t quack or cluck

At first glance, it might be a duck

But if so, what’s with all the fur?

And is that venom in its spur?

This oddity that broke the mold

Still has the boffins in its hold

Yet, as we mock the platypus

One wonders what it thinks of us

Heart Failure

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My valentine suggested wine

I bought the best champagne

Then after making love we dined

On Chocolate Frangipane.

Why don’t we do this every night?

She cooed after our frolics

So, now we do and that is why

We’re toothless alcoholics.

Best Before Date

January’s no one’s friend

A month that lingers without end

No end to winter’s deepest chill

Which steals the breath and makes us ill

No end to counting every dime

From letting go at Christmastime

To resolutions boldly made

Then just as quietly betrayed

No reason to buy a bouquet

No fireworks

No Mother’s Day

At New Year’s we all raise a glass

Bemused by how the months soon pass

Then wake the next day full of dread

In fear of that which lay ahead