Over, Lord

I bade my love compose an ode

To prove her heart was true,

Reciting To Him All Is Owed

She blushed the whole way through.

I bade my love prepare a feast

Befitting of her Lord,

She cooked for me the finest beast

Her dowry would afford.

I bade my love take out a boat

And clear the moat of trolls,

She took my dagger to their throats

Then fixed their heads on poles.

I bade my love tend to my aches

With liniments and oils,

She rid my skin of every flake

And lanced a string of boils.

Then comes a time when passions end

When leaves droop with the frost,

I bade my love invite her friend

That’s when she said… Get lost!

Coming Achoo

Winter stops us in our tracks

With biological attacks

Perhaps to kick us into touch

Because it doesn’t like us much.

The common cold, the experts note,

Is still without an antidote.

As for the ‘flu, we get the shot

Which seems more like an afterthought.

Coughing, sneezing… who’d desire us?

It’s our friend, the winter virus.

Ironic, because when it strikes us

It’s just saying that it likes us.

Snow Job

No sunburned noses at the beach

No crab apples just out of reach

No jasmine to infuse the breeze

No lavender to make us sneeze

No sandals piled outside the door

No evening strolls along the shore

No watching cats chase butterflies

No lemonade, no record highs

No counting ants, as they file past

No starlit skies, now overcast.

Even old folks can’t remember

Why it is, we have November.