Latkes

Spuds, onions and oil

Worth the splatters and toil

They are quite delicious

But not quite nutritious.

Critiques of my Own Writing

These were written with the virtual assistance and inspiration of Samuel Delamoir.

Couplet:
Your story's stink
Forced me to drink.

Quatrain:
You wrote this bile?
It's beyond vile.
Study a while!
And learn some style!

Haiku:
Imagery, diction,
syntax, plot development.
Please learn these things.

Limerick:
This writing's an insult to words,
not good enough even for birds.
Do you have enough credit
for someone to edit
and polish up your verbal turds?

Viola's Transient Lament

It's such sweet sorrow, though cliché

At last I know it to be true

Since you’ll be gone after today.

Despite intimidation’s sway

Hesitant friendship formed anew            

It's such sweet sorrow, though cliché.

I reflect on our ballyhoo:

Our short-lived tricksters’ pas de deux

Since you’ll be gone after today.

Choked yearnings and naiveté

To stifle my silent taboo.

It's such sweet sorrow, though cliché.

And so it was to my dismay

I fell in love, then out, with you

Since you’ll be gone after today.

Then tomorrow, when you’re away

I’ll cry at the mere thought of you.

It's such sweet sorrow, though cliché,

Since you’ll be gone after today.

Who Will Change It

We walk right by, but not too near.

Some turn away, while others sneer.

Are we ashamed? Too self-serving?

Are the beggars undeserving;
or is that arrogance? Or fear?

Their conditions are quite austere

beside Ivy Halls’ gated sphere.

Juxtaposed, they’re quite unnerving.

Who will change it?

Would it be wrong, or cavalier

to treat our fellow man as peer,

To go beyond just observing,

to meet while judgement reserving?

The courage of that pioneer,

who will change it.

mushroom

mushroom
earthy, substantial
grilled to perfection
purveyor of delicious contentment
burger

An Ode to Baked Goods

Candy may be dandy,
Liquor may be quicker,
But I prefer pastries
To make myself sicker

World's Most Mature Rhyming Couplet

Meats and cheeses
Make S-B-Deezes

The Cellist

He sat upon his granite bench

Her heart beating within his skillful hands

A pulse, first sharp then slowly drawn

Electric test of a life's surging current

Coaxing the chargeless life to press on

The pulse, it grows to fill the new-formed void

Weaving a path to WhoKnowsorCaresWhere

Caress accelerates to clenched embrace

"If you won't follow willingly," it says

"I'll drag you to my own seductive place"

But less a drag, and more impelled to rise

The soul lost within a wall of sound

Exuberant, in thrall of the emotion

Suffering Stockholm syndrome, enslaved

Rejecting freedom for pulse's devotion

Reverberating from within itself

The pulse slides from silken strands to plucks

Carried from affectionate connection

To the sharp pangs of fire, rage, and lust

A violent ecstasy, a crazed infection

Wrapping around its own melody,

Confused, quixotic, crashing to crescendo

Trapped by the imposed beat, no will to fight

The pulse is caught adrift, it can't escape

And yet, it's dumb-struck, drunken with delight.

Relaxing to a halt, then one last burst

A final bloodied push of agony

The heart now loosed of its restrictive bind

Alas, not nearly as free as when bound

A pulse at liberty, but more confined

The man rose from his seat

Set down his bow, and her heart with it

And she, alive, to walk and wander more

Regained her heart, but lost her pulse.

Not a Workaholic

Witching hour calm
Cricket chirps and candlelight
And Powerpoint slides

Sunday Late Night

As I'm laying awake in my bed
LED screen burns holes in my head
Hulu's melting my brain
Eyes are screaming in pain
Sleep shouldn't just be for the dead.