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.