I Would be a Tree

There's nothing I would rather be
than tall and strong and full of grace.
If I could, I would be a tree.

You say my limbs are too stubby;
my trunk, you could never embrace.
There's nothing I would rather be

than immune to such scrutiny,
transplanted to another place;
if I could, I would be a tree,

shed all my leaves with impunity,
and smear sap all over my face.
There's nothing I would rather be

than master of my sanity;
but, let me tell you (just in case)
if I could, I would be a tree.

What I know with certainty
can be said without disgrace:
There's nothing I would rather be;
if I could, I would be a tree.

Whiskey Kisses

He thought of his wife,
then looked at his watch.
In his glass, amber whiskey,
smooth as water,
whispered
to be whirled.

Up to him, the woman whirled--
nothing like his wife.
With moist red lips, she whispered,
"Would you like to watch
the moon rise on the water?
Bring the whiskey."

He thought perhaps her name was Whiskey.
Cascades of red-gold hair glittered as she whirled
away towards the water.
No, this wild one was not his wife.
He glanced at his watch.
"Still time," he whispered.

"See the moon," she whispered
near his ear. Her breath was whiskey-
sweet. He wanted to watch
her red lips, but she whirled
away again. No, not like his wife
who was afraid of water.

The swollen moon floated on the water.
Gentle waves whispered,
"She's not your wife."
He drained the last amber drops of whiskey
from the bottle, then cast it away. It whirled
end over end. The woman turned to watch.

The bottle splashed. He looked at his watch,
then at the water.
His mind whirled.
The woman whispered,
"We need more whiskey."
He wished she was his wife.

"Forget your wife," she whispered.
"We can share whiskey kisses by the water."
His senses whirled, and he did not look at his watch.

Howdy

I am
a poem

I may not look
like much
to you

just
words
without breeding or formal training
carelessly
dropped
in the center
of
nowhere

but
I am a poem
and
I like it here

I am not asking
for
admiration
or approval

merely a nod in passing

For Richard and Brian

Please Don't Feed the Bear

In Retro-Sixties style,
tourists spread their picnic
beneath the Day-Glo sign:
Please do not feed the bear.
Chanting "Make love not war,"
they toss Twinkies, popcorn
and morsels of Moon Pie
into the cave's dark mouth
'til, with a roar and a flash
of fangs and 4-inch claws,
the grizzled beast appears.
The stunned visitors gasp,
raise clenched fists and cry, "Foul!"
while bear shreds their baskets,
kicks dirt on their blankets
and marks the spot with piss.