COMPLETE LITE VERSE OF

Volume the First

April is National Poetry Month; April brings April Fools

Swan Song

I want to spend what’s left of life

listening to women’s voices singing

words I don’t understand

Contralto voices—nothing girlish.

Peasant folk songs please, no translations.

If it’s about love let me guess that for myself,

ditto grief. I’m old enough to sense these things

without being told

A Russian voice would be best, though lately

we’ve had our differences. A balalaika in the

background, or Lake Baikal—I get them confused.

The name of the singer probably includes

Valeriya before the end, but as long as she puts

her heart into it I mostly don’t care

Important point: Forget about humming.

I need hearing words, just ones I can’t comprehend

I want my epitaph to read:

He didn’t understand, but perfectly

Die Laughing

Tumbling comically these first

snowflakes of autumn, playing it for

laughs, slapstick, topsy-turvy,

strutting their stuff after spending

the summer who knows where

Bumbler snow, the Inuit call it—

no, I’m only joking

Here comes Charlie Chaplin or

at least his bowler hat, waddling

slantwise—and wouldn’t you

know it! He collides with

Buster Keaton

Some like free fall. Some

prefer parachutes, wafting

back and forth, then—a

great surprise!—cutting the

cords and somersaulting

airily up again. Bravo, snow!

Out the north-facing windows

flakes fall faster, more sardonically,

an inch-high drift talking smutty

if you can believe that of snow

They do stand-up, too, find

their audience in what’s left

of the leaves, with just enough

zingers to send them on their

last baggy-pants journey to the ground

Leaves die laughing, as do snowflakes

Are they too eager and mischievous—

too full of themselves, as my mother would

say? Snow me the way! Flake it easy! They’ll be

tossing off puns, telling knock-knock jokes

if I don’t go out and stop them

But at this age who wants a pie smack

in the old kisser?

Reputation

Don’t hide your light under

a basket, Jesus cautioned, one

of several things he got wrong.

What better place to hide it?

Payback Time

This writer wishes words found him irresistible.

Pursuer into pursued—you get the picture

He’d like festoon to get all dewy-eyed and flirty,

feel eldritch’s on his knee, have crepuscular say

“Hey, handsome, wanna join me for a drink?”

Wouldn’t mind some Italian lovely whispering

imbroglio to him either, or a French-Canadian

girl lisping pastiche

Peached. Plangent. Perpetuana. Lickerish for the p’s

doesn’t begin to describe it

“That you, Velleity?” he says to the dictionary he senses

just behind him, nibbling on his shoulder. “Be nice to

me and one day you might just find yourself in print.”

"Volute? Mesalliance? Smack me on the lips. Inamorata?

Petrichor? How’s about we frolic in a threesome right

here on this foolscap page?”

Pundits

Crush on you, Cassandra, has lasted

far too long, your knowing Trojan

eyes having swept me off my feet

into gloom/doom darker than any

 I could manage on my own. Disaster’s

sexy if predicted, besides I liked the

pressure of your sibylline fingers on

my pulse where no optimistic surge

could get past you

That was then. Several million

heartbeats since, each one pushing

you further away

Tough times, Cassie. Everyone’s in

the business now, though you’re the

original never to be topped/stopoped.

Rest on your laurels, make a career

switch, predict happiness, go back

to being scorned

Farewell, old love. Take your fingers

off my wrist, keep my portents

to yourself