The Sure Cure for Writer’s Block

She takes her lattes extra skinny.
She drives a Cooper, it’s a Mini.
But when she takes pen in hand to put black on white,
the sad truth is—she can’t write.

His political opinions are properly aligned
towards the conventional wisdom, he’s inclined.
But as much as he tries to get his sentiments right,
His problem is—he can’t write.

They’ve taken the courses, responded to “prompts,”
you’d think that the scribbling part would be a romp.
But as much as they look like writerly types
They’re incapable of what’s known in the trade as “sitzfleisch”:

The ability to sit for hours on end,
to ignore dog, cat, internet, family and friends,
with your butt in your chair,
while your head’s in the air–

that’s what it takes if you want to give shape,
to airy nothingness, not a mouth all agape,
and an eye towards fashion and the au courant dance,
it’s the very opposite of ants in your pants.

Sons of the Idle Rich

The  market’s up, the market’s down
It doesn’t  matter which . . .
With stocks and  bonds and puts and calls
In just the  proper mix.
You’re clipping  coupons, cashing checks
Without a single  hitch . . .
Sons of the  I-dle Ri-ich.

You’ve  got enough to pay the price
For every basic  need . . .
Like ascots,  scotch and cashmere socks
And polo pony  feed.
Your dad he’s got a mistress
‘cause your mom she is a bitch . . .
Sons of the  I-dle Ri-ich.

Whenever you’re  attracted to a woman who is hot . . .
You try to woo  and win her with a sail upon your yacht.
You imitate a rapper when you ask your friends “Wassup?”
It clashes with  your interest in this year’s America’s Cup!

Your  form upon the squash court
is a sight not to be missed.
You finish hot and sweaty
but expect that you’ll be kissed
by girls with names like “Carter”
and end up drunk in a ditch . . .
Sons of the  I-dle Ri-ich.

 

The Ballad of the Headless Bunny

T’was a Sunday morning, the first week of May
A fine and fragrant playful day
I put on my bike shorts, prepared for a ride
Opened the garage door and went outside.

There I stepped down on what looked like a mouse
Bloody and lifeless outside of our house.
I took bag in hand and prepared to grab it
When I realized the thing was the head of a rabbit!

I stepped inside, to speak with Rocco
Our younger male cat, and sort of a jocko.
I said “Thanks for the present you left on the steps.”
“Just earning,” he said, “my keep as your pet.”

“I appreciate all the hunting you do,”
I said as I scraped the gore off of my shoe,
“But you should know, if you haven’t been told
That beheading bunnies is really quite cold.”

“It’s nature,” Roc said, with a cynical glare.
“He may have been cute, but he’s just a March hare
Who wore out his welcome, so I let him have it.
That’s the cause of the death of this beheaded rabbit.”

Up ambled Okie, elder cat statesman.
He’d spent the night downstairs in the basement.
His hunting days over, he’s now much the wiser.
He only chews cat food on his long incisors.

“Kid, you blew it,” he said as he walked up,
“When you rub out a rabbit, you don’t want to get talked up.
Silent but deadly, discreet terminations
Are the type that are favored by all criminal nations.”

The younger buck stood as if stunned by a shot.
“You mean you don’t celebrate, a lot or a jot?”
“No way,” said his brother, who’s now in his dotage.
“You don’t want to be covered by cat crime repotage.”

“The tabloids are vicious, the front page pics grisly,
The stories they offer are hot and quite sizzly.
When word gets round you’re big cat on the block
Every tom in the hood wants to give you a knock.”

So Rocco, a feline who learns as he goes,
Decided he’d rather be writ up in prose.
No Song of Rocco, for this black and white moppet
He ordered the author of this poem to stop it.

Available in Kindle format on amazon.com as part of the collection “Cats Say the Darndest Things.”

Imported Beers of the Romantic Poets

She is a thing of beauty.  Stella Artois ad, depicting woman drinking beer

 

A Thing of Beauty is a Beer Forever, John Keats

A thing of beauty is a beer forever:
Its foamy head increases; it will never
Pass into nothingness; but still will leave
A residue upon the glass, and a sleep
Full of sweet dreams, belches, and late-night peeing.

She Burps in Beauty, Like a Frog, Lord Byron

She burps in beauty, like a frog
Who sits on lily pad so green,
Resounding nightly in his bog
But to my beery eyes unseen;
Thus mellow’d by a Stella Artois
I urge her not to make a scene.

My Luve’s Like a Cold, Cold Beer, Robert Burns

O my Luve’s like a cold, cold beer
That’s newly poured for me;
O my Luve’s like an I.P.A.
A barkeep gives to me for free.

As fair art thou, my bonnie lass,
Another to me is more dear:
I drink you in with thirsty eyes
But still I need imported beer.

On Mistaking One’s Wife’s Legs for Another’s

I suppose there can be no happier mistake,
And one that I was shocked to make,
Than to look with longing at a female leg
And thinking yourself a rather bad egg

for admiring the calf and the well-turned ankle–
A crime that makes the divorce bar thankful–
Then allowing your gaze to climb slowly higher
To take in the woman and better espy her

And find, once you’ve crossed the line of her clavicle,
And to get a better view, made a move tactical,
That the woman you admire in line ahead of you
Is one who has shared a marital bed with you.

You have to laugh, and confess the crime,
Though no one gave you the Miranda warning,
You won’t be sentenced to do hard time,
Your excuse is no coffee, it was early in the morning.
Of course your wife may be of two minds about this,
As you tell her the story once she gets a surprise kiss;

You were being naughty, and your eye had wandered,
Some domestic good will you have certainly squandered.
I possessed the mens rea, the criminal intent,
And I had no alibi, but an iron-clad defense:
“It wasn’t another woman I wanted to woo, dear,
My heart leapt up when I looked at you, dear.”

Her Poetry Sucked

She was frail, and lithe and wan–
Most delicate thing I’d laid eyes on.
I’d have killed to possess her by usufruct–
Except for one thing: her poetry sucked.

She had silver threads among the gold
that suggested loves once young, now old.
I’d have fallen for her like a loaded dump truck–
Except for one thing: her poetry sucked.

“Please read this for me, and see what you think,”
She said as she passed me her paper and ink.
“I’m not sure it works,” she modestly clucked.
I had to agree: her poetry sucked.

I scanned her lines–it was clear she had not.
I tried to make sense of what she had wrought.
“It’s . . . different,” I said, as her hair she plucked.
I concealed my conclusion: her poetry sucked.

I found myself poetically unstimulated,
but I was aroused, and so I dissimulated.
You see, in order for me to get–uh, laid–
I couldn’t have told her: her poetry sucked.

Ode to a Bespectacled Optometrist Maiden

Dorothy Parker, just for a lark,
wrote a poem we remember
for what’s now called “snark”:

“Men seldom make passes
at girls who wear glasses,”

rings down through the years
and one guesses its laughter is watered with tears.

Back in the day before contact lenses,
return with me now as her amanuensis
to tell you the tale of an optometrist
whose practice precluded all romantic trysts.

She could hardly tell people that eyewear’s a problem;
she’d lose all her patients as soon as she’d got them.

So she wore her glasses wherever she went;
she thus had no luck with unattached gents,

and therefore she suffered as Parker foreshadowed;
her first beau said “no,” and the rest all said “ditto.”

But I liked the look retro–
the sturdy black glasses
you saw on the metro
on avant-garde lasses.

It adds one more layer
For one to remove
After spending the day
Viewing nudes at the Louvre.

Horn-rimmed specs on
The bridge of the nose
Is the nasal version
Of legs with hose;

The greater the number of impediments
The hotter the erotic sentiments–
Nature creates romantic suction
By fences and snares to a woman’s seduction.

So when to her office I went for a check up
the hottest part of her was straight from her neck up.

I sat in her chair and I read rows of letters
The sizes got smaller–I didn’t get better.
She checked me for pink eye, and also glaucoma
I hoped she’d ignore my cheese pizza aroma.

My passions rose higher as she wrote my prescription
I lusted in ways that would beggar description.

I couldn’t let go— I needed her badly
So stalling for time I said to her madly:

“Please make sure that you have all the facts—
You haven’t run tests yet to find cataracts;
Or the dreaded curse of a detached retina—
In one of my two eyes, I’ve got one, I’ll bet ya.”

She leaned over on me, the better to see stuff;
’twas now or never To devour this cream puff.

I hugged her so tightly
Time entered suspension;
I came to myself
And she asked my intentions.

“I don’t care if your glasses
Are Coke bottle bottoms
Leave the things on,
as long as you’ve got ‘em.
Remove, if you would,
all your other accoutrements
Your harlequin frames
are a romantic nutriment.

“And then when you’re nekkid,
Except for your specs,
We’ll have wild if blurry
Astigmatist sex.”

Moral:  You never know what will turn a guy on.

From “The Girl With the Cullender on Her Head (and Other Wayward Women)” available in Kindle and print format on amazon.com.