The sexiest woman I e’er saw
Could cook just like my great-grandma.
Her biscuits were so flaky and round
That I ate butter by the pound.
Her steaks, pork chops, gravy, collard greens,
Pot roasts, pies, cobblers, lima beans,
Mashed potatoes, field peas, and cornbread
Are worth slapping yore momma dead
Over if she reached for the last bite.
A good supper’s heaven at night.
Since I knew that there’d be no neglect,
This culinarily perfect
Gal easily won my stomach’s love.
It’s a shame I can just dream of
Finding a young woman with such skills—
Whose cooking neither maims nor kills.
Show me a woman my age who cooks
And frets not over plastic looks.
As I thought, she’s nowhere to be found,
And so true love won’t be around.
High and vain grapes surely lose the fox;
Love’s recipe is not on a box.
Such savages can’t access the heart;
Thus marriage is doomed from the start,
Since the stomach is the route to take
If a man’s love you wish to wake.
Bambi Is Shure Good Eatin’
I tell you, Bambi sure tastes good,
Like you secretly knew he would.
There’s nothing quite as delicious
As venison in your dishes,
Except for quite possibly veal—
Young calves make such a tender meal.
‘Tis better than eating my own
Young or even those that have grown.
How dare you get upset I eat
Bambi sausage and ground deer meat!
Would you rather that I famish
Because your stomach’s so squeamish?
Deer’s just as good a meat as cow;
It’s better for you anyhow.
Its flavor’s great. What about pigs?
They’re fattened up until they’re big,
Their necks are slit, and their blood’s drained.
Then, they’re butchered up. Have you feigned
That cruelty to pigs is better,
Since farm animals don’t matter?
Do you think how their intestines
Are strung out as fate predestines
To be used for sausage lining
After the meat’s finished grinding?
Will you think of that with each bite
You take of pork? Will you delight
As well in chickens? Aren’t chicks cute?
You’d not eat something so minute,
Would you? But then it’s a real shame
That fate so loudly does proclaim
That they’re no good to use except
For the eggs where chicks would’ve slept
And serving mothers crispy fried,
Once they’ve been wrung, plucked, and have died.
You watch your goldfish swim each day,
But don’t you still eat fish fillet?
Don’t tell me eating deer’s a crime;
You eat once cute things all the time.
Tending the Demon Child
I passed two weeks as a god
Tending to a demon child,
And when I tried to be good
To him, he turned mean and wild.
When I tried to discipline
Him, he took my name in vain.
His company was mischief,
And nothing could split the twain.
There were sudden outbursts, like
Tornadoes out of season,
And I was accused of false
Crimes, without rhyme or reason.
The child’s pathological,
Oh how the child loves to lie!
And blame god for everything
That should dare to make him cry.
Infantile Emulation
Children are so innocent and
Happy, sweet, imaginative,
Funny, energetic, trusting.
They’re the model of how to live.
Why can’t we be more like the kids,
Instead of being, by and large,
Hardened, cynical, and fearful,
And e’er seeking to be in charge?
It’s so much more refreshing to
Be like kids, and we would do well
To emulate them, except for
The crying, the screaming, the smell
They make when their diapers are soiled,
The whining, the pouting, the art
Of not speaking intel’gibly,
And the screaming mania parts.
An Obscure Dirt Road
The greatest honor that can be bestowed
Comes not from having an obscure dirt road
Located far from the population
Receive one’s name in commemoration:
Whether one’s found dead or upon the earth.
By far, the treasure of the greatest worth
Is not to receive men’s honors, and such,
For time will prove that these do not mean much.
Instead, the things that are the most worthwhile,
Things that will crease one’s forehead with the smile,
Are the things that mankind most overlooks
While etching their legends for stones and books.
And what is it that men most underrate,
E’en as they vainly self-congratulate
For their business deals and tournaments won,
While leaving this their greatest task undone?
‘Tis true that one should seek to have success,
But its true form will no glory profess.
For this precious pearl of the greatest price
Has the cost of personal sacrifice.
Give of one’s own self to one’s family,
And later one’s children will grateful be.
One’s example one’s children will extol
For having kept the home and marriage whole.
They’ll say, “I learned this from my father dear,
And my mother taught me to do this here.
I wish they could be here to counsel me
As I raise my very own family.
For not even once did he raise his hand
To my mother, though life was not all grand,
And they taught me how to have faith in God
By walking in the steps the Savior trod.”
That’s an honor that can’t be supplanted.
Thus, take not one’s family for granted.
To thy family, self, and goals be true;
Be prepared so God will prepare for you.
Tortugas
The asphalt’s warm beneath my feet,
And on this cold day it feels sweet.
Its warmness bids me to linger
Like a ring upon its finger.
But I remember what was said,
“Do not tarry, or you’ll be dead.”
A humming’s coming up the road;
What wicked things it does forebode.
A motorized predator nears,
I close my shell to hide my fears.
It passes. The wind rips me ’round,
And new motivation I’ve found.
The old ones speak of smashed brothers
And those carried off by others.
And once you’re grabbed, claws cannot free
A turtle from man’s treachery.
Now, some transport one safely o’er
The road, but turtles cross once more
Hoping for mercy as before,
Though often winding up as gore,
Since they didn’t forge their way
And thought the road was just for play.
I can no longer idly wait,
Hoping for a merciful fate.
But with speed not thought to possess,
On I must diligently press.
The water’s safety beckons me,
But the road is a stark sentry.
I can’t hide in my shell always,
Cursing my unknown yesterdays.
I needed to go ages past,
But feared the cars that drive so fast.
So many have proven that to reach
The water with its grassy beach
Where ev’ry turtle longs to be,
One has to sprint to victory,
Risking the cars that never slowed—
Almost certain death on the road.
No Echinoderms
I want some acres with a brook
And a cabin, whose rustic look
Reminds me of those livelong days
When the worst social malaise,
Yea, the biggest worries we faced
Stemmed from fear of being caught
Deflowering neighbor’s gardens,
Since flowers by kids weren’t bought.
I want a place with many trees,
And all of them’d be a restroom;
A quiet place far from the world,
An Eden free of mankind’s gloom.
Acorns would be my fire crackers;
Grievous gunshots would not explode.
I could hear nature’s symphonies,
Not violent noises from the road.
Sycamore fuzz is on the ground;
Needles cloak the mud full of earthworms.
Moss is on the north of the trees,
But there are no echinoderms.
A preserve with bogs and lichens.
My wilderness refuge. My park.
Where I’d be able to see stars;
Where the night is still truly dark.
I would hide away like this dream
That I will never realize.
Dawn would be a wonderful sight,
Dusk would be its wondrous reprise.
Aging, I become more like Thoreau,
Though I hated Walden years ago.
Georgia on an Overcast Day
Somewhere in the midst of a May.
A light breeze shakes the leaves and moss,
Causing dandelions to toss
Their offspring’s hope into the air,
Spreading their disease everywhere.
Much of the wildlife seems withdrawn,
Since the sun’s hope is hidden and gone.
Sweat pesters us like liquid gnats.
Pine pollen swarms like blinded bats,
Like sweet grass paints red fields.
The humidity never yields,
Just like love bugs who’d rather die
Than postpone mating while they fly.
A black anvil high in the skies
The force of gravity defies.
The dread din from its black smithy
Tells of weapons without pity.
Humus and leaves whirl and eddy.
The enemy’s advance is steady.
Strong gusts have wandered from the beach.
Thor says we’re finally in reach.
His hammer’s poised to crush with force
Like the Valkyries and Norse.
The air’s grown violent, dark, and dense.
We victims wait in chilled suspense.
Then, lightning strikes like cornered snakes,
Liking the fulgurite it bakes.
Thunder rolls like roly-polies.
Then, through the Holy of Holies
The voice of God gives his command:
A mighty boom trembles the land.
Each heart stops to see if it
Has lived to hear the minuet
The rain now plays with eager ease
Everywhere except in the lees.
Each square inch has become a bog
In answer to the praying frog.
The storm’s a documentary,
And lightning’s flash photography
Only serves to illuminate
The beauty that God did create.
He gave life to this thunderstorm.
It’s power in its purest form.
Then, suddenly as it had come,
The vagrant cloud seeks a new home.
Some trees now sport their fresh tattoos.
An indif’rent cow chews and moos.
Pecan limbs have been dismembered.
Ant hill construction’s been hindered.
A ball of fire steam cooks the earth,
And mother nature’s had rebirth.
Bees unwittingly pollinate.
Birds have begun to intonate.
Metamorphosis
My darling little librarian,
Take off your glasses that I might see
The transformation of your dull face
Into one of exceeding beauty.
My darling little librarian,
Take your flaxen hair down from its bun
That you might look more like a woman
And ten times less like an austere nun.
My darling little librarian,
Give your liberated hair a shake,
So that they might cascade in tresses
Which cause me my reason to forsake.
My darling little librarian,
Change that drab brown dress for comfy clothes
That make you seem warm and inviting,
Instead of full of woes with each pose.
My darling little librarian,
I know you looked dull to quell desire,
But now your beauty’s fully revealed.
Come, let’s read cuddled up by the fire.
Cazándote
Como quisiera encontrarte,
Hermana hermosa de María,
Cuya intensidad de pasión
Es una mágica melodía.
Veo quien deseas llegar a ser,
Y con mi amor tu la podrías.
Sueño de cazarte a menudo;
Me enredé en tus brujerías.
Se te ha formado solo por mí.
¿Es por esto que te escondiste?
Que sepas que te voy a encontrar,
Ni modo a donde te huiste.
Que no temas que yo te ame, pues,
El amarte es me privilegio.
Eres el único curso donde
Mi corazón va al colegio.
Quiero elevarte al abrazarte,
Porque tú eres tan chaparrita.
Un día tu pelo chino será
Mía, y serás mi amorcita.
Midnight Musings from Melancholy Muses 