A tonic to arouse the passions of the fairer sex

is bound the sensibilities of Puritans to vex.

Flibanserin would make of gals the primary aggressor,

making of men’s libido — and other things — the lesser.

When boy chased girl it was a pure and simplified transaction —

but now romance holds promise of a nuclear reaction!   


Mormons & Sugar


Hershey claims that Utah eats more sweets than other states;
we gobble up s’mores and brownies by the hundredweights.
Professors down at BYU explain that Mormon breeding
makes us sugar addicts while on Twizzlers we are feeding.

Children make up such a large part of the population
that they force their parents to buy lots of sweet temptation.
Dentists don’t complain, and so the populace all flees
down to shopping centers where they stuff their face with See’s.

I do not know if this phenomena makes us more docile;
I’d like to ask the Prophet or perhaps a close apostle.
All I know is when I skip dessert I feel morose;
life is not complete without a pinch of pure sucrose.

from a report on Utah Public Radio 

World Health Organization to Your Sweet Tooth: “Drop Dead!”

Obama let loose with a twenty dollar bill!

As if my sweet tooth weren’t maligned enough by public polls,

Now the people down at WHO want me to shun sweet rolls!

They recommend I cut back on the processed foods I eat,

And concentrate on lemons or a brace of chicken feet.


A mere six teaspoons ev’ry day of sugar, they advise,

Would give my pearly whites a break and obesity revise.

I gave up my martinis and decided not to smoke,

And now they want me to abandon comfort foods like Coke.


The writing on the wall is plain for ev’ryone to see;

Smoking pot is legalized but cake’s a felony.

Prohibition will return; this time the Feds will seize

Ev’ry snickerdoodle and fresh honey from the bees!

based on a story in the Washington Post


To Laugh.

Where, oh where, have the little clowns gone?

(Dedicated to the memory of Buster Keaton)

A laugh is but a bubble on the ceaseless tide of care

That washes all around us underneath the sun’s blank glare.

A froth or foamy nothing that is gone before we know

that it came to help us fight the mortal undertow.


The jester in the palace and the circus clown do feel

That laughter is as thin and welcome as an onion peel.

The writer who is trifling with words meant to amuse

Scribbles with a pallid heart his unimportant views.


 The universe and galaxies possess no spark of whimsy;

To laugh up at the darkness is of gambits the most flimsy.

Yet I hope the last sound by the last soul here on earth

Will not be whimpered groaning but the roar of ardent mirth.

The Friendly Folks of Ferguson


The friendly folks of Ferguson make welcome ev’ry guest.

One and all are treated with a gratifying zest.

If you are a black man you’ll be targeted each night

For a special greeting (that might give you quite a fright).


You will find that officers and city workers, too,

Want you to be carefree (and may lock you in the zoo).

Shootings are prodigious, but it’s all in merry fun,

With ev’rybody looking down the barrel of a gun!


Won’t you come and see us? We’re as friendly as can be.

The town administration changes very frequently.

And if you do behave yourself when you do first arrive

You’ll have a jolly time of it (and might get out alive).

The Little Free Library.


I may be small and made of wood leftover from a door;

But I contain potential that will last forevermore.

An entertaining novel or a tome of sober fact;

Biography, geography, or strange religious tract.


No barriers or bar codes keep you from my grand largesse;

I freely offer up the wine of ev’ry printing press.

The heft of solid book in hand was never meant to dwindle

In this age of iPads and the apathetic Kindle.


Small graces in this life of toil can speed us on our way

To better understanding and a more contented day.

So open up my shutters, made of glass or plastic sheet,

And tarry with my wares that are sustaining and so sweet! 

 Based on a story from MPR 

A Soldier Defrauded.


My duty took me from my home and fam’ly frequently;

While I was gone the bank foreclosed on all my property.

They also took the car and my retirement account.

(I don’t believe they know about the Sermon on the Mount.)


I was on active duty, being shot at and assailed –

Meanwhile when my wife protested, she was nearly jailed.

It seems the laws in place protecting soldier’s basic rights

Are just about as potent as wee mosquito bites.


Just WHAT have I been fighting for, if ev’ry snotty banker

Can barge into my home at will to tell them to weigh anchor?

The next time Uncle Sam requires militant defenders,

I am staying home — and they can draft the money lenders!


Based on a New York Times Story

Justice for Burberry


Dozens dead in Yemen from a crazy bomb attack;

ISIS murders women in the country of Iraq.

Homicides in LA County are thick as urban smog.

But outrage is reserved for shooting up a biting dog.


 Tunisia is mourning those who died in a museum;

Children die of hunger in Sudan – that’s “carpe diem”.

A Karen refugee gives children such a fatal cut –

The media is covering a San Diego mutt.


Alberto Nisman murdered by a shot in Buenos Aires;

The violence increases, making busy actuaries.

I guess the world is going to the dogs without a doubt,

When the death of one lone cur can carry so much clout.


The Pedestrian’s Curse.


I am sick and tired of the perilous degree

To which our sidewalks come to when the weather is icy.

Like a baby glacier, all the snow lays unremoved;

My chances of a nasty fall are certainly improved.


My curses on you, householder – whoever you may be,

For neglecting all the shoveling that is your first duty.

May icicles impale your lazy heart, and polar bear

Invade your laundry to rip up all of your underwear.


Because of you I have to wear a pair of crampons now,

As over frozen rivers and crevasses I do plough.

I ought to have a dog sled to traverse my daily round.

(And have my huskies leave you little presents on the ground!)

Thoughts on Walking Through the Neighborhood at Dusk.


When I was but a slippy youth, impelled by lusty flush

To run and skip and hide and sing like any careless thrush,

The boys and girls around the street joined in my serenade,

Or fought with clods of earth or set up stands for lemonade.


The slightest hint of mildness in the weather caused adults

To open all the windows for some gossip (or insults).

We yelled our silly heads off as we scalped each other like

The Westerns on the TV, or went on an oval hike –


Around the alleys, past trash cans just full of won’drous tripe,

Scuffing on the clinkers as we rolled a broken pipe.

Mrs. Berg put up a sign that said “Stay Off The Lawn”.

Old Benny on the corner drank his Schlitz and gave a yawn.


Cranky Mrs. Hannigan put out her wash to dry

(They said she beat her husband so until he’d start to cry).

Nozzles on the hoses sent the dew upon the grass,

Held by men in t-shirts with their arms as stiff as brass.


The cavalcade of bikes and trikes and hopscotch-playing girls

Made the sidewalk squirm just like a box of baby squirrels.

To sit inside when sun and wind made love to all the trees

Was just about as stupid as a snort of anti-freeze.


Even Mrs. Henderson, as old as Herbert Hoover,

Smiled upon the bedlam through the chinks of parlor louver.

The noise was a cocoon that wrapped the neighborhood in fleece;

Underneath the woofs and tweets there lay a modest peace.


Today – today, I walk by neighborhoods and cul de sacs

Where fam’lies park their minivans and figures made of wax

Sit inside the windows playing games intensely bright

While the beauty of the world fades into unmourned night.


The quiet doesn’t cheer me or promote much peace of mind.

The lack of noise, like lack of sight, is something dull and blind.

The yards are neat and comely, and the children are well-bred;

A lemonade stand here would get you handcuffed by a Fed.