The Search for Home

The ancient tortoise knows just what I know about abodes;

you carry them along as you go down so many roads.

The shell that we inhabit may be polished, may be dreck;

it really doesn’t matter as we finish up our trek.

Home is but a gossamer restraint to aging searcher,

on the way to mansions full of love and light and nurture.




At the End of Life You Hold a Yard Sale.

Marley's ghost
Marley’s ghost


The Bible says God organized the world in just six days.

But it would take him centuries to regulate the maze

That passes for my basement, cluttered with so much debris

That it is a museum to man’s mundane history.


 A set of mismatched wrenches, rusted shut quite long ago,

Is buried under camping gear so moldy it does glow.

A Morris chair reclines against the wall, with just three legs.

On the floor lay scattered cans of paint with their hard dregs.


A pile of State Farm calendars and canceled checks resides

In a nest surrounded by old Kodachrome trip slides.

A bag of ping pong balls is held in place by wooden spools

Of hairy twine, and underneath there are three milking stools.


This trivial effluvium is all I’ll leave behind

When to terra firma I am finally consigned.

Perhaps like Marley’s Ghost I’ll have to tarry in this vale,

until all my possessions are disposed of by yard sale.

Eulogy to Spock

Leonard Nimoy. R.I.P.
Leonard Nimoy. R.I.P.

(from the New York Times obituary)

I never liked him much because his logic was intense.

For boys who play with spaceships, it did not make any sense.

Cold reason isn’t something that a boy appreciates;

Such acumen is foreign and it soon evaporates.


No, if you zoom through outer space you meet such wonders there

That there is no time for calculations or despair.

Just thrills and cool technology; green monsters and death rays –

These are what made boyhood such extraordinary days.


But Spock was like a parent, scolding crewmen to behave.

He was an algorithm that could walk and talk and shave.

I wouldn’t call him flawed, and yet I wouldn’t call him right.

His logic could not save him from the grave’s eternal night.


King Salman, My Pal . . .

My old buddy . . .
My old buddy . . .

(Inspired by a story by Ben Hubbard)

Hey, Salman, buddy, don’t forget your old pal from the days

We used to go on picnics in the khareef’s misty haze.

Just you and me and retinue of a thousand men or so

(and of course the harem that was with you on the go).


I see you got the old man’s seat; congratulations, pal!

You’re passing out the beaucoup bucks to boost the state’s morale.

I do not wish to seem like I presume too much from you,

But times are tough; I’m in the rough; some cash would see me through.


About a million dollars sure would be enough for me;

I guess I can rely upon your generosity.

Send the check down to the county jail and I won’t squawk.

I’ll pay my bail and get my shirt and pants right out of hock!

High Speed Internet . . . Big Deal.


High speed Internet connections are said to decrease stress;

Tho why a person can’t wait thirty seconds I can’t guess.

The Internet’s a marvel; that is something I’ll confess.

But seems to me we use it mostly just around to mess.


We look at clips on Youtube that are just a waste of time.

We get our news from websites that play up the sex & crime.

We tweet away the hours looking for a phrase sublime.

Our blogs are mostly jejune, like a fetid nurs’ry rhyme.


The fiber optic cable that we’re laying by the mile

Will bring to us more faulty facts in faster, sleeker style.

Perhaps the Cloud will save us from this everlasting bile

By blowing up and leaving not a single darn text file.

Christie, Bush & Romney.


Christie, Bush, and Romney were walking down the street.

When suddenly a fundraiser they happened just to meet.

The fundraiser said ‘Howdy’ to these true-blue fast friends,

And taking out his checkbook he asked “Have you got pens?”


“For I will donate plenty of PAC funds to the one”

“Who shows the least desire for President to run.”

All three denied such yearnings, crying out “Pooh – Pooh!”

“We never such a foolish thing would ever, ever do!”


The fundraiser bowed deeply, and then went on his way.

The three good friends kept strolling on their cheerful holiday.

When Christie wasn’t looking, Mitt Romney made a fuss

And tripped his chubby pal into the pathway of a bus.


Now Bush and Romney mourned him with tears to fill the Nile,

And then continued with their hike (in cautious single file).

In front led Bush the Mighty, the Southern Hope of all –

And no one to this day knows how that large brick came to fall . . .


And so it came to pass that old Mitt Romney got the nod

And when he totted up the cash he found twas quite a wad.

Remember, all you voters, that no friendship can prevent

The loss of life and limb when you do run for President.