New Experiences

A new world, it seems,
With each new day.
New classes, new teachers,
New teacher, new way.
And your work is new,
Though strikingly familiar,
Putting new use to your
Artistic distiller.
I know that you will succeed,
Out of talent, dedication, and need.
And in the end, new or not,
You will give it all you've got.
I'm proud of you for working hard
From dawn to dusk clocked on your time card.
And from dusk to dawn, sometimes you toil
Burning up that midnight oil.
Every day, new, not, or now,
You're ever proving you're "the cat's meow."

Get Well Swoon

At those times that you feel ill
To get you better, I'd almost kill
(Though I wouldn't, because in that case,
I'd be unable to help you, being in another place).

I'd wish you better, had I a lamp of djinn,
Or find a way to make the feelgoodiness begin.
And if you found yourself craving something odd,
I'd journey far to get it, even to the feet of God.

But, I'd like to not have to go too far
When you're feeling ill, and I'm in the car,
For if I find myself to distant,
Who will be your favored assistant?

In that case, I'll be here by your side,
And get you what you need. I'll abide.
I'll clamor until you're feeling well,
Inform me of your needs, pray tell.

Pop

The bubbles flutter, then they pop.
They land on the ground, falling where they stop.
And though they have a nepeta scent,
I wonder where those cat of ours went.

Nevertheless, when we're here at home,
Neither you nor I are ever alone.
Our love is not a passing fad,
And it is the greatest love there is to be had.

Breaks

At long last, the first of breaks!
Let us cherish it so,
For the next one won't be for some time
(So the stories go).

And the one after that has the power of three,
Which may not matter much to you
Who gets three days off every week
But, you'll get an extra day too.

Breaks are what let us recharge our cells
And keep us in decent shape
For the following week, which comes, ready or not.
Hardly giving, it always takes.

But this break, while about R&R
Doesn't have to be a bore,
'Cause we can still have some fun
Or sleep soundly with a snore.

A Kind Gardener

The sleepy flower rests her bud
Until the sun has risen.
And when the orb shines in the sky,
The bud unfurls petals towards her god.

The flower, fragrant and bright
Makes itself known to man and bee alike
But cares only for the light of the sun
And for the water of the earth.

Some flowers, though, are so fragile
That the sun and water is not enough
To keep them growing in an environment
Not suitable for cultivation.

These flowers require more than light
And more than water to thrive.
They need the touch of a loving hand.
They need a kind gardener.

Rapport

The clock tick-tocks
And I'm shocked to find
The time has gone bye-bye,
It's kind of bad to see
The time flow by.
I wish I could stop it,
But I don't know why
Or what I'd do to turn
The beat around
And to turn those anti-smiles
Upside-down.

I've got a little bit of a notion
That every bit's like a drop in the ocean
And eventually, that drop goes drip,
And causes the table's scales to tip
We've got to find the way to rewind
Before this yarn initiates unwind.
Twenty-four is the hours we know
But before you realize it, where'd it go?
It's bad enough that I have to spend my days
Crammed and stuffed in a cubicle maze
And with each minute, I start to craze
As the deli Eye of Mammon gives its evil gaze.
I'd rather be with the love of my heart,
Happy and free from end to the start
And gazing into a non-evil eye
From the day I was born to the day that I die.
But nevertheless, life keeps moving
For the worst or the best, we just keep grooving
Like dancers at the end of time
Or riders on a bus at the end of the line.

To keep it short: here's my decree:
Give me more time with my A-M-B.

School Days

The first day wasn't so bad.
I know it had its share of stress,
But it really could have been worse, you know.
I could have never found a parking space; oh distress!

The many trials we face,
We must face, or else be backed
By someone else who can face them,
'Less the trials may attack.

And I can be there, facing
The trials as they come
Providing all the needed shelter,
A mighty bulwark, a secure home.

So, today, when we venture out
Into the big, scary world,
I'll be there to help you
Feel like more than a scared little girl.

My Amber

Amber, you see, is not a game.
There are no points, or pieces,
And no events are ever the same
(Though never we quest for magic fleeces).

My Amber is more than a lump or a rock,
With a small bug trapped inside.
What once came from a tree, passing the clock,
Is not the Amber in whom I confide.

Amber is not a missing child,
Blaring lights on a light board on the street.
She's instead really rather mild,
And I find her to be quite neat.

What my Amber gives me
Is a song to sing,
Because my sweet, precious Amber
Is my everything.

Autumnal Cleaning

Labor and burdens,
Here they do abound,
As we take heavy furnishings
And lift them from the ground.

And then with a machine
Whose nature is vacuous,
We remove ingrained cat hair
In a patterned attacuous.

Take a break for dinner,
Or take a break to rest
And eat the food you've sitting
From your tired chest.

The sun, it sleeps, at night time,
And we should be sleeping too.
When we work together,
There's nothing we can't do!

The Last Days of Freedom

What would you like to eat?
Anything, it may be.
Would you like vegetables? Meat?
It's your last meal, you see.

Have you anything to say
Either tomorrow, or today?
Any last words you'd like
Us all to know?

And when the music plays,
I'll take your hand in mine.
We can dance for days,
A last dance is not unkind.

There is one thing I shall miss,
And that shall be your kiss.
So make that last kiss
Something to show.

Onion-Chives and Queens

There was a time when onion rinds
Cause the cat to cry,
And made the carpet turn to hair,
And help the pigs to fly!
But this was stopped; her eye was mopped,
And our solution was quite sly.

So, no more, for we've found it poor
To buy the onion whole,
And instead get quite ahead
And buy it in a bowl.
While it may be simpler today,
It's also good for the soul.

But some things, I'd like to say,
Are not made better when
You have someone do them for you
Again, and again, and again.
And one such thing in truth ring:
The writing of the pen.

And so I write with mad delight
A song of many scenes:
Of porcine birds and pretty words,
Of onion-chives and queens,
And how I love my sweetest wife:
The girl within my dreams.

And every day, I have to say:
No more onion-chives for queens!

Upon My Heart

The words are written upon my heart.
They were written there from the beginning,
From the very start.
And they'll be there unto the end.

What do these words on my heart say?
"Even if you don't feel like it," it reads,
"Please don't go away."
That's just one of such things as written.

Other things, like being patient and kind,
You will, if you look, discover,
That upon my heart, you will find
All manner of secrets hidden.

Basically, the heart models love,
Which is something to be held before
All other things. It is the most above.
And everything else can go after.

tacit

Sometimes, I find it best
To shut my big, dumb mouth.

Can't I Miss You?

The mornings are weary
And wave through my mind
I think that they are too soon
And not too kind

The yawn it comes readily
And the eyes feel quite dry
I'm sad that it's morning
Though I have no reason to cry

And them I'm ready
Within the span of a hour
Do I have time to sniff the roses
Or that grape-flavored flower

And before you know it
I'm driving in my car
Always traveling
But never getting very far

Monday's Child

Monday's child is full of yawn
When he feels the coming dawn.
The alarm goes off, he shambles there
To turn it off (and does not swear).

The morning is filled with events strange
As the dreamland drifts away its range
And the eyes begin to slowly see
The waking life that's in front of he.

And Monday's child's wife is always there
To show Monday's child that she will care.
If something's the matter, she'll be there to fix it,
And if something's unmixed, she'll be there to mix it.

And though we don't enjoy the morn,
It's not Monday's fault. It's free of scorn.
But morning, or evening, or midafternoo',
I'm glad to spend any time with you.

Chalk Drawings

We draw lines upon the plane,
And wish and pray it doesn't rain.
And our designs, there they rest
On the porch's ground, they do attest.

They do attest many things:
How bees fly by, how cats are king,
How with the colors, red and blue
We can say such things as "I love you."

And we can draw portraits,
If if they're not exact,
There's no law stating such
yet to enact.

And when we're done,
We know we didn't fail.
Though, I hope to fulfill
The prophecy of the rail.

Work on a Weekend!?

It's not fair, sometimes,
That I find myself at work
On a pleasant day like this.
Please don't think me a jerk.

If only I could work at time
When it was not our part of day
And still be able to rack up hours
And still get the extra pay.

It's not fair to you,
As our weekends are so short
(So short that by the time you've looked starboard,
You've already seen port).

So, I suppose, the simplest
Solution would be
For me to find a geneticist
And make a clone of me.

Friday, Redux

I know I repeat myself
Just about every week,
But when Friday rolls around,
Life seems less bleak.

I get to spend
Two whole days
In the best of company,
In the best of ways.

They say that "all good things
Must come to an end."
But the bad things are finite too
My friend.

Yet no matter what,
When the week is through,
I know I'm spending my weekend
With you.

Alone

When I can't be there in person,
It makes me feel like quite a heel.
I know you need me there sometimes,
I know just how you feel.

I suppose in spirit, I can be with you,
And also I'm there in drawing,
But when I'm not there in person,
The yearning gains a gnawing.

The same it is for me, you know,
When I'm without my you.
I always spend 9+ hours of day
In an amberless, blue hue.

I am glad that at the end of each day
I may come home and be with the one I love.
For these things I hold so dear,
And against all other things, they go above.

Mornings and Evenings

Which is better? Time in the morning
Or time in the evening?
In the morning, there's no sun.
Neither is there at night.

In the evening, we're both tired;
But that's true too for the morning.
We could stay up late, or rise early,
And either way, we'd shamble around like the sleepy undead.

But when would be the best time to spend together,
As the mornings are bad and the evenings are bad
And I'm working the rest of the time
And sleeping the other?

I suppose, though, that time spent with you
Is better that time spent away.
So, let's stay up late, rise early,
And just be tired, together, each day.

The Dragon and the Elephant

Pinky and Petunia went walking to the shore,
And then decided that it wasn't such a bore.
For they found grand adventure, both on land and at sea,
Or at least as much as grand adventure as such things can be.

The elephant and dragon looked on, into the dusky dark
And saw that the shore led off into a grassy park.
This park, it seemed, held a lot of interesting things,
Like sea saws and jackadaws and slides and sleds, and even, well, swings.

Pinky swung and Petunia pushed,
And Pinky jumped off, but was (thankfully) cushed.
And when it was Petunia's turn to ride,
She jumped off, and then she flied.

The dragon and the elephant were never ones to bunk,
And so they cleaned up after themselves with wings and hands and trunk.
And at the end of the night, as the morning sun arose
They went ahead and followed what they followed best: Pinky's lengthy nose.

I Can Has a Day?

Again, again, it's Monday again!
The day of the Moon, the head of the seven!
The first day it is, or maybe the second,
Or the day after a holiday, so it's been reckoned.

If only the fates would be kind enough
To add an extra day (please don't rebuff!).
We'd need a day between Sunday and Monday,
And it could be called anything, as long as it was a fun day.

Following our pattern, It could be Aegirday
(Though I suppose others would call it Eagerday),
Or if shunning Norse, maybe it could be Neptuneday
(Though that's a mouthful, no matter how you'd say).

Nevertheless, those who write the week,
Please give me an eigth day, for seven is bleak!
I find that I don't get enough time
To spend with that wonderful wife of mine.

Crowd

"This room is too crowded,"
I'm known to say.
"Can't we come back
On another day?"

I barely can move,
My elbows are touching
The things in the hands
That others are clutching.

"Just point me to the table,
That has the gift bag."
If this were online,
It'd be lag, lag, lag...

But, hey, it's not so bad.
It really could be worse:
Instead of being in a crowded room with you...
I could be alone in a hearse.

Flutter By

Flitter, flutter, flying by.
Is is a bird, a bat, a fly?
It flaps its wings, and buzzes past.
Whatever it is, it sure goes fast!

A little trail of sparkling dust
It leaves behind with winged gust.
And the glitter lands upon the floor,
The ceiling, the walls, and on the door.

Little wings flap, and make a buzz,
And then it's no longer where it was.
Where did it go? I cannot tell.
All I can hear is a ringing bell.

This flittering thing, it will not
Leave me alone so that I may jot
About other things, like heart or dove,
Or about being so deeply in love.

Week End!

Whether the weather's bad
Or if it's good,
It's always as it is,
Or it should.

The end of the week
Marks a weekend,
And much like a mouse with cheese,
Makes me a squeakend.

I enjoy these times,
These days two (or three)
In which I have
Only one responsibility.

My weekend is yours
As much as it's mine.
And no matter how long,
It's always JUST FINE.

Birdie

In the still morning, the birds will sing
About their lives, in the form of song.
And these songs carry the weight of their
Burdens as they flutter about, along.

But what burden has a bird, when it
Really comes down to the line?
They have food, and air, and water,
And, I think, they're doing fine.

I suppose being a bird is a good thing:
If you're a bird, you're free,
And every single open passageway becomes
A window of opportunity.

When a bird flies through a window
And into the wide, wide world,
She can catch a ride on the wind
With her wings unfurled.

And my little birdie, I don't keep
Inside a gilded cage,or weight to the ground
For I want her to fly as high as she can
Without any sort of bound.

Sudsy Buds

Soaking suds are never duds
When soaking seems succinct.
I've never met a budless sud
From the bath tub to the sink.

The buds of suds are soaking now
And they all just bubble up,
Until they reach the light-lit ceil,
Or land, or even drop.

The sudsy buds, they do not fear
For their buds are never far.
Whether here or there, they always know,
Their budsy sud's a star.

A team, it seems, in water warm
Synchronized swimming is the game
And maybe tomorrow the sudsy buds
Will simply do the same.

Journeys

We can go anywhere,
Together in this car.
When we hit the road
We'll never see the end.

I'd like to go anywhere
Together with my love.
I always find that when we're together,
I never need to be alone.

These trips we take,
They're always unique,
Though we sometimes go places we've been before.
The journey is what counts.

How many miles are there left to go?
Then I realize with a start:
However many miles there are left to go takes
Half the time I'd like to spend with you.

Free me from Fees!

A fee for this, and a due for that.
Is it any wonder we're never fat?
A nickle here, a dime over there,
And just for good measure: a quarter to spare.

"Since when did we get a subscription to this?"
Unfortunately, no payments we miss.
For there is a web of lies, says my intuition,
When I see the statement for the college tuition.

They collect all our money, and then a little more,
And then send us another bill, to even the score.
You can't put a price on education; still,
No matter how much you can't, try they will!

But I don't mind working the late hours,
Never seeing sun, or birds, or flowers.
As long as, at the end of the day,
I get to see you, I don't mind the pay.

The Dawn

A brand new day when comes the dawn
Should wash away the troubles gone.
But a brand new day, such isn't the case
When the feeling remain, securely placed.

These feelings, secure, are far from placid,
And daily they'll burn like caustic acid.
They must be addressed with the baser ways,
Such as apologies, and love, and praise.

And the pH, it goes, will return to neut.,
For such a balance is found to be good.
It's not sour, nor is it bitter,
Nor will it be known as a splitter.

The clouds may mar a perfect sky,
But clouds cover the blue with a lie.
So as the sun arises today anew,
So arises new me for the same sweet you.

The Way of Self

The way of self will never do
When trying to be more close to you.
The way of self is at times quite foul
And does not deserve even a scowl.

For any emotion, it would seem,
Would be rewarding the WOS more than is need.
For the way of self should be left alone,
Free of praise, or wrath, or scorn.

The way of self, it is superfluous,
And its actions made are quite gratuitous.
It should be cut from the side
And buried deep within the earth, inside.

And such is gone, and such is not needed,
It's food cut off, never to be feeded.
It is not needed, and should go away.
Selfish self, return on a never day.