Trumpet

Yesterday the wind
blew so tough that it looked just
like Louis Armstrong.

The Wishy-Washy Wombat

Beware the wishy-washy wombat.

She comes out at night but wishes for daylight.

She burrows deeper the more she needs air.

She has so much to give 

that she tucks it all in her pouch.

She wishes and washes, left to right.  Right to left.

Can’t stay still.

She wishes and washes, front to back.  Back to front.

Fore and aft,

up and down,

she wishes and washes all over the town.

Just the sight of the wishy-washy wombat can make you

wonder if you’ve gone the right way

or the wrong way

or what way even means,

really.

So if you see her coming, the best that you can do

is stand your ground

and ground your stance,

without grandstanding,

more with the simple grace

of knowing what you know

and choosing what you choose.

Then perhaps,

just maybe,

the wishy-washy wombat will look upon you

and find herself stilled

at last.

Mirror, Mirror

Mirror, Mirror

I go to bed with Snow White.  Her skin is a field of lilies, but

she sings in her sleep about someday; I want to yell, “I’m here right now.”

Why didn’t I marry the one who took fairy Ambien, or the one who can’t talk?

When dawn breaks, Snow offers me coffee & juice and oatmeal, breakfast in bed.

I think things are looking up, until she says, “It’s fresh!  Apple-cinnamon!

The nice old lady selling produce gave me a free sample.”

I compost the oats and agree to a party to cheer her; she misses days gone by.

But her small hairy friends bring pick axes to the fest; they also sing too much,

except the one who scowls in the corner.  I get it; I’m grumpy, too.

The next morn as Snow slumbers, I rise and look where I musn’t—

in her diary, marked private, i’s dotted with hearts, she’s written,

“I wish he were a frog, or at least a little more charming. Le sigh.”

Mirror, mirror on the wall,

Who’s the least content of all?