Filthy Rich…Filthy Poor

Dust is the bond between social classes,
The elegant moneyed and the masses.
It collects on everyone’s things indoors,
The priceless armoires of Louis Quatorze,
Or the simple goods of the bourgeoisie,
It piles up even at Sotheby’s.
Dust motes surely beget with lust,
And make sure everything’s covered with dust.
The difference is that Louis Quatorze
Had dusters in all of his corridors,
While our more modest, but dusty shelves,
Are dusted less often and by ourselves.

Just Tell the Forsooth

Truth began to hang out with the wrong crowd.
After so many years of biblical truth,
It has now, sad to say,
Become relative truth,
Or convenient truth,
Or the appearance of truth…
In the neighborhood of truth.
Now mockingly we’re told,
We can’t handle the truth.
A clean break…a new term…is needed
To restore the purity of not lying.
And that new truth is called…
Do you swear to tell the whole ‘Forsooth’
And nothing but the ‘Forsooth’.
‘Forsooth’, you’ll see, will set you free.
So truth,
Now a withered stalk,
Will blow into etymological history,
As we begin life anew
In the ‘Age of Forsooth’.

Technologically, We’re a Tad Incomplete

Sometimes talking cell-phonically,
There’s a time without clue
That my co-talker’s lost
In a cell phone dead zone.
So, of course, he missed
My cleverest jests,
Which I kept spewing
With Shakespearean regularity…
Puns’ Labours Lost, as it were.
They fell on disconnected ears.
And my remembrance of them,
To repeat them,
Was milliseconds long,
And, therefore, long gone.

Bringing on the Wet

I’m to blame for the rain,
Since I heard thunder and said aloud,
Sure feels like rain.
And then it came.
The next time you feel foul weather,
I was told, keep it to yourself.
Oddly, though, on a sunny morning,
I rose in warmth and said with feeling,
What a great day…
And then it rained.
My karma, it seems, turns good weather bad
And bad weather worse.
So now I never,
Even if asked to,
Mention the weather.

A Sponge on the Wind

He had a sponge for a mind,
soaking up learning like water.
He’s a genius his acquaintances bragged…
Their moons aglow, reflecting his light.
Problem was that Plato and Shakespeare
And Einstein were lost,
When the sponge was rung out.
But the learning’s still there,
He reassured,
And will flower again,
Like fields of corn
Soaked with a new season’s rain
But a wind came up and blew
His now dry, feather-light
Sponge of a mind
To the Sahara.

I Could Drive to My Age Once, Anywhere

I could once drive to my age,
Anywhere, in any state,
Within the law.
But now just in Texas,
Can I drive to my age
On a couple of stretches
And not set off a radar gun.*
On the other hand, there’s the Autobahn,
Where a driver’s age, even triple-digits,
Will not exceed the speed permitted.**

*Texas allows 85 mph on a few roads.
**Top speed on parts of the Autobahn is 155 mph.

The Quandary of Excessive Glitz

Doris came with noticeable diamonds,
A tad over-large,
At least for lunch.
You know, Doris,
Her lunch friend said,
They do look real.
Oh, these little baubles?
My midday diamonds,
They’re really nothing.

But sensing she night be over-jeweled,
Doris reddened
And buttoned her blouse
To hide her necklace
And kept her left hand in her lap.

The truth for diamonds…
Less is more,
Since smaller are more likely real.
Tasteful, demure…
And not dismissed as snobbery.

So Doris now chastened,
Keeps her diamonds at home in a safe
And swears never to wear
More than emeralds
To lunch..

Plan Ahead

When you’re over 80,
What’s abundantly true is…
You should always know,
Where the nearest loo is.

How Long Is a Fad, Just a Fad

A fad is over,
Before I know of it.
By the time I hear
That something’s a thing,
It’s already done.
New dances, new fashions, new food,
New art, new wine, new tech,
Each has a moment
That slips past my ken,
And then,
It’s gone…
Quick as a wink…
Like yesterday’s news,
Except to be fair,
Pink hair,
Which I saw and said…
It’ll last a year,
I’m sure never two.
But still it’s here.
And rap, as well, a fad no more,
But a graybeard genre,
That, heaven forbid,
I’m getting to like.