Gun Control at Home

 We keep a close watch on this house of ours
Someone is awake at all hours
She sleeps in  the daytime,
I sleep through the night.
In our house you'll always find a light
God lights it by day, Duke energy at night.

Most anytime that you drop by
You'll be greeted at the door,
I with my Magnum or she with her forty-four.
You will never see the heat if your mission is benign
But if you are bent on mischief

------.

 

Daddy taught me early on:  Never interrogate an interloper before you pull the trigger.
I think his words were, Shoot first, ask questions later.

Birds Still Diving

I wrote this verse four years ago and present it again here, for though the avian personnel may be of a new generation, the game is still the same.
 

Desiccated and sere a blob of bird poop right here

in the center of the windshield.

 

The bucket, rag and soap; now it’s clean, for good we hope.

Wring the rag, swirl the pail, toss the water in the grass.

 

Awk! What iridescent flash o’er my head did I see pass?

Grackle Bomber in a dive on the scene does now arrive.

 

*           *             *

**

*SPLAT*

**

*

*

 

Dead-center hit.

The windshield again besmeared with it.

 

The End

More about Aging

The mind says, "Yes, you can,"  and still ya

Hear your body say, "Do it and I'll kill ya."

"Listen to your body." --My physical therapist.

 

Sparrow Revisited

I was reading this verse I wrote two years ago and enjoyed it such that I think not that it is prideful to reprint it today.  Hope you like it, too.

The sparrow stands upon the fence, 

his fight for survival is intense.

Think not that he merely flits around

filling the air with lovely sound.

This bird's every sense is heightened

By each nearby movement he is frightened.

That cat, yon hawk, the monster with machine in hand

Could any one bring his life to end.

Poor bird.  And he must find insect or seed

He is required to fulfill every need.

And that not of himself alone

Nestlings await him there at home

With open mouth and unseemly squawk.

Oh, thinks he, could I only talk

I'd lecture the Maker of this universe.

No, wait, I would doubtless make it worse.

Oh, look! A cricket there!

Snatch it now, say a prayer.

"For what we are about to receive

Make us truly grateful."

 With this little update free of charge: 

Little Sparrow in the yard

I know that your life is hard

In spite of wings on which you soar.

You must always find one bug more

Or seed lying in the grass.

Two years ago did I watch

Your parents in that same swatch

Struggle to feed you as you now tend 

Fledglings there in yonder hedge?

I think so; life rushes on.

Amor

Whether winter, spring, or fall
Cupid lies there, bares his all
Beneath the bush, summer too
Urges all to bill and coo
Fall in love again, anew.

Summer heat or chilly blast
So long as concrete shall last
Cupid lies there in repose
Beneath bush of petite rose
No complaint of frozen nose.



It matters not to this sprite
That Fall comes with chilly night.
But as for me I am blessed
To see the bush brightly dressed
Flowers in bloom.  That's the best!

Kate and Tommy #T

In Springtime, they wander through the flowers, walk in meadows, long, happy hours.  “A year this June,” Tommy said, “in yon church we will be wed.  You’ll meet me at the garden gate.  My carriage comes.  Don’t be late!”

Summer’s languid afternoon found Kate and Tommy on the ground, the picnic blanket spread, their hungry bodies to be fed.  “Not yet,” said Kate, “Mama counseled me to wait.  The pleasures of wedded life to be shared by man and wife.”  “I’ll wait 'til then, don’t be late.  Meet me at the garden gate.”

That Fall needles on the ground from dark green pine trees all around.  “Here, Love, lie with me on the duff.”  “Oh, Dear One,” said Kate, “That’s not enough.  I’ll hold and keep you evermore after we exit the church house door. I’ll meet you at the garden gate.  And, oh, Tommy, don’t be late!”

Winter's winds now harshly blow as Kate walks alone through the snow.  Her heart, though is far away for on this cold December day Tommy’s ship is hast'ning home and nevermore shall Tommy roam.  His last words to her had been, “Don’t be late; I’ll meet you at the garden gate."

And at June’s first full moon breezes aloft softly croon.  Kate in gown of white shimmering in evening’s light was waiting at half ‘til eight at end of lane, at the garden gate.

The moon is high, no longer evening; bright, starry sky.  Tommy’s horse and shay have not appeared this summer day.  Mama comes to hold Kate’s hand.  The girl sobs, “I don’t understand.  He said he’d meet me at garden’s gate; promised he would not be late.”

“Kate,” Mother said, her voice severe, “Each mid-June you have stood here.  Tommy’s ship went down, you know.  It’s time for you to let him go.  It’s now been eight long years.  Get up, sing again, and dry your tears.  Tommy cannot meet you at the gate; life marches on, and you’ll be late.

©2015 David W. Lacy