Oliver

When Oliver raised his paws to beg,
My heart gave in to the world.
There was no chance I could renege;
Resistance was unfurled.

Northwest by south he came to me
And crept into our lives
But not until he climbed a tree
And a plan he could contrive

A way to join two snarling beasts
In a household full of hearts
Where his gentle kiss earned daily feasts
And treats of chicken parts.

His self respect drew instant friends;
The dogs knew who he was.
And Kitty tried but couldn’t oftend,
If challenged, he’d simply pause

He hunted, though, he was no prude
And ate his prey sometimes
And left entrails, but never crude,
He’d never deal in crimes.

On the grass of hearth or tennis deck
He’d ask you with his Aowh!
To rub his droopy belly, his neck
Then hum like a garbage scow.

Oh, Oliver, Oliver! I’m glad you came
To share your life with us.
We’ll miss your plaintive flailing game
Send back your succubus.

My cat likes citrus

My cat likes citrus, my niece says

Try yours, start with a nectarine or an orange

Your dog likes almonds, I know

And popcorn gets her going

These delights are tasty incongruities

That prove the rule of taste

For animals and people

The gusto’s in the giving

The juicy, jazzy pleasure of

Conveying these soft, these crunchy morsels

Of love, given by the hand

Each one a salivating spot

Like a touch upon the heart

Along the tongue

Between creatures in thrill

My cats like citrus, my niece says

January

I think of January as a place I get to each year, and I turn

A corner there

Into the next place, which is in a different time, and I feel

I’m moving along

Afraid to be there, sometimes, but wanting to get on with it

With relief

That the land of time behind me can be left alone, walked

Taken care of

And that I don’t have to go back, I’m done, I’ve finished

That part

I’ve had the grade, the rating of the road, I wonder what’s

Up the way

It’s as if my assignment is to travel and I have to finish

The route

But I don’t really understand the purpose, just that I press on

In the changing light

The blocks all looked the same once, now they flash away

A Description

A Description

Across the way the park is gay, betimes

Especially when the strolling players come.

They play their parts using rolling carts, upon

Them some, behind them others, striding forth.

When fifth in line, some fret and pine and rave

To speed on through, and no one blinks or thinks

His pique less beneficial to his health,

Though tempers flare, trying not to care at all

Whether they hit the ball or fall behind,

Trudging deep in sand or wading in the pond.

Or blind behind a tree or knoll or stone

Playing gaily, resisting scaly scorn alone,

Each keeps his counsel, to keep his friends,

His eye on the ball lest his look wither all entire.

The scen’ry interests some; others sigh ho hum.

Each picks his sticks to take his licks in turn.

The hapless hooker tilts his frame to straight

The flight of his wayward orb, then blames

The elements, the wind or sunny glare

Or wisps of hair in driving eyes of steel

That ne’er apologize or admit the pain

That out to be a joy to man and boy.

A Character Comment In the Style of Joseph Addison of The Spectator Papers by

   “The late narcissus, and the winding trail

   Of Bear’s-foot, myrtles green, and ivy pale.

                                                     (Dryden)

            Nec sera comantem

            Narcissum, aut flexi tacuissem vimen Acanthi,

            Pallentesque hederas, et amantes, littoral myr-

           tos.—Virgil, Georgics, IV, 122.*

One of man’s first cares ought to be of his person, for it houses his soul, supplying that glorious essence with the warmth of its home’s heart. It might be supposed, accepting this view, that therefore a finely toned, well-proportioned, vigorous and, especially, a muscled and athleticized physique, would keep its soul particularly well. Therefore, looks to the athlete and, specifically, a champion, for the finest soul.

Our reigning paladin of fisticuffs is such an admirable houser. Of late he’s pitted his edifice against less than worthy opponents, to be sure, but the soul need not be threatened nor tested, to claim fullness. It flourishes within our champion and friend of the friendless. Muhammed Ali is not only at peace with himself, but attracts the favor, nay, the worship indeed, of a peaceable army of brothers and sisters. He has allied himself with the Muslim forces to help march his people to glory in a new Eden. Now, it may seem a contradiction to consider that out of personal combat our hero seeks to wrest not only the victor’s laurel, but peaceful co-existence; but the paradox is only apparent, not substantial. His body wars, but his soul merely marches on.

It measures its cadence in original and, sometimes, delightful style. For Ali has rhythm. He composes his own drumming doggerel, couched usually in heroic couplets that not only steady his soul’s progress, but edify his pantingly eager partisans with sharp and simple truths. And, always sure to gain advantage and fullest effect of even the merest gesture, Ali pricks his foes first from afar with his honed verses. Later, he stuns them at close range. He swaggers a bit. Or shall I say, dare I even think it, too much? Narcissus dared and over-did and suffered a transformation; which delights us now in woods and window boxes, on city lanes and in garden plots.

Muhammed’s swagger, lilting lines, crusading spirit, and proud soul come to us in another such delightful form. He preens and primps, but never seems to curry favor. He attends to his soul’s needs by keeping it stabled safe in God’s assigned home. That home is a fortress, yet is bears its weight as nothing when called to exercise its care upon its kin, those children housed in less sturdy ‘bodes. Borne by Ali’s faith, this fortress makes its genial way through town and country both; though ponderous, upon a light crusade; and, championing his subjects, his soul floats to victory like a butterfly, stinging from safe within its battlements, like a bee.