The Scotch Tape and the Snail

A nearsighted snail exclaimed to his friend,
“You’ll never believe who I’ve seen!
The gem of the garden from here to lawn’s end—
in my eyes she’s truly a queen!

“Her trail of slime has a marvelous shine,
its stickiness has me enthralled!
And her accent’s adorable—Scottish, I think,
though I can’t understand her at all.”

“Do you think this is wise?” the other replied,
with antennae at skeptical tilt.
“I shouldn’t disparage cross-cultural marriage,
but I think you’d look odd in a kilt.”

“Oh, you wouldn’t so frown, could you hear my heart pound
like a passionate, snail-paced drum!
For her I would crawl through the salt flats of Utah—
But quiet now! Look—here she comes!”

Several minutes later… the Envoi:

“Ach! Dinnae ye fash yersel’, bonnie wee snail,
yer een havnae led ye astray,
fer we’ll doon tae the kirk an’ be marrit at once,
an’ I’ll stick tae ye all o’ me days.”

Romance of the Wind and the Flute

(Title inspired by Romance de Viento y Quena.)

“What can I give you?” said the wind to the flute,
as he blew through the market square,
“When for all that I touch, there’s naught I can hold—
a wind’s wealth is nothing but air.

“The spices of India, flowers’ perfume,
all fade by the time I arrive.
With nothing to carry to lay at your feet,
tell me, how can I make our love thrive?”

“I need none of that,” said the flute to the wind,
as she sat in the market stall.
“Flowers and spices mean nothing to me—
just a kiss, and that will be all.”

So his breath became hers and her voice became his,
and each heart sang to its twin,
of the time that the wind fell in love with a flute,
and a flute fell in love with the wind.

The Allegory of the Alligator

Come sit and hear the story of the fearsome alligator—
An instructive allegory (I’ll explain what that means later).
But the first thing that you’ve got to learn is how to recognize one,
So let us our attention turn to the features that comprise one.

They are longer than they’re wide. Don’t believe me? It’s the truth!
And lest you think that I have lied, I’ll furnish you with proof.
We’ll need a box of crayons, a ruler, and some string,
And I’ll show you how to take on this great feat of reckoning.

All down its length and ’cross its width, an alligator’s green
(And green’s the color of envy—it’s what makes a gator mean).
But width it has in just one way, and that’s from side to side,
So now we know that we can say it’s greener than it’s wide.

And next its length you can assess from bottom or from top,
But the green you’ll see is somewhat less, and at the belly stops.
Therefore now some wizard could deduce what you’ve not seen:
That this bayou-dwelling lizard is much longer than it’s green.

Now then there’s this attribute of inequality
Which helps us to compute the reptile’s transitivity,
By which I mean the shape of this here alligator’s hide,
Being longer than it’s green is therefore longer than it’s wide.

But while you’ve been inspectin’ and a-measurin’, it’s true,
He’s gone and et you up of course, ’cause that’s what gators do.
So the moral of this story is—to the best of my belief—
Don’t mess with allegories, and watch out for their teeth!

The Warrior Maiden's Lover

[A companion to “The Warrior Maid,”
by Anna Hempstead Branch]

They took me from my mother
When I was yet a child,
My father’s son to make me,
A warrior fierce and wild.

I trained and sparred and struggled,
Each gain was dearly bought,
But as strength grew I realized
Strength wasn’t what I sought.

And on the day of battle
I felt not rage nor fear,
But rode towards a presence,
Now mysteriously near.

I felt a call within me,
As flaming lances shook,
And calling, sought its echo,
And then knew her at a look.

Her joy was blazing laughter,
All else was as the night,
So shone my dearest, fiercest,
Beautiful bright light.

I soared in sudden skies,
All longing laid to rest,
And, soaring, never heeded
Her sword that found my breast.

She rode on, singing, scything,
Her joy was as my own,
And flew I alongside her,
All doubt now overthrown.

And did she feel my presence?
Or made my soul a sound?
For back she wheeled, racing
To my body on the ground.

On still-warm lips she kissed me,
And drew from me her blade,
When a hundred foes surrounded
My shining warrior maid.

What of defeat and capture?
Her laughter rang out clear.
What if our bodies perish,
Now that our souls are near?

So laugh, my love! your captors
Know not how you are free.
As you gave me my freedom,
So I will come to thee.

The Ballad of Ukulele Luke and Ukulele Larry

Ukulele Luke had a heavy load to carry:
His former-best-friend nemesis was Ukulele Larry.
Ukulele Larry was depressed by life’s cruel fluke,
That for years he hadn’t talked to Ukulele Luke.

Ukulele Luke grew up with Ukulele Larry.
Ever since they were eleven, in the town of Harpers Ferry,
On Friday afternoons little Larry’d visit Luke
For ukulele lessons, and they’d practice till they’d puke.

It wasn’t long before their youthful friendship faced a test:
Ukulele Larry said his concert uke was best.
But Luke extolled the virtues of his tenor over all.
(“You know they sound the same!” his mother shouted from the hall.)

The ukulele boys from then could never more agree.
Their practice times degenerated into mere decrees
Of “I am right!” and “You are wrong!” and so I’m sad to say
That Luke and Larry’s ukuleles finally parted ways.

And when they turned eighteen, Ukuleles Luke and Larry
Found it time to leave their little town of Harpers Ferry.
Larry was accepted into Harvard, whereas Luke,
Without a backward glance for Larry, headed off to Duke.

The years went by without a word, a phone call, or a text,
Though each one felt a little sad about it, and perplexed.
Then one day Luke received a letter: Ukulele Larry’d
Written him to say he’d gotten hitched (that is, he married).

“I fell in love,” he said, “and she’s a ukulele girl,
But then I learned a fearsome fact that set my mind a-whirl.
She made me her confession over pasta with romano:
Her uke’s no concert, nor a tenor — darn thing’s a soprano!

“She’s known as Ukulele Lucy on the stage,
Her tremolo especially has made her all the rage.
I can’t deny it anymore than I can play piano:
I’m a tenor ukulelist, in love with a soprano.”

Then Luke phoned up his friend and said, “I couldn’t think of how
To tell you this before. I think I’m able now.
I too have found myself in love: with Ukulele Joan.
You’ll never guess the kind she plays — that’s right! a baritone!”

“Can you forgive me,” Larry asked, “for my tenor pride?”
“The fault, good sir,” responded Luke, “is quite on my own side.
We’re best friends first and foremost, whether times be smooth or hairy.”
“I hope we never fight again,” said Ukulele Larry.

So now they play together, Larry, Lucy, Luke and Joan,
And the message that they share is now exceedingly well-known
To all musicians everywhere, old, young, black, white, short, tall:
That ukuleles — any size — and love can conquer all.

Volunteered: The True Story of My First Attempt at Rapper Sword Dancing

I went out with a mandolin to watch my sister dance,
Perhaps to play, for she’d said they on tunes were often short.
But as it happened, that one night, entirely by chance,
Attendance problems threatened them their practice for to thwart.

Performing rapper sword dances is something I’ve not done,
But a single glance around the room made clear they lacked but one.
So into service I was pressed, and sword into my hand,
And found myself a member of that merry little band.

I always like to help, and so I went in with a grin,
Little knowing how soon I would take it on the chin,
For rehearsing all these figures was a tricky task wherein
All the custom terminology just set my head a-spin!

We start in “guard” and that’s not hard—I just wait at the back—
And then the “curly” part is surely started without stress:
I followed Tee and she led me to loop around the track,
But then it all began to fall into a silly mess.

The ups and downs and turn-arounds were called the “ins-and-outs,”
But if you know the way to turn you’ll not get knocked about.
Then “plow through” to “over your neighbor” (“-’s sword” I think they mean),
And the “diddle-diddle-dees” are making quite the flashy scene.

When “dummers” came they swore that it did not refer to me,
But as I said, “just shove me on to where I need to be.”
“Maryann’s” identity they never did reveal,
But apparently she frolics with a “jump-rope” made of steel.

The “princess” part was someone else, and had to do with “lines,”
The “fiddler” bit was “fast and loose” and could have used some signs.
By “popcorn” I had lost it, and the “basket” that we “spin,”
I wished was something they would use to carry me home in.

’Twas but one dance! It could have been an even weirder trip,
With “twisted fixies,” “double guards,” and “prince of Wales” flips,
Or “puking fiddlers,” “open rings,” or “breastplates” and “odd slides,”
But ’twas enough for my poor feet and my poor brain besides.

All the figures ended with a “nut” for all to see,
But the nuttiest of all was the nut they made of me!