Pining

I’m pining for you in the forest,
I’m willow-weeping by the river,
I’ve been more sick with the sycamore,
than I’ve felt in elm-most forever.

I quake like an aspen, I lurch like a larch,
my fir is standing on end.
It’s not oak-kay to be feeling this way,
as the withy withers to ash again.

Through all the days by the alder trees,
my laurels rest and moan
like wind in linden boughs to say
the holly hollers to call you home.

I feel as sappy as a sapling,
madrone is going out of tune,
I’m hem-locked up in agony,
a sighing cypress, missing yew.

Things That You Are

You’re the cat’s pajamas,
the bee’s knees,
the mullah’s llamas,
the elephant’s sneeze.

You’re the alpaca’s backpack,
the crocodile’s smile,
the jackrabbit’s flack jacket,
the peacock’s style.

You’re the snakes hips, the chicken’s lips,
the aardvark’s awkward birthmark,
the kipper’s knickers, the octopod’s ticklers,
the butterflies’ orange monarch.

You’re the toucan’s two cans of canned tuna fish,
You’re the delicatessen’s most delicate dish.

You’re the pepper’s doctor,
the mountain’s dew,
the koala’s cola,
the bear’s Irn Bru.

You’re the crème de la crème,
the sine qua non,
most fatale of the femme,
the c’est in c’est bon.

You’re the go in a tango,
the wing in a swing,
the dot in a polka,
the highest land’s fling.

You’re the bee in my bonnet,
the slice in my bread,
the rhymes in my sonnet,
the tune in my head.

Anything I can name that’s too good to be true
may be great, but it can’t hold a candle to you.

A Discount Love Sonnet

Yeah, but I really really really like you.
No, srsly, I mean it, don’t you see?
That’s why I’ll write a sonnet, not a haiku,
to read to you while sipping your iced tea.

(That’s you who’s sipping it, of course, not I—
I mean, I’ll get my own if I get thirsty—
but anyway, where was I?... oh, that’s right...)
I’ve worked on this since practic’ly last Thursday.

Okay, that’s only yesterday, but still
I hope you know I mean it when I say
that if you say you love me then I will
immediately jump and shout hooray

and dance and laugh and sing and spin and hop
and… what? Enough? Okay, I guess I’ll stop.

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.

“I Am Dying, Egypt, Dying”

If two Verona teenagers had not
so hastily despaired, then might their all-consuming
love have expanded, til more than they were caught,
with nations, states, and continents entire blooming
fire from their passion. But even then it could not last
in this fashion, no man, no woman can contain
such flame that burns so hot for what is merely mortal.
For all that Cleopatra was called Egypt for her crown,
yet, crouched down at dying Antony’s side, her wide
realm shrinks to a vast expanse of
insignificance, a ludicrous formality in a lover’s last
glance. The land itself, its people, its towns, its trade,
all made to serve as but a name, an endearment,
that, whispered near, meant that he was dying,
Egypt, dying, even as Egypt passed away, vanishing into
an intimate transcendence.

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 Whale

Calling to you, I sing my song into the deep,
a love song, long as all the endless seas are long.
The waves of sound and sea will roll on distant shores,
until, one day, my song will find its way to yours.
Searching for you, I sing my song and do not weep,
a patient song, strong as all the endless seas are strong.
The waves of sound and sea connecting everything
will draw us slowly near, until, one day, they bring
our voices into harmony, as we rejoice and sing.