the heat, beneath the trees,
Ungainly wood between her knees,
A cellist idly weaves her notes.
The melody, I think, connotes
The lazy, endless whirl of mind—
A nebula that’s ill-defined—
Toward a center, resting place,
Stability in boundless space.
The Jaded Compositionist Meditates on His Calling During an Attack of Influenza
Thank God, I say, for student essays!
They let us while away our days
In what we hope is harmless work,
Hunting for the errors that lurk
Within the Twinky prose.
Those acne essays—we’ve tried, heaven knows,
To improve their complexion
By noting each and every possible correction,
And feeding their authors, without apology,
Nutritious fare from the Norton anthology.
We may do some good; we hope so.
In any case, this much we do know:
The essays probably won’t be terrific, Yet they’ll serve as a soporific
To deaden the pain of arthritis or flu.
Ah yes, our themes will see us through
The dismal dregs of sniffling Sundays,
The aching, hacking nights of Mondays,
Weekend, weekday—noses or knees, heads or backs,
Wherever the malady, themes help us relax.
Those narcotic anodynes, those horrendous stacks—We need them. We’re nothing but pitiful hacks,
Self-righteously flaunting devotion to duty,
To error-free prose and to truth and to beauty,
When we know for a fact (and this is sublime):
Our mission is really just to kill time.
Slither, Bustle, Waddle, and Glide, Members of the Departmental Subcommittee on Allocation of Office Supplies and Faculty Amenities
He Slithers in and hisses greeting.
“This will be a busy meeting.”
She Bustles primly to her chair.
“This will be a great affair.”
She Waddles dourly to her seat.
“I’m glad,” she grunts, “that we can meet.”
He Glides along; he doesn’t walk.
“We’re alone, so we can talk.”
Glide looks thoughtful, wise, profound.
Waddle doesn’t make a sound.
Bustle’s manner is officious.
Slither’s start is . . . well . . . auspicious.
“This is,” in hiss, “a vital matter.”
“Indeed, indeed!” is Bustle’s natter.
“I agree!”—that’s Waddle’s rumble.
Glide advises, “We can’t bumble.”
Slither strokes his flowing hair.
Bustle wriggles in her chair.
Waddle wakes, her head upreared.
Glide is playing with his beard.
“We’ll talk some more,” he firmly states.
Waddle’s nod asseverates.
Triumphant Bustle says, “Ahem!”
And Slither names her chair pro tem.
Slither says, “A job well done.”
Bustle adds, “I have to run.”
Waddle mutters her adieux,
And Glide: “I’ve many things to do.”
One now Slithers out the door,
And then out Bustles yet one more.
The third one Waddles down the hall.
The last one Glides, and that is all.
Meditation at a Scholarly Conference
We celebrate our solemn rite.
We genuflect; we mumble prayer.
The priestess, personable and bright,
Legitimates the whole affair.
A sermon launched, we sip our wine,
A blessed, welcome sacrament.
Our ardor, though, will soon decline
For the blessed testament.
We endure the sacred mass,
Holding to the ancient creed,
Knowing in our hearts at last
Learned talk is what we need.
We celebrate the frequent rite,
Renewing our belief.
The “Amen” said, our faith is bright,
And we adjourn with great relief.
Erotica
Hiking Wheeler
With candles, groping down through Lehman Cave,
We chased the shadows of reality
And saw the cavern as John Lehman had.
The flicker led him back and back toward
A treasure. In the greatest Saal he dreamed
A courtly dance,
