BY DAWN

                 The squirrels are chirring in our backyard while
                  Birds tweet and twitter, squawk and sing their songs,
                  Each in its species’ customary style,
                  Declaring on which bough each one belongs.

*

IN THE COSMIC SEA

                    It cannot be, it cannot be that we
                    Are all alone in this vast universe,
                    We who have gained the capability
                    So many subtle mysteries to disperse,
                    And yet, for all our venturous reckoning
                    With scopes and probes into the depths of space,
                    We’ve found no sighting of a living thing,
                    And of cosmic intelligence no trace.
                    Well, let that be; we’ve better things to do,
                    If only just to get our house in order
                    Should aliens from elsewhere rendezvous
                    Not to make peace with us but to marauder.
                         We need to show we’re worthy of enduring
                         By proving amiable, indeed, alluring.

*

HELP!

                                In a mess?  Then address
                                The Prime Mover,
                                 Who may clean up your mess  
                                 With His Hoover.

*

SHAKESPEARE COMPOSING

                 He’d view on his imagination’s stage,
                 While fondling his earlobe and his quill,
                 The scenes that he’d transcribe upon his page:
                  Sometimes in stately or colloquial prose,
                  Then rising into cadences of verse
                  That with a captivating ardor flows
                  As only his true genius might disburse,
                  One whose fervent imagination could
                  Inhabit sensibilities of all
                  His sundry characters, wicked or good,
                  A feat that every rival would appall,
                       Which leaves me now abashed, though reverent,
                       Supposing such a talent heaven sent.

*