WALKABOUT

    A jaunty little bustle-butt is Tig,
    who skips and skibbles as she zigs along
    until she hops a curb and starts to dig
    ferociously (a veritable King-Kong)
    to excavate a gopher-tortoise hole,
    or chase a squirrel up a laurel oak
    now skittering at her from its lofty bole—
    no way to quell, but all the more provoke.
    But then at home, she’s quite the cuddlekins,
    a lapdog you could pet and preen all day
    until once more the urge to roam begins,
    then she and Gyp go out again to play.
    Each on her leash, they lead me down the street
    eager to find some neighbor dogs to greet.

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HIGH STAKES

  A sonnet and a crossword are the same
  In that you’re counting both across and down
  To make words fit a pattern in a game
  That often furrows brows into a frown,
  Though both are different in their puzzling ways:
  The one depending all on memory,
  The other searching for a word or phrase
  Extending meaning with apt harmony—
  Which is to say, there’s more than play entailed
  In sonnetry, a game for mortal stakes,
  For one false move or note means that you’ve failed
  In your attempt and don’t have what it takes
       To demonstrate an artistry and skill
       That happily manifests your Muse’s will.

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THE WAY

       If looking out for Number One were all
       the virtue and the prowess we could boast,
       as ancestors of the long-fabled Fall,
       that is the least of us and not the most.
       There’s more implicit in humanity
       than often is, alas, made manifest;
       so much of history is insanity,
       it’s hard to recognize us at our best.
       But focus on the highest we’ve achieved,
       despite our waywardness and lack of love;
       attend to what great sages have conceived
       as transcendental means to rise above
       the motives and impulses that destroy
       serenity—our only route to joy.

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A FAMILY STORY

  Our father had it rough—Depression, War,
  Four gritty years in Europe, Africa,
  On Eisenhower’s staff—it surely bore
  Into his soul to fight the swastika.

  Then afterwards the hustle to catch up—
  His job at Trico, night school at UB,
  Buying rental properties—Hup!  Hup!
  All for security, prosperity.

  Although he was too busy to attend
  To the kinder, gentler arts of fatherhood,
  We three kids always knew we could depend
  Firmly on his providing for our good.

       And what he lacked in tender loving care,
       We found in Mom, whose heart was always there.

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Nemerov #7

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TAKING A SONNET FOR A SPIN

 Come on, hop in—let’s see where this will go,
 a sonnet, after all’s a vehicle;
 let’s test it out and drive it row by row
 making it swift and snappy, nothing dull.

 Thing is, with this form you can never tell
 where you’ll end up—a magic mystery tour
 begins and puts you in a kind of spell,
 but where you’ll go or stop you’re never sure.

 Just past midway you turn, right on a dime:
 perhaps just now you have a notion how
 you’ll find the finish line, and in good time
 complete your narrative and take your bow.

      Then like a victory lap your couplet’s ride
      rounds out your triumph while it vaunts your pride.

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THE YAPPER

  The little one, she barks at everything—
  High-strung, alert to all disturbances,
  Thinking, though small, she’ll make the welkin ring
  And rout the crooks—which leaves us in a tizz.

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