Creation
The cosmos are very big,
and filled with lots of stuff;
they say our planet, long ago,
was spatial pocket fluff.
Gases condensed into rain
for about a billion years,
the moon affecting every tide
and even human tears.
Now they say the sun'll implode,
get more dense and then bust,
and once again the earth will die,
and we will be but dust.
November 1992
Duck Season
Hiding in the tall marsh grass,
tonight we'll be well-fed.
For twenty ducks are flying by,
flying overhead.
I must disrupt the peaceful air
or else we'll surely die.
I raise my gun, take careful aim,
then blast into the sky.
The shots ring out across the marsh,
and I look toward the sun;
several ducks are plummeting,
wounded by my gun.
The dog swims out and brings them back
to take them home and eat,
where I'll strip them of their feathers
and devour their juicy meat.
November 1992
Honor
The trumpets flourish through the air;
the games are now begun.
A silence fills the crowds watching
the figures in the sun.
The lancers take their places,
eager to begin;
for rewards of honor and of land
go to he who wins.
The horses begin to gallop and
the lances find their place;
but Sir Roger hit his rival's horse,
and now is a disgrace.
November 1992
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