His Master’s Voice?

They must think us dogs

salivating to their bells

doing tricks for tiny treats!


And how can they not

when we drool at every cue

playing games they tell us to?


Is there any choice?

After all, they hold the cards

and set the rules we must regard.


Why must we regard

their arbitrary edicts

when their only care

is their self-serving interests?

Bite the hands that feed, I say!

Ignore their strident bellows!

Exercise our every freedom!

Let us run across the meadows!

Primal Glue

No smell evokes hunger,

on late afternoons,

quite like the, driftIng,

distant hickory fire.

Its scent saturates

the woodland around

with the promise of hearth

in all of its meanings.

Comfort and kin,

safety and warmth,

food and good cheer,

the social embrace.

Like some olfactory anthem,

that flavor saturates

the world,

the food,

my very soul.

In Whom To Trust

Phil, in his terror,

From Pennsylvania countryside,

Warned of six more weeks of winter

Then crawled back in his hole to hide.

Now it’s scarcely three weeks later,

And Crocus wants another vote

About the coming of the springtime

And shedding of that winter’s coat.

His small green toes 

thrust from the ground,

Dipped in the snow

And felt around.

Ignoring all those Icy towers

And bitter chills he did not mind,

He hollered to the other flowers,

“Come on out! The weather’s fine!”