Battle of the Bib
Emma was wearing a new autumn dress.
Papa snapped on her bib, to prevent a mess—
oatmeal was planned at her special request
But a tranquil breakfast was not to be.
She waved her teaspoon like a machete
And yanked at the bib to unsnap it free . . .
Screaming, crying, she blustered a Bronx cheer
As tears, mucus and spit sprayed Papa dear;
His glasses were filmed with fluid veneer
Then she balled the bib in a plastic wad.
Papa looked up: Is this the wrath of God?
He lost any pretense of poised façade:
“WEAR YOUR BIB” as he snatched her oatmeal.
(By now it was cold, lumpy, and congealed).
“Ok, Papa” concluded this ordeal.
The dress was made pristine, no oatmeal mess,
And Emma consented to his caress
But when he reached for a clip-on hair bow,
The scuffle began: Battle of the Bow.
Not Amusing
The measured words of poetry
Rise round the mystic sphere,
Sift through the dirt or sing divine—
Refrains that soothe or sear.
But now the stanzas halt and freeze:
Eternity is stilled—
The dog looks guilty at the door . . .
The poet’s muse is chilled.
Goodbye “the crescent in the sky
Reaps a murder of crows.”
Holding his breath, he scoops the mess
As the muse holds her nose.
Dark “Matter?” Dark Mind?
As galaxies outwardly swing,
The “mystery mass” is the thing:
They thought it was gravity
But All is a cavity—
So Physics was left holding strings.
Peter Venable has been writing poetry for 50 years. He has been published in Windhover, Third Wednesday, Time of Singing, The Merton Seasonal, American Vendantist, The Anglican Theological Review, and others. He is a member of the Winston Salem Writers. On the whimsical side, he has been published in Bluepepper, Parody, Laughing Dog, The Asses of Parnassus, Lighten Up Online (e. g. # 48) and The Society Of Classical Poets.
A bit inchoate, is how I read these. No matter, be it light or dark.