StarPoet Newsletter Vol. XII, No. XXIII

Woke up, got out of bed,
Back hurts but I'm not dead,
Go to work, not fed,
A sugar donut and luke-hot latte.

Read the mail, barely awake,
Surf the Post for mention of my name,
Count the hours, one by one,
Buy my lunch and then go home.

Dead, dead, dead and dead,
Osama's dead and gone,
His body surrendered to the ocean deep,
Using all the proper formulas;
Afghanistan remains a broken state,
Its women threatened by the Taliban,
If we leave, women's freedom follows,
Not that the left seems to give a damn.

All lip and raucous slogan,
The anti-war self centered Americans,
Would prefer to spend our hard earned money
On free lunches and 3-D movies
Than defend one woman's life,
A woman is a woman is only a woman
And not worthy of America's attention.

I have not cut my ear off,
Overdosed on H, or blown my brain away,
Nor do I plan to do so;
I have peered into a dark cold well
And graciously declined
-- I am not that sort of genius.

I have forgotten to die young
And I anticipate someday celebrating
My first century;
But I do not grow willing old
Or accept what ultimately will be
-- I will not go quietly into the night.

I have most probably before I sleep,
Ten thousand poems left to do,
Most of them good, a hundred great,
Unless science creates some magic potion
That extends my life a century or two
-- then all bets are off how many I'll write.

Lone goose a-goosing,
East by South-East,
Dull, doleful morning,
Gray trying for dark;
Memories of rain
On the sidewalk,
Dew point set for
Multiple thunderstorms,
Suggesting a slow wet weekend
Full of repetitive depressions.