Burro #2: What’s up with this guy?
Burro #3: Dunno.
Burro #2: Why is he stopping?
Burro #3: Dunno.
Burro #2: Wait. What!? Again?
Burro #3: Yep. Again.
Burro #1: Smile for the camera, ladies.
Burro #2: Bloody tourists!
Burro #3: At least the backlight is nice.
Burro #1: 🙂
Burro #2: 
Burro #3: 🙂
Such delight
It seems
The artist took
With godly visage
And none too small
The chisel hammered
With whimsical caprice
A fitting ode to Gods
Whose whims become
The stuff of legends told
Now should cat stay
Here on this day
Might we not pray
The time has come
For mouse and cat
To mellow some
And end this spat
In the company of worshipers
Some for God
Some for his house
But I think on it
And in the reflect I see
I prefer Love’s House
Which is any house
Where there’s you and me
The prophet, Sullivan, preached
Writing the gospel of
Purpose Informs Art
On landscapes and city streets
Ah, sighs Calatrava
And erects his Mona Lisa smile
Its contrarian pulse
The blood flowing through Valencia’s veins
As form takes flight
With function on its wing
I revel in dreamy whimsy
With purpose in the wake
Chunky frozen snow
Crunches underfoot
Shhhh, hisses the Moon
Be still
Listen
This I do
But all I hear is the Moon
Simmering on the snow peaks
Shhhh, Say I
To the full flood moon
Which does not know chagrin
Ahh, my friend
Replies the Moon
Would you have heard my sizzle
Had you never listened?
As the momentary daylight faded
The mist which was once my Toyota
Settled into the crater
That had been a parking lot
I hoped the owner
Of that formidable weapon
Hadn’t acquired my new position
The concrete barrier I’d sheltered behind
Suddenly seemed feeble protection
Night returned and I got the fuck outta there
“Not one,” said he
With a tone of
Finality
“Well, what then of Blorange?
Which the Welsh named a peak
Then too there’s sporange
A spore sack, so say scientist geeks”
“Ah, so indeed there are rhymes!”
Said he, though shaking his head
“But, what poet would use them?
Such odd freakish terms
I’d be seen as deranged!”
Pix to Words 