Author's Note: I’m writing this in April, which, as you know is Poetry Month. If Pi Day is a crass attempt by mathematicians to sell more math, what can we say about a whole month to enrich ourselves? Here’s a little parody of Blake’s poem “The Lamb” and then two for the new season.
With apologies to Willian Blake Little lamb, who made you? Do you know who made you? Broiled you to a golden turn, Watched you so you didn’t burn? Cooked your middle nice and pink, Poured a good Shiraz to drink? Raised a glass to mourn your loss And served you with a nice mint sauce? Lambie, I’m afraid you Will hate me, cause I made you!
Out in the rain, warm for this time of year, and just a little wind to blow the droplets in my face. Last year, snow piled up almost to the deck, and by the red maple, a pyramid of ice. All night we heard the sounds of strange songs, lyrics like laughter, like bubbles in a glass of wine. We rolled away from the walls, hugged, if not in terror, at least in terrible anxiety. Sometimes I rose, looked out at the deserted street bathed in lamplight. When we drifted off to sleep, we joined each other In a dream of ships and ocean foam. Where did we travel each night? What countries did we visit, which exotic shores? Or were those islands left off all the maps, or were we in the realm of clouds? I never knew, and at breakfast, over coffee and croissants, we worked these problems endlessly, until it was time for you to study Latin and me to walk to music, returning myself to a more human state.
A New Season
How strange to wake in a new season, as if trees had changed places with their living ghosts, as if the pond had opened like a sleepy eye. Last time we were here, stars were splinters in a frozen sky, air so cold our breath hung against glass like frost. No wonder we slipped off to sleep, our heart rates slowed and blood thick in our veins. And now you’ve wrapped me in your arms, and when I cough, you move away, worried that you’ve choked off my air. But it’s only the rough end of sleep. I pull you back, and we lie for awhile, letting the world emerge slowly from the shell of night.
©2021 Steve Klepetar
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