A Verse For Spock

Logically speaking, he was more than a cult hero.

A name, ingrained in the American lexicon.

He lived long.

He prospered.

A man of photographic imagery.

A poet to boot.

The calm character classic.

A future hero in need of humor.

Half-human but the human in us all.

Leonard, father, husband, friend.

Spock.

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Future: A Sonnet

A world without conflict.

Peacefully living and living peacefully.

Where my children will grow.

Children of their own.

Will play and talents they will sow.

Clean water, no more climatic change.

Peace world, world peace.

A future is bright with a bright future.

Gadgets, stars ships, androids all to come.

Cured by medicines while medicines cure.

The excitement of endless possibilities yet to come.

Beam me up for the future.

A journey to the stars while stars journey through time.

The future belongs to all and doesn’t cost a dime.

Landscape: A Poem

Rolling hills and green trees and occasional snow-capped mounds.

The river is mighty and majestic and knows no bounds.

I used to run and play by its edge.

Afraid to swim and steered clear of the ledge.

Spring flowers and changing leaves and winter snow.

Parks along the river and bridges bring cars to and fro.

Henry was his name and Hudson it became known.

Fingers: Prose Poetry

The buffet was enjoyable. So I heard. Finger foods mostly. Ornate, orange-lined dishes for overly dressed guests. Cheap plastic utensils were organized on oval platters. But nothing was used. Fingers for everything. Crackers, breaded sticks of cheese. Crudites for all the finger-licking onlookers to enjoy. A trumpet played in the background. Musical harmonies mingled with the soft din of small talk. The artist’s fingers played the keys as if he was born with them. The ornamental table piece blocked my view. There you stood, running your fingers through hairs. Bored. Full of consternation for an evening wasted. Oh how if you only knew my thoughts. One moment, together at that buffet, if our fingers could touch but over a pig in a blanket. The love, I’m sure, would fill our hearts eternally. The trumpet played on. Lost in but one moment over a literal, cheesy buffet. You were gone.

The Ballad of a Bad Boss

He walks in all proud.

As if a giant S were tattooed on his chest.

Get me a coffee.

No please or thank you.

He huffs and puffs,

a man in charge.

He’s really full of bluff.

They called him sir,

he would have it no other way.

Don’t dare call him Tom,

that was his name anyway.

The boss he was.

Tall, broad and handsome.

Not a lick of common sense,

or intellect some.

A hero to some,

a fool to most.

We gritted our teeth,

a smile and nod.

The boss he was,

a fool to be had.

there was nothing worse,

he was that bad.