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Ah thundering galump!
Sit we beneath thy flush belly.
Safe from friendly shortened stump,
mildly smiling, are we ready.

My friend bells read well.
To what can you reply?
Tread soft violence in disguise,
but never lofty wonders why.

So galumpous thunder,
eat not tread nor wonder nor
my spectacled companion.

Join us, in-drink in-stead. For
cells berate evenings ate,
and fills thy shoes in dread!

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Morning’s Catch

Bestowled — his placid star placed against
the graying blazoned azul grapple of
civil Seattle’s war-weary skies.

Upon spider’s prickled strand,
a carefully lowered leaf.

A crimson furnaced beacon
caught in peace, by a thief.

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