The New Year Just Like the Old Year

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Twas the night before New Year and all through the land, 
No glasses were empty, no noshes unplanned.
The mistletoe hung under doorways in clusters
Completely ignored due to long filibusters.
Folks whispered and tittered
They blistered and dithered,
All trying to force their opponents to wither.
These twisters of words, these sisters of shadow,
Their blustery blows have me thinking of Maddow.
The night almost over, the cat cleaned her whiskers
And finished the dregs from the host’s brandy snifter.
She loudly exclaimed as she stalked out of sight,
“The year has begun with no break from the fight.”

Ode to Kohnan

Photo by Monica McHenney
His eyes were open and stayed that way
Aware and dignified, right up to the end.
A mensch, reserved, not prone to delay,
Loyal to a fault, on that you can depend.

Saucy he was in the final hours,
Demanded kibble, a last meal at midnight.
Poured out love, licks, and reassurance.

Despite his weak body, his power
Did prolong the end, enough so that we might
Say woof, shed our tears, take one last dance.

He knew it was the end. We, quite sure, thought that he would rally.
He lay quiet, dignified, a friend and most trusted ally.



Mistress Minna’s Comb

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Chug-a-chug, chug-a-chug, down the track they go.
On a kind of mission bent.
Lickety-splitly off they went
Some would say they’re heaven sent.
Here is what I know.

Mistress Minna was a nymph, a beauty so they said.
In a tree she kept her comb,
Ancient heirloom made from bone.
One fine morning she intoned,
“Guards, a thief has fled.”

Sure enough the comb was gone; thief fled on the train.
So they followed on the track.
Tried to get the bone comb back.
Gantry singing clicky-clack,
Pumping in the rain.

Tracks were damaged in the storm.
They caught him.

Bunnies and Baskets

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Easter eggs are piled sky high,
Dollar each they run.
Once a year, “Splurge,” we cry,
One for all, and all for one.

Bunny chocolatiers we are,
Upright on our legs.
Melt the chocolate from the bar;
Shape it into tasty eggs.

Eggs that nestle side by side
In shiny, foil wraps.
In wicker baskets they reside,
Excited bunnies, fill and clap.

All night long, bunnies create
Goodies for the kids.
Out you come, don’t be late,
Searching, finding where they’re hid.

Children wearing chocolate smears,
Tummies, tongues, at rest.
Bunnies done until next year.
Satisfied they’ve done their best.

Springiness Delayed

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Watch me spring forward and fall back, sleepy and dazed, assaulted by the time change.

I wish to stay in bed an extra hour. I can’t. The dogs can and do. The delay in daybreak confuses them. I understand because I’m confused as well.

It has been two weeks of gradual adjustment, falling asleep early, doing yoga in the dark. But the light keeps changing, the spring keeps springing, every day is longer than the last.

I am almost persuaded that the sun will shine bright and clear on the world’s dark doings. If not, give me back that hour.

Supply Side Magic

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“Your cupboard is bare, Mother, and yours, too, Dame,” The Old Woman passed her teabag around the table.

The dog, the cat, and the children climbed up the shoe-house.

Old Mother Hubbard shouted. “What with the high price of kibble, I fear the dog will eat me.”

“Don’t even mention canned fish,” Dame Trot stirred her plain tea. “How do you manage with all those mouths to feed?”

The Old Woman opened her pantry for inspection. It was full of cereal, canned goods, and dry beans. “A charm for the cupboard and a curse on the Tory’s trickle down tricksters.”

Going for the Gold **

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Margie* told a little lie,
Fleeced those who did not know.
And everywhere that Margie went, 
The lie was sure to go.
*Marjorie Taylor Greene

It followed her to Washington.
It spread and spread and spread.
The hospitals filled with Covid deaths
In states the color red.

Sean Hannity said, “Get a vax.”
And so did Valentine*.
But Margie wouldn't know the truth
If it bit her from behind.
*Phil Valentine, conservative talk show host

I hope this rhyme does not offend,
It is not meant to do.
It's only that we can't pretend 
Fake facts will get us through. 

And why, you say, a send up
Of Mary's Little Lamb.
False claims did plague its author, though
She'd published her iamb.

Eighteen thirty was the date 
On Mrs. Hale's book.
'Twas nineteen twenty-eight, about, when
Old Ford* had a look.
*Henry Ford, famous for cars and conspiracy theories

He wrote that Hale plagiarized
The poem she’d published first.
The lie went out across the land.
This fib was not Ford’s worst.

His may have rivaled Margie's lies,
Though, that I do not know.
But at the time, he did his part 
Mean chaos here* to sow.
*Via his newspaper, Dearborn Independent

Nineteen twenty-seven saw
Him hateful towards the Jews.
The case, it went before the court.
The judge decried his views. 

Ford used slave labor overseas
To build in German towns.
Despite his past apologies, 
The liar doubled down.

So now we come to Margie's “facts,”
The same The Donald told.
Like Henry Ford they watch folks die,
While piling up the gold.

**Next week will be a drabble.