Thursday, July 31, 2008

The Summer Evening (a modern poem for modern readers)

Mother Nature has given me
two of her furloughed sentries,
standing proud a mere nine feet apart
with branches and roots akimbo
for me to climb if I so choose

I say, "No thanks, Big Momma
I'll take a pass this time.
See, I have this bunch of interlaced twine,
and when I tie it between your soldiers
it will suspend my grateful gluts."

And there in the gentle twilight breeze
I lie slowly swinging
birds and bugs winging,
singing and zinging
their soothing songs putting me more and more at ease

Then, as I descend ever lower
who fires up his damned lawn mower
but my next door neighbor Arne Marsh
and I don't want to come across harsh,
but this guy has a way of making
even the best days a little worse

His eyes are too close and so very little
when he talks it's too loud
and it always involves spittle
He let my kid taste beer
without ever even asking
I've seen him do the unthinkable
but am too kind to go into detail

Then, as I'm about to go inside
I hear a strange noise and Arne's muffled cry
It looks like just below his right knee
old Arne's been cropped
and I'd get up to help...
if the mower hadn't stopped

I hear birds again, and the peepers were calling
the peace and the quiet were nearly appalling
that is if old Arne would quit bellyaching
but I'm in my hammock and I can't be bothered

I'm drifting off to sleep now and Arne seems to be too
his whimpering stopped within a minute or two
he's probably fine but I'll find out when I wake
if I'm feeling real nice I'll help him with the rake
and figure out some way to fashion the handle
into a peg leg or something