Indigo Blues


I got these blues in the mornin’,
I got these blues around my head.
I got these blues in the mornin’,
If I don’t get me some lovin’ soon I’ll be dead.

I’m worn out, wet and weary,
‘Sing these blues up to the sky.
I’m worn out, wet and weary,
‘And so down I can barely fly.

‘Need a blue-feathered woman, Lord,
A gal to put my heart at rest.
‘Need a fine blue-feathered woman, Lord,
Someone who’ll sit upon my nest.

Yes I got these blues in the mornin’,
’Ain’t got nuthin else but this tree.
Yeah I got these blues in the mornin’,
‘Want someone to share this branch with me.

I got these blues in the mornin,’ 
I got these blues around my head. 
I got these blues in the mornin,’ 
If I don’t get me some lovin’ soon I’ll be dead.

Note: I took some “artistic license” with this one: a female Indigo Bunting is actually BROWN…



The marriage record of my great-grandparents, Jonathan Andrus and Amarilla Barnes, dated August 16th, 1871, contains a box where “B” (Bachelor) or “W” (Widower) was to be entered – no other possibilities considered, apparently. Instead of a B or a W in this box, there is an asterisk, and in the space for “Remarks” is found: “In filling up the Schedule after the parties were married it was ascertained that the Bridegroom has a wife living who has forsaken him.”

In every life there are events
Perceived as luck or chance;
Some are lengthy, drawn-out times,
Others momentary happenstance.

My great-grandfather wed a Maid,
Their love brought forth a son,
But something caused their vows to break,
Leaving man and boy alone.

He loved again, perhaps of need,
Took Amarilla for his bride,
The Maid’s name in whispers hushed away,
And in time her memory died.

The Maid’s son grew to manhood;
One day he took a wife.
No offspring blessed their union;
No descendants came to life.

From Second Wife my life-line flows,
Fate’s beneficiary:
Had not the Maid forsaken him,
My great-grand’s would not have married.

Then who would write these silly lines?
Who’d trace the family tree?
And would a descendant of the Maid long gone
Have hair of red like me?

Moronic Rhyme

A neighbor moronic we all have to bear,
As he shoots his guns nightly at things in the air,
Or perhaps at things swimming or eating or running;
He thinks that he is exceedingly cunning.

He hoarded dried foods for the end of our stay
On this planet computered (doomed by Y-2-K).
His lame ideology damns all but his “sisters”
And “brothers” and preachers (who to us are blisters).

Certifiably crazy is this next-door dolt,
With his fervent religion and his 45 Colt,
And we wonder how long it will be till the day
He hears God whispering, “Blow the neighbors away.”

Wine Whine

The wine snob swirls, sniffs and sips the item,
Thoughtful-faced till it’s inside him,
While we (the peasants) fake knowing stance,
Waiting impatiently for our chance,
Hardly caring if it’s white, pink or red –
As long as it’s plentiful and we’re soon fed.

The “wine snob” (we learn) is called a sommelier
As he passes us brie crepes paired up with a chardonnay,
Then sushi with sake, and shiraz from “Down Under”
With cutlets of lamb – Oh Lord, it’s a wonder!!!
Bring on the pheasant with pinot noir!
Enlightenment strikes us, awakened we are!!

So consider the food when removing the cork:
A wine is much better when used with a fork.

The Boy That I Live With


The boy that I live with is younger than me
(Not sixty-four like ex-Beetle Paul McCartney).
This boy that I live with plays with pals at the gym
Who are younger than he but no stronger of limb.
My boy shoots and he rebounds with obvious zeal,
Especially loving to score off a steal,
Recounting his triumphs to me over dinner,
As if no glory is greater than being a winner
At these lunch-hour matches of the pot-bellied and paunchy.
(His car contains gym socks incredibly raunchy).
I listen with patience and with my old boy concur:
He is swift, sly and speedy – a better play-maker for sure
Than those half his age dwelling on their past glories
(Not one among them has yet entered his forties),
But in spite of my teasing and half-masked amusement,
I’m impressed and I’m proud of my elderly gent.
He’s muscled, he’s spry, he’s joyful, he’s great,
And more boys should be youthful at age fifty-eight!

The Rap of the Retired Wizard

In contemplation of my leisurely situation,
My daily recreation,
Tasks crossed off, the elimination
Of what appears to be work to the rest of the nation.

Threw ‘way my bizness skirt
Got a SPF 45 sunblock shirt
Now I’m workin’ in the breeze and diggin’ dirt
Till my bones get numb and my muscles hurt.

Is this fun or is this toil,
This playin’ with seeds and weeds and soil,
Sniffin’ manure without recoil,
Huntin’ down pests like Conan Doyle?

Then August comes an’ it’s time to harvest,
Can it, freeze it, dry it an’ all the rest,
Obsessed more than blessed would be my guess,
Jungle-hot kitchen makin’ me depressed.

So am I out to pasture, washed up, retired;
Or recreating as desired?
And how in hell did it transpire
That a wizard became a gardener, I inquire.