My glass is half

the way to top,

and half the way

to bottom,

and though

my thirst

is not the worst,

–that missing bit’s

the problem,

conundrum here

not half a beer

. . .

though drink ‘em

if you got ‘em.

With lacking fizz

dilemma is–

should I regret

the bubbles?

lacking from

my cup

(and tum’)

would it be better

doubled?

despite the fact

remaining half,

slakes my thirst

when guzzled?

Or is it best

to view the rest

of lager in the mug. . .

as blessing

not a lessening

of beer still there

to chug?

–since if I do

it’s sure that two

steins are seen

from suds…

The salient parts

of riddle are–

it isn’t what you’ve got,

since having half

of quaff’s not bad

–it’s better than

have naught,

if less allays

why not appraise?

(your)

little as a lot.

 
Everything was great.

Coming up roses,

while I was pushing up daisies

(which dampened bloom, but still)

in that sense–

fresh.

I was fresh as a daisy.

(with every single petal pulled in a love octagon gone awry)
 

There was wine in my glass,

and roses in my cheeks

(adorned with specs tinted same)

–originally seeded with glasses of a different composition–

I was a garden that merited melody.

Did my Maid Marion clash, d’ya think?

woven from pressured daisies as it was?

oopsie

I think I pulled it off

daisy!

Petals destined for pulling after all,

the only real thorn in my

bouquet

–that I lingered near, practically hyperventilating as I took in whiff after aromatic waft–

was my bed strewn

with same

–rose and daisy petals, both.

 
put the fun

in funeral

get black balloons. . .

scatter ash like confetti

and hang a banner:

“get well soon”

to show you’re ironic

(“bon voyage” altogether too predictable)
 
 

an upside-down cake at wake

or devil’s food,

and of course–

a piñata.

No sendoff is complete without

a creped animal

stuffed with bittersweets. . .

and later on,

if you sense the festivities are

beginning to

pall–

suggest a rollicking round of Russian roulette,

followed by Musical Coffins

(naturally)

and Hangman

. . .

played out as charades.

the grass is always greener

seen from far away–

but is it gleam,

from solar beam,

that brightens up the blades?

would cloudy weather

lessen better

image of this glade?

would rain

obscure

the lea’s allure

and render it a bog?

and risky going

when you’re mowing

grass beneath your clogs?

no path

–just swath–

of slippery green

unsafe to walk or jog?

would frost

and snow

cloak the glow

you swear the grass exudes?

a winter’s coat

that’s sure to slow

renewal, and denude

–the very thing

that’s beckoning–

that greener

similitude?

When viewing

sod, consider then

the yard you call your own,

it may be pocked

or brown in spots

but it’s the greener loam,

if sparse or lush

in rain or slush

that grass defines

your home.

Death accelerates.

pushes particles

into probability,

probability into

wave

!buh-bye!

and pops you

out of

pop

out of

U

and

elation!

You’re never late again!

in a matter of speaking

Time a distant construct

no more commuter roundabouts!

for your merry-go-round,

you level up.

gain dimension

wind-up, digital, atomic

(clocks)

.stop tick.

seconds, minutes, hours

(scheduled punches)

.stop total.

birth, life, death

(desk calendars)

.stop full.

Shedding mortal coil

like snakeskin,

it’s dust to dust behind,

uncharted ahead,

and

who’s to say

what’s manning the deck

(this time)

eventually

it broke

(the vase)

sure, I had to throw it against the wall

a few times,

(few = million)

but the smashing of it

surprised me

–liquid spilled everywhere!

cutting tender toes

as I struggled to mop it up

Lacking towel

(and mop)

the crumpled paper balls I employed

–created incidental Rorschach art

& poetry that looked quite like words–

but proved ineffective

(in the l-o-n-g run)

tourniquets couldn’t staunch

the bleed, either

–water colored paradoxically

rose from those toes–

and though I cursed the mess soundly,

that didn’t work as well as I thought it might.

that spill spread!

A mixed metaphor

the wildfire of it

soaked rugs,

seeped through floorboards,

and dripped into

every story in my house,

saturating everything in red

–which made me angry

(and hungry)

and more attractive to the opposite sex–

(as red will)

and it wasn’t until

the liquification of home

and hearth

was near complete,

that I noticed

there had been no

Gerbers in that

infernal vessel

–after all.

 Thinking in terms

of “character” traits,

does W envy the V

for her Waist?

since plainly

V Vainly

watches her slants,

the W tried

but W can’t. . .

And what about M?

does it Make her Mad?

that N’s always Noshing,

but Never gets fat?

as all letters know

M Moder-ates Much,

whatever M “ate”

was Merely enough…

The same goes for B

who’s Bothered by P,

since B is as Basic

to meals as can B–

He Broils

He Bakes

But Blasted

P Poaches,

winning the Battle

of Bulge

with aPProaches

–and gloating–

P Pairs,

and Pigs out

on blankets,

wraPPed around aPPs

found

around franks–

–it’s no wonder

that speech is

deteriorating!

with such letter envy

and such letter hating!

Clearly impelling

a global truncating

–of petulant words

that need separating,

’til finally one day

we’ll boot acronyms, too

reverting to grunts

as cavemen would do.