This tab’s for a few poems I’ve scrawled along the way. I’ll add more from time to time. I know, it’s weird, my natural voice is stuck about two centuries back. If you like that sort of thing, here you go.

Here’s one that tries to see the upside of a life of enforced isolation.

Dove Down Country Flown

Be there busy, guarding, teaming

up to talk and think and do

while I hide myself from you

far off in the country, dreaming.

Echoes of debating, scheming

reach me in a day or two;

satellites your smiles beaming

sell your circus, bread and brew.

I could catch you live and streaming:

stay informed and get a clue,

but I had reasons when I flew.

All my quietude mere seeming,

bees are busy, gardens teeming.

This next one makes fun of poor old Oliver Cromwell. I know, a sick person ought to have more sympathy for another’s sufferings but dang, he was so much more of a downer even than me, I can’t sympathize. Some sufferers make whole nations suffer along with them.

Cromwell’s Moral

Poor old Oliver Cromwell

dyspeptic, didn’t nom well

wore black with no enhancing

allowed no plays nor dancing

enforced in ways tyrannical

his notions puritanical

then despite the purge of pride

under doctors’ care he died

but with royals’ restitution

was dug up for execution

and long after he was dead

had a price upon his head

for so it has been told

once piked, t’was bought and sold

but when it had a thought in it

no man could have boughten it

not for money but for power

he spent his mortal hour

and therein lies our moral:

over morals never quarrel

for each person has his lust;

lust for reform is no more just

than a lust for song and dance

(which were soon brought back from France).

And while we’re on the topic of Pride, here’s one about modern malefactors: in this case, a fictional physicist versus a fictional physician.

Physicist vs. Physician, or, Faux Pas de Duel 

A physicist and a physician

facing across the field

each took up a position.

Neither would yield.

Boldly the ballistician 

(asked, “Will you sue?” said, “I might just,”)

challenged the neural physician

(equally righteous).

So provoked was our fierce surgeon

charges of bald plagiarism

flew with no further urgin’

over the schism. 

“Your findings are wholly unfounded!”

“You should lose your license to operate!”

“Your test flights should all have been grounded!”

They could not cooperate.

Philosophical and Medical Doctor

each to the flames added more fuel.

Some said, “Wait! This test needs a proctor.”
“What test? It’s a duel!”

They agreed they would each fling a dart

aimed at the other one’s brain

but neither could see how to start.

Completely insane!

Like gourmets in heaven’s refectory
pacing in paralyzed indecision
they pondered the dart’s best trajectory
  and point of incision. 

They challenged in scathing defiance

each calling the other a forgery:
“Come on, it’s not rocket science!”

“It isn’t brain surgery!”

I’m having trouble with formatting. I hope you’ll excuse the roughness here until I can dig in, some day, and figure out what’s going on with the HTML and stuff.