New Year's Queries

     Must our 'end's tend to rend our 'begin's

as our fingers finagle our fins...?

     Must our angels extinguish our djinns

as our Bezoses brainwash our Brins...?

     Must our paperclips poison our pins

as our Sawyers torpedo our Finns...?

     Pray our losses fall short of our wins!

Hey! Our losses must lose to our wins!

     Must our grimaces gainsay our grins

as our Ho Chi Minhs mangle our Nins...?

     Must our newcomers needle our kins

as our Judases jostle our Pnins...?

     Must our forthcomings battle our beens

as our stables make room for our inns...?

     Pray our losses fall short of our wins!

Hey! Our losses must lose to our wins!

     Must our kindnesses kill off our sins

as our bones break the back of shins...?

     Must our truths disestablish our spins

as our clamshells outnumber our tins...?

     Must our shirts beat the pants off our skins

as our triplets outnumber our twins...?

     Pray our losses fall short of our wins!

Hey! Our losses must lose to our wins!

The Casuarina Spoon

One of those sweet-sixteen types.
Gael whose glè mhath on the pipes.
     High-school girl / Guy who'll skirl

Hat/-tleTales

     While many shameless Texans, recognized 

by their fellows as the braggarts, blowhards and 

bloviators they routinely prove to be, often hear 

themselves tagged as being "all hat and no cattle," 

there remain oodles of citizens two-stepping through

the wider landscape whose behaviors are similarly 

characterized -- similarly, sure...but not quite the 

same.

When Rev'rend Spooner gets his way,
ol' Callaway heads t'other way.
     That cowboy's all cat and no hattle.

She schools each wee preschooler
as she wields one wicked ruler.

     That nun is all habit, no cassock.

Six slugs sail'd straight through, 

leaving zilch residue:
     He's all (rat-a-tat-) tat and no shrapnel.

Sergeant Friday's a cop, 

an abrupt one full stop.

     Hear him gripe: "Just the facts, ma'am; no tattle!"

Though her atria's chill'd, 

she's prepared to be thrill'd

    to her cor: She's all heart (though no cockle).

With Rice Krispies I find 

I prefer just one kind.

     Forget Pop: I'm all Snap and no Crackle.

He brings signs to each march 

and his slogans are arch,

     never dull. He's all that, but no catalyst. 

She'll not wriggle one hair, 

much less fly through the air.

     She's immobile: all halt and no cartwheel. 

Donald's evil's like cancer. 

For Don, love's no answer,

     That's Drumpf: he's all hate and no cuddle.

She's a Bell Witch/Quay blend* 

and, for sure, no one's friend.

     Fire burn! She's all haunt and no Casper.

          * The Bell Witch haunts an area in Tennessee; 

Minnie Quay is a legendary ghost spooking Michigan. 

"Fire burn..." is part of a couplet chanted by the 

Weird Sisters in Shakespeare's Macbeth. 

If Dad laughs at all, 

his laugh's big, never small.
     That's our Dad: he's all "HA!" and no chortle.

She's, when tough love's requir'd, 

ne'er in pull'd punches mired.

     Best to duck: she's all hit and no coddle.

His applause is sedate. 

Meet Monsieur Understate.

    In the end, he's all hint and no catcall.