My Beard

My beard is very strange

It's rough and coarse and itchy

With roots

Deep inside my face

I can feel it

Deep inside my face!

Washing doesn't help it

No shampoo, nor conditioner

No soap, nor body wash

Can soften this wiry wood

Growing

On my face

It's growing

On my face!

Shaving doesn't stop it

It grows back before the dawn

Ruthless barbs

Tearing through my face

Needles and knives

Tearing through my face!

There is one brief moment

Clean-shaven

Smooth of face

Not rough and scratching

Nor an agony of growth

It is the worst of all

For, in this one brief moment

I feel my hair

Hiding

Deep inside my face

My beard

Coiled, living

Deep inside my face!

Potato Chips

Golden fried, thin yet wide

Crunchy to the core

Potato soul, eat 'em whole

Flavoured to perfection

In silvered sacs, cause heart-attacks

Yet loved by nearly all

O potato chips, with or without the dips

The food of kings and beggars

O potato chips, passing through our lips

What would we not do for you

What do butterflies do when it rains?

On perfect days of brilliant sun

and huge cotton clouds

we think of jeweled wings

fluttering on a breathless breeze

lighting on the countless colours

that bloom before the eyes

Yet, when the clouds turn

and dim the sun

with their rolling dark

why do we never wonder

what the butterflies do when it rains

Clinging to a stalk

wings pressed tight together

as watery globes

batter and spatter

back and forth

straining strength

dripping, drooping

jewel dust smeared and running

crawling, climbing

towards the promise of the sun

of lighter wings

a return

to their place

in our perfect dreams