In Which I Muse On A Gadget Study And Its Choice Of Test Material

Oh, what would Papa think, to be so used

As he was for this study of iPads

And Kindles verses paper books. Bemused,

I'd bet. Though I am sure that there are scads

Of writers who would be quite chuffed to learn

Their prose is "pleasant and engaging" yet

Not very difficult for dummies. Spurn

Ol' Hemingway I don't, but I would bet

I'd read a little faster were there stars

And aliens and spaceships in the place

Of something dull and literary, bars

And manly man crap. Give me outer space!

So many of us, forced to read him when

We were in school might sigh if asked again.

In Which An Old Pal Turns 30: Waka Waka Waka

Can it be thirty years since we first learned
A hungry man can live on yellow dots?
How many million quarters have been burned
To hear the waka waka? Must be lots!
I ever was a duffer at this game;
One only was there in my little town
And that where I dared not go, to my shame --
The high school kids were scary, hangin' down
At the convenience store, when it was new.
Now where the arcade games were, you will find
A low-rent humidor of cigarettes.
I wasn't totally deprived, though, mind:
I too wasted much time with no regrets.
I had to go to Rawlins, that was all
And play at Roller City. 'Twas a ball.

A P.E. Flunkee's Visit To A Gymnastics School

A skill I never had's in practice here.

These earnest children tumble, twirl and turn --

The elders even fly! This is no mere

Diversion. I see Bethany and learn.

I love the pride on Bonnie's daughter's face,

A run of cartwheels now beneath her belt,

Well executed, at an even pace.

Accomplishment's a thing I never felt

Upon the mats in element'ry school.

For me, this sport brought on a sense of shame;

In mind quite sound, in body such a fool

I felt an utter failure at this game --

And never even saw that it is one.

Say nothing of the thought it might be fun.

In Which I Have Mixed Feelings That I No Longer Go "Back To School"

September means they're back out on the streets,

School buses lumber back to school. It's fall:

A season's ended. Something each child meets

Is this fate: playtime's over. I recall

A gladness when this time would roll around,

For school was something I always did well,

Though fellow students always did confound

Me and my efforts. Often it was hell.

Each kid feels singled out as somehow wrong,

Not knowing all feel wrong and most just watch

The crowd for cues, and follow the most strong,

Just waiting for that mistimed step or botch

Of ritual to signal who is ripe

To fall. And yes, I was the falling type.