Brouhaha at the Symphony: A Kyrielle

The girl was filming with her phone

The policy — no videos — was well-known

Past concerts, no one ever dared 

The soloist stopped playing and glared 

The soloist demanded she refrain

The girl replied, “That’s insane” 

She continued to film unimpaired

The soloist stopped playing and glared

The president of the symphony came down 

He confronted the culprit with a frown  

But the headstrong girl wasn’t scared 

The soloist stopped playing and glared

The president escorted her out

The girl said he was a lout 

Mouths agape, the audience stared  

The soloist stopped playing and glared     

Beasts of the Night

The close of dusk, I lit my fire

Moonless and darkening

though the crown of evergreen branches

spread its design across the gray-blue sky

Burning pine logs crackled and spit

shooting out sparks which spun to the grass

then flickered and disappeared

By nine o’clock the world had turned pitch black

I called my wife on my cell phone

and told her it was eery, even scary

The park was deserted, no lights, no sounds

A good stomping ground for rural thugs or killers

Just then, a growling noise

I looked to my right

and saw two pairs of eyes

glowing red from the firelight

Then black masks, white snouts, pointy ears

A pair of large raccoons 

side by side, standing at attention

thirty feet away, staring at me

I felt my heart pounding

“Get out of here!” I screamed

“Get out of here!”

“Get out of here!”

So loud I even frightened myself

But the raccoons stood their ground

My wife said over the phone

“When raccoons growl they are rabid”

“Please get in the car, please lock the doors”

A third raccoon appeared

around the edge of the picnic table.

“Get away, get away!” I shouted

clenching my fists, nails digging into my palms

But he too stood unperturbed

knowing his raccoon family owned the campground 

I got up from my chair, retreated to my tent

pulled the zipper tight, tied it shut with a twist tie

I heard pots and pans clanging

A box of kitchen stuff crashed to the ground

And then eventually quiet

Later the beasts of the night

wandered in and out of my dreams

Home Haircuts: A Triolet

My hair, I’d say, looks a bit odd 

Though my wife reassures me it’s fine 

What if  her stylistics are flawed?

My hair, I’d say, looks a bit odd

She plows through my tangles roughshod

Pooh-poohs my complaints when I whine 

My hair, I’d say, looks a bit odd 

Though my wife reassures me it’s fine