How do you give a cowgirl a valentine?
Do you tie it to her lasso?
Do you hide it in her boots?
Do you tape it to her saddle,
or to the gun that she shoots?
Do you tuck it in her hat,
or maybe glue it to her cat?
You could clip it to the nose ring
of a bull she's gonna rope;
if you miss she'll come to your rescue,
you hope.
Then she'll call you a tenderfoot
and tell you to scrub the cookpot caked with soot.
But if you really want her -
better come to your senses
and lend her a hand
when she's out mending fences.

Today I have a feeling that's hard to describe,
but if I could in one word, I would say:
Alive

From the first time that I remember,
'til I penned this ode in September,
I never called him Chips (though many others did) --
Dad was always the name I used ever since I was a kid.
Separated were our ages by two score years and more.
In fact, when I was born -- he was fourty four.
He taught me to be interested in many many things,
for therein lies the essence of life -- with the joy that it brings,
(such as) trains, boats, music, science, photography, sports, and art to start,
... and then he'd tell me to pull his finger when he had to ****.
I learned from him respect for others, and to be clever;
and whether or not I received what I ought
I should always appreciate all kinds of weather.
Speaking of which, we'd lie side by side watching the nighttime sky
for lightning, bats, and satellites, and other things that fly by.
Chante et pleure - I sing and cry as I lie beneath the stars
and consider the physics of light, and matters of matter like Mars.
I'll never forget clutching a tree by a flooded Brandywine River
pleading and quaking in my shoes, in the throes of mortal terror
mortified as I watched my dad standing by the rushing drink --
-- ... taking pictures and movies, I think.
Family and friends mattered much to dad,
and keen was his memory of facts he had.
He was serious and fun; and I loved him a ton.
He'd pull a bully aside and tell him to go fish.
And I wish he was still here to correct my English.
So Chips, I would not even be here, I see
without you and mom both growing me,
and I'm grateful 'cause I'm sure that must'a took alot of energy.
I never told you there once was a time when somehow I felt like you;
and now that you have joined the cosmos, I'm sure that that feeling is true.  Occasionally, I am swept away by the tide of work and rhyme
but knowing you helps me stay afloat, and focus each snapshot in time.

Could it be that what we be is
simply an emergent property
of an autopoietic dissipative system?

Did we spontaneously form in a gradient of energy,
the source of which no one in our 'hood is spared -
a fiery mass of E equals Em Cee Squared?

Located far from any other place,
somewhere in the middle of space,
Sol's energy flows away.  Away.

Seeking thermal equilibrium
as it diffuses into the vacuum,
traveling faster than you can say zoom.

Meanwhile, nestled in the goldie-locks zone
is a certain planet we call home,
a mere one hundred and fifty million kilometers from the sun.

It doesn't take physics to realize
just how lucky we must be -
and I mean holy crap lucky.
An appropriate energy gradient indeed!

For were it not for a certain sized Sol,
and a certain sized rock with a certain roll,
a magnetic field, and ozone layer,
and water both fresh and salty,
plus a certain mix of gas to breathe -
- then everything we know would cease to be.

And that is why there is no excuse
for how we allow the continued abuse
of a living planet some call Gaia.

I wish that everyone understood
that the situation could be dire
as we go about our lives carelessly playing with fire.

When you decide to reveal Sanskrit,
here are reflections on what I have writ:
Experience develops a well rounded view
of life and of ways to see things anew;
life is the source of many a poem -
live it so that way you really can show 'em.

Starting a poem doesn't always come easy,
write something smart and not too ******.
Ideas may come quick, sometimes they are tough;
searching for rhymes and the right meter is rough.
The words have to flow in melodious fashion,
and the feeling resound with thunderous passion.

Without these elements, so high is the cost -
confuse your audience, the meaning gets lost!
Consult a thesaurus, dictionary, muse
your public must wear the subject's shoes.
Then in the end, when your last word is writ,
someone will still think your poem is sh...ort a syllable.

With only so much time you can spend on a dime
the latter is a matter of concern.
For everyone knows that the way which it goes
is fast by contrast to, say, sunburn.

There is no money as gummy as honey,
it's more slick than to stick it in oil.
And low we may fight to hold on tight
or hurry to bury it in soil.

So we think we're the best, when we invest -
the flour to power our dreams.
But should our stocks crash, dough is worth trash
a bear is unfair, it would seem.

Then we hope to win it as easy as sin,
but wishes the dishes won't clean.
Yet still you will find in the end that we mind
a mile for a pile of green.