My wife and son chase butterflies
in the mornings of summer days.
Beneath the South Florida skies,
I watch as my family plays.

In the mornings of summer days,
my worries glide off with the breeze.
I watch as my family plays,
while I relax beneath shade trees.

My worries glide off with the breeze.
They drift to join the building storm,
while I relax beneath shade trees,
on days when morning seems so warm.

They drift to join the building storm,
those pressures rattling their cage,
on days when morning seems so warm,
I wait for the thundering rage.

Those pressures rattling their cage,
where sea breeze meets the heat of day;
I wait for the thundering rage,
while all my cares just float away.

Where sea breeze meets the heat of day,
beneath the South Florida skies;
while all my cares just float away,
my wife and son chase butterflies.

Perhaps we've got it worked out wrong;
our blinding eyes and deaf'ning ears,
distractions from the primal song,
as mortals ponder what appears,
what senses gather, and adheres
to what's been said and penned and read;
those squeaks of mankind's rusting gears,
so sure to seize in slamming dread
when steady time turns back and sneers.  

This mind that sparks inside my head
is fueled by maybes, faith, and doubt.
I pass the time, have known the dead,
and question what it's all about.
Do gods write poems to my life,
their rhymes of joy, refrains of strife...
or's all a ball of chaos thread
that whips around, it's nooses rife...
Perhaps the clues have been misread.

Perhaps those questions buff the mirror,
make sense of all this sensual,
and give a sense of drawing near
the answer, so eventual,
so sure to comfort, like a friend,
so sure to hold me and defend
the tower of this vanity,
where views stretch wide and all's made clear
to stardust claiming sanity.

I ask you, reader - where's the soul?
Is mine a parcel or the whole,
or something fresh, beloved and true...
Does what's in me touch what's in you?

Perhaps my thought's a'twist in rhyme.
Perhaps my soul's the passing time.

The pantoum is the poet's task.
It twists the mind, that rhyming test.
I'm left with a strong need to ask,
is there a method you'd suggest?

It twists the mind, that rhyming test.
Rewrites add wrinkles to my brain.
Is there a method you'd suggest
to keep me from going insane?

Rewrites add wrinkles to my brain
as I struggle to end my phrase.
to keep me from going insane,
could you offer a little praise?

As I struggle to end my phrase,
I'm left with a strong need to ask,
could you offer a little praise?
The pantoum is the poet's task!

Why do lovers chant - forever,
don't they realize passions fade,
that arteries so surely sever
when gifts of ****** hearts are made
and dullness claims the escapade
and eyes begin the soft peruse...
So much goes into getting laid.
Why let romantic fluff abuse...

For dogs, a sniff and stuff suffice.
Black widows, yeah, we're all aware.
And rabbits have it worked out nice;
while porcupines must pork with care...
Why make a song of an affair
with final notes struck to bemuse,
your genitalia set to snare...
Why let romantic fluff abuse...

Why let romantic fluff abuse...
I'm not attacking marriage, no!
So much is gained when two minds choose
to plant that seed, so much can grow,
so much to share and learn and know,
that strengthens our society,
like those basics of propriety
that vilify variety.

I'm not attacking marriage, no!
No better view than from this web;
so, let those dogs put on their show.
A bunny's stamina must ebb.
A rabbit's lusting thirst must ebb!
Oh god, I'd risk a scrotal quill
for a chance to climb different hill
and dance until I've had my fill.

Should you attempt to ease my pain,
take warning, mine's a toxic brew,
with any spillage sure to stain
and burn its noxious way down through
those armored plates protecting you,
concealing that soft heart beneath,
a treat this beast would slowly chew...
the hopes left stuck between sharp teeth.

My dark mind's torn and hardly sane,
left barren since her love withdrew,
and charities would but profane
those memories I hold askew,
those cloudy thoughts of love so true,
those daggers hid in yearning's sheath
that slice when others misconstrue...
the hopes left stuck between sharp teeth.

Go hang from your ****** sugarchain
of coaxes meant to help renew.
There are no passions to regain.
There's nothing left here to imbue.
My shattered rose rejects your glue.
It's not a blossom for your wreath.
So, toss your thoughts of breaking through...
the hope's left stuck between sharp teeth.

And, of a doubt remains as to
the character that's underneath,
then tease my shell and watch me spew
the hopes left stuck between sharp teeth.