Oh My God, they’re Home, I will not starve!
I’ve got to let them know I love them so!
Oh wait, they’ll know, ‘pon seeing the **** I carved,
And seeing my lovely *** Art in the Snow!
Will they notice if I jump up High?
Maybe I should stick to making art
And paint their faces with my slobber dye!
Or show my love, perhaps with a quiet ****?
Oh Lord, my tail! my tail!  Where is it now?
Where’s Mom? Where’s Dad? I thought they were right here!
Should I stop jumping? But I don’t know  how.
Perhaps start barking? Wait, I see a deer!
For all the Love they show me every day,
I still feel ‘lone when they’re not here to play.

For fifteen years, I've loved you as "my own";
Denying all that time that you weren't "mine".
If you're not "mine", then what? Are you "on loan"?
No, no, you are a leaf upon my vine.
Mere foliage? No, My Dear, you are so more
Ah..Ah, still green—(Oh how I miss my babe...)
Yet self-sustainment, oozing from each pore,
Serrated wit to match e'en Honest Abe!
My God, My Sprout, how deep your roots have stretched,
So thin, and with such possibility!
Can Life Success and Depth be so far-fetched?
Not with your Scope and Life Agility.
This Day of Love I wish to say to you,
Your Vine is proud, through tears of Love, of You.

Forty Years of Kristi, A Gift to the World

Forty years of living, giving of yourself,
Creating a life so pregnant with delight,
That e’en the stars, like playtoys of a heavenly elf,
Roll and bounce to celebrate your Light.

Your life, young Kristi, is a packaged gift,
Brimming with millions of self-discovered skills,
With some you sing; with others, give a lift,
With yet more, you till the soil and hills.

How ironic, you Child of the Stars,
That in forty years of gifting Of yourself,
Your gift, To you, is never very far;
Just hold their little hands, and view yourself.

Forty years, for you, may seem quite old.
But for a star, ‘tis Infancy in Gold.



-Matthew Morris McCormick

To write a poem to benefit the web
Seems strange, to type these words away from me.
No pen, no tiny turret in Zagreb
At any time I'm free to up and flee.
Such freedom tests my  discipline, my will
My short attention nurtured by my tribe
Has robbed me, (so I say), of my "Melville",
My Inner cummings, to which I subscribe.
Such excuses further pull me down
Away from higher orbits of My Craft
Please, my mirror, I am not a clown
Nor a hack who's steeped in Lingual graft.
Can I accept the onward March of Time,
Dispense excuses, get on with the sublime?