Reprieve from damp,
     and rainy, or sultry weather,
     I schlepped a
     light weight Shaker
made folding chair
     out upon Jim Baker
Nabor's green acre
and once enthroned

     as a " FAKE FAKIR"
in rubberized web
     bing (seam ming lee
     lapis lazuli trimmed),
     this body of mine
     lapsed into Quaker
state averse to focus attention,
     gnome hatter eyes fixedly glute

to the pages, sans
     newsworthy printed material,
     to apprise and jute
keeping me astute
with major local and global
     journalistic burning hotspots
     whatsapp pining (the
     most recent issue Newt

about Gingrich commendable
     TIME magazine), boot
with rather light
     breeze tolerably blowing
temperate, moderate air currents
     enveloping this here ole coot,
who aint got Hoot
tee and the Blowfish, nor toot

from no mo' magic flute,
thus by natural
     dint cocked mean
looking head (you figure out
     which one) between
the devil and the
     deep blue seas tureen,
which gaze extended clean

skyward to cerulean vault
populated with strunk
     and white tufts
in stark contrast did lean
in to the verdant rich green
sward abuzz within
     invisible micro ecosystems
niched and stitched by Jean

E. Huss flora Dean
and endearing fauna
     minted quartered gene,
which hubbub of variegated
organisms sound
     accompanied motley crue
     of each scudding soundcloud
shape shifting bill

low whee near weightless
     (cottony ma their) keen
stern preachily mass stir,
     then puff (like
     a magic dragon),
     no more easily seen.