Six Stanzas Written on Delta Flight 48 to NYC
24 May 2017 :: for Avi Hynes

 

Avenue! Avenue!

Twelve years old.

It's something new but haven't you

Already been told?

 

It's something new but that's the way

The kid turns twelve.

It's Friday into Saturday

So help-a yourself.

 

Slaughter-pole and water-pole

And whudja wanna do?

We're taking out the casserole

In Lincoln Park Zoo.

 

In Lincoln Park and pink and dark,

Piano out of tune.

The archer ’bout to miss the mark—

A rabbit on the moon.

 

Rabbit on the moon base!

Camel in the sun!

Take a nap at noon, face

The rhododenderon.

 

I'm at an end, I'm pressing SEND,

I praise the mighty day.

We all intend to recommend

The twenty-six of May.

 

 

Birthday Poem for Gabriel River Hynes
Nine Today, 14 May 2017

 

The kid is nine:

open the wine,

 

dig in the fork,

and pop the cork.

 

Pop the cork

and pour a glass:

 

forty-eight yards

on a forward pass.

 

Pabriel, Gabriel,

Riverboat Hynes

 

held out a fork

to count the tines.

 

Count the tines:

it’s sevens and nines,

 

Gabriel, Pabriel

Riverboat Hynes.

 

Middle o’ May!

and it’s Mother’s Day:

 

others will say it’s

OK, it’s fine,—

 

if the kid is nine,

we open the wine:

 

he’s getting his,

so I’m getting mine.

 

And the poem ends

on the very next line:

 

The poem ends

on the very next line.

 

Birthday Poem for Mira Buffam Reddy
Eight years old today, 13 April 2017

It seems to be true,

what I’d only heard:

that eight-year-old Mira’s

turned into a bird.

 

It seems to be true,

what I’d only guessed:

that Mira bird, Mira bird

sits on her nest.

 

Whenever the Mira bird

stands on one leg,

there starts to appear an

immaculate egg.

 

The heart of that egg

is nucleic mystique.

And the Mira bird’s picking

her little brown beak.

 

Oh it seems to be true,

what I heard on the boat:

that eight-year-old Mira’s

turned into a goat.

 

A little white goat

with a bell and a bleat

and a great roaring foursome

of shoes on her feet.

 

Now a little white goat

will stick out her pink tongue

and baa in complaint

if she wanders among

 

the children, the farmers,

the milkers of goats,

for Mira don’t like their

unmusical notes.

 

Oh I think it may be,

if it’s not a mistake,

that eight-year-old Mira’s

becoming a snake.

 

Is she eager to do it?

Or doesn’t she wanna?

Now eight-year-old Mira’s

become an iguana.

 

The iguana is often

ashamed of her wings,

and goes into hiding

whenever she sings.

 

Iguanas are secretive,

cunning and sly,

don’t want you to see ’em,

when they’re gonna fly.

 

Oh I think it may be!

I believe it’s the truth:

that Mira Iguana

has only one tooth.

 

I think it’s the case,

for I saw it online:

she’s just like a fork

that has only one tine.

 

I heard the report!

I sat through the news!

and eight-year-old Mira

took off all her shoes.

 

She spread out her wings,

she brushed her one tooth,

and polished her bell

with the ardor of youth,

 

and put out her tongue,

with an egg on her plate,

for today she has traveled

from seven to eight.

 

Poem for Amelia, age 4

I get it, I got it, I feel ya

I’m writing this out for Amelia

 

Singles and triples and doubles

Her friend is a penguin named Bubbles

 

Doubles and triples and singles

Cheetos, Doritos, and Pringles

 

Some of her, more of her, all of her

Her brother’s a penguin named Oliver