“December Holiday” by Ron Daiss
The Christmas tree’s green
Promised spring again.
Did the rum in the eggnog
Make the saucy wench
Wink at me.
The eaves held crystal lances,
Dipping icicles, an upside down fence.
A snow laden earth
Seemed draped in a cloud.
So cheers to red and green,
Fireplace warmth and light,
The gleam in children eyes –
All is bright on Jesus’ day.
“Cynic Refuted” Ron Daiss
Say that saints Have no sanity That angels are false Because they love perpetually And never remember. Wherein, in common echelons Only forgiveness can be rendered. Yes, man's historic woes.
“Forward March” By Ron Daiss
My experience with the military was mercifully brief. As a freshmen at the land grant college of Oklahoma A&M military duty was mandatory. On parade ground march, during inspections of our uniforms, spit and polished shoes, and absolutely clean MI rifles, an old regular army sarge questioned why my shoes were soiled. I explained about the Oklahoma’s dusty wind but was interrupted abruptly.
“Asshole! You only say ‘yes, sir’, ‘no, sir’, and ‘no excuse, sir’ to an officer.”
He had chosen me to weld the platoon into a whole without individuals. And on the next parade rest inspection he glimpsed me brightening the mirror shine on my shoes on the back of my trousers. Of course he walked behind me to peer down for long seconds at my slightly soiled pants, the s.o.b.
“Boy, your uniform is dirty. Why?” He had spun around to glare at me.
“No excuse, sir. I blurted out, not about to be cornered and insulted again. He smiled.
“You know something, kid? you might make it as a soldier yet.
Marching it was necessary to stay in step. My platoon was constantly out of step with me. I was so embarrassed for them. Finally, an officer – a cadet in officer training – knew he had to pull me out and march me before the at-ease platoon. You know, to show these other guys how to march properly. Eventually we paraded before the brass, and one old and stout officer was all smiles when we marched by him. Apparently, my platoon was in proper step with me.
Perhaps not!
“Monarchy’s Fate” By Ron Daiss
The colorful fleet of airborne butterflies had a rebel member, not adjusted. He wanted to become a flower. In fact he only landed on flowers.
“No,” said a flexing friend. “You’re a winged being, not a rooted plant. Just say you’re a sky-flower, if you must.”
But the stubborn butterfly answered. “The breeze puts flowers in motion too. All the prettier for their scintillating waves.” So he landed on and stayed attached to a flower with his wings held still and looking like petals, he decided.
But the sharp-eyed bird was not fooled.
“Japanese Baseball and the Animal” By Ron Daiss
Baseball, the national game in Japan, recruited an American major league player, a bit off his game. The American lacked polite Japanese formality. When a Japanese player doubted whether a strike was actually a ball, he would bow to the honorable empire before questioning him. But the American threw down his bat, then his hat, and shouted and waved his arms in the empire’s face while kicking dirt on his shoes. At first the Japanese fans were shocked by such bad behavior before being entertained by it.
They nicknamed the American player the “animal” and started to anticipate what antics the “animal” may perform next.
The field of play was sacred ground. But the first thing the animal did, at bat, chewing tobacco, was to spit on the earth. Japanese players took it as a gesture for luck, and soon at bat were spitting too.
“Celtic Barb”
For Dylan Thomas
All the gales of Wales piped
Through the frothy sea chants
Up across the lopsided houses
Centuries told on hill and in dell…
As eccentric spooks of folks
Long gone wafted above cobblestones…
Their crooked village lanes
Trickling up from the Deep…
Their sweet secrets and musical talks
From Celtic moods and plays
Still stalks your poet’s soul,
Growth alone in lofty song…
Where howling hounds haunt
The dashes of phantom stags…
And many a lass and lad
Make merry on strong mead
In the magic of their hour.
By Ron Daiss
“Goal of Golf” by Ron Daiss
Mark Twain said golf was a way to ruin a good walk. A dated comment since a golfer no longer walks but drives a cart. This permits him to maintain and even increase his body weight. Take note haters of exercise.
Do I consider golf a good sport? Yes ! To take a thin stick with a miss-shaped lower part and drive a small hard ball many yards away to fall into a small hole with as few hits as possible is certainly a skill.
Incidentally, a golfer told me a lush grassy golf course, defaced by black lanes and small childish looking carts, was created by proprietors to quicken the flow of golfers through the links. All in order that profit may raise its conclusive head.
“Winter” by Ron Dais
I
Nordic skier trails
Tell through snowy woods.
Had the barren woods wooed
Clouds down to ground?
Wind faded tracks
To haunts long reached.
II
Snow angels
Created by small children,
Waves of wings
Snow imprinted.
Signatures like
Their merry laughter,
Their careless innocence
Only angels
Fully share.
Their careless innocence