A Honest Tradesman

I reside by the blue steep hills,
By the swamps of Catalee,
Where the parrot's shriek
Astounds the meek
And resounds to the bank of the sea.

Travelers on their way
To Skye or Innisfree
Implore advice
For a vouchsafe night,
Which I give them for a fee.

The fee they can always afford;
The product consistently sound:
I ferry them o'er
To a cave by the shore
And bury them underground.

So what sort of liar am I,
Who holds up his end of the deal?
Asleep in their bunks
They've no need for gold chunks,
So do not say, sir, that I steal.

A Travail

Je vois des gens autour de moi
Prenant part à leur emploi,
Je ne veux, je ne peux pas
Continuer mon boulot.

Travailler, c'est nécessaire,
Si je voudrais garder mon chair,
Mais pour avoir des pensées claires
Il faut cesser mon boulot.

Je suis point ouvrier commun
Au centre de ma propre âme,
Mais comme le corps exige son pain!
Il faut rester chez mon boulot.

Mt. Wilson

On the skirts of Saint Gabriel's range I peek
At the rises who lift beyond, not so steep
As t'inspire fear
In him the hiker drawing near.

Rugs of chlorophyllic ties
Drape the white rocks as they rise
To drink from smoggen bluish skies
To drink and dance I do surmise.

In woods on hills, I like to think,
That sky would trouble me a drink
And rocks and trees would whistle with
My humblest and most heart-wrought gift.

The mountains rise and fall within
A panorama, that's how thin.
Wretch'd, the life which weans itself
From Gabriel's enchanted shelf.

What the Post-It Heard

"I gape a yawn
and grin a SunGod grin,
a Roor in hand
I'm read to begin."