Circum “chance” by Joe Markenstein To my beloved John When your circumstances look a little grim, When your finances book a little thin, Just grin and bear it, it’s only circumchances.

When happenstance becomes your stance, When you prance into a voyeur’s glance, Just lay your odds on twelve to seven, It’s only circumchances.

When the wheel of fortune spins like a whir, With your losses tided up in steer, Just hoist your beer, and call all near, It’s only circumchances.

When the vile dregs are done, While the bell who tolls, tolls for thee, Just hug a tree, and pretend it’s me, It’s only circumchances. May 30, 2011

Brist by Trist by Joe Markenstein To Papa Benedict Oh illation of Trist, Once brist by you, Joy springs in a cloud of fist, And to light of reason : dew!

Do you, oh sorrow, see What compasseth about me? The adjunct unction is key, To my : be, being Thee.

Therefore vacate all lore, Laureates and Baccalaureates, From the fable table of more; My tears to wet this Loverette.

Oh tristful fistful of dollars, Parleyed into mourning sunshine; May I drink the wine of your cellar, And be brist into it’s joyful Rhine! May 2011

Christmas by H.W. Longfellow Translated by We To Arlette Szymanski When the astonomes of season Shone, boned in heaven’s region, Six Dafffy Duuucks, and everyone ripped, Sang joyfully in Winter’s grip, “Friends though you be, Go to the home of Agassiz!” These Arcadian Wines Over-seas plastered and fine, Donning the airrs of a priest, Vanity’s ambience their feast “Friends though you be, Of Jean Rudolphe Agassiz!” In the heart of a Pelican, an Aart of Farci, Without reproach and without ignominy, In the linguistic Paté of Bourgognese, Slurred theirr worrds like drunken bees, “Friends though you be, I have too tarantella’d in the home of Agassiz!” Verzaine the Champgne, Good French, at port of New-Yorkaine, But such atmosphere of the Avize, Humming the montra of the reprise, “French though you be, I have so sang in the home of Agassiz!” At my side, walks an old Gentleman, but not Musca”told”; Within the age of Charlemagne Made his father Great Spain!

“Friends though you be, I have so dined in the home of Agassiz!” Behind them is one from Bordeaux, Haughty, if not forever in the know, Perfumed by Poetry Receipted, chanted, open for flattery, “Friends though you be, I have so supped at the home of Agassiz!” With this red line of beaus, Arm in arm and nose to nose, High mean and color patterned, Came the Sire known as Saturn; “Friends though you be, I have so reclined in the home of Agassiz!” But behind these antediluvians Was a poor viscount Carthusian, Who said, of a tone robust, “Blessings over the just! “Friends though you be, Bless the Father Agassiz!” They arrived three by three, Mounting the escalator of the tree In a hobgoblin! What men to arms Would permit such alarm, “Friends though you be, In the tree of Agassiz!” Open then, my good Senior, Open quick and do not labor; Open, open, cause we are Men urbane and of gentile gar, “Friends though you be, Of the family Agassiz!” Hush, cream puff! Tase your mutton! You’re in too deep on grains “glutton”; Save in those philosophies

Your abominable little ditties! “Friends though you be, Respect you mine Agassiz!”

The Ruah by Joe Markenstein To My Blessed Mother Wings of white and on onyx reflecting The eyes of so sweet smooth darkness. He breaths the breath of youth, refracting The attracting moor, mooring it to His lightness His Highness is His depth, with width and breath He congeals, rolls and bolls over the expanded Dark and flat eye at the end of His first in-breath When existed only the heavens before time expounded, Compounded and resounded with Echo! Echo! Echo! Greco-Roman in it’s design with the majesty of Goth The Holy Spirit, whit, the jot of light returning Echo for Echo, In His vein, stretched the plain redounding light bulged forth. Now the clock has begun to wind and it is at the end While it continues bravely burning through the Holy Night. Gentile requisition, frost on glass, His breath the end mends And sends the ends back to the beginning wholly tight. June 27, 2011

Welkin Eye by Joe Markenstein To Deborah When the welkin eye, sighs it’s sigh of goodbye, It says : Adieu in the queue of it’s sty. And causes in the eye a rye wit for whit by it is consumed. Castigated, on it’s own prognosticated and presumed, In it’s truth a trough of sloth embossed on it’s plank. Shall this welkin eye buy a Jacob’s ladder with coinage Frank? Or shall this dew of Adieu wet the union of mercy, And see the Halley’s Comet, and then vomit up it’s mercury?

For the mercurial is only the mural of faith by chance, And for the welkin eye, greater than this sty’s lance, The blench of true Faith settles it’s natural stomach, Allowing the eternal Soul in Lover to plummet! June 3, 2011

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