Cold Billy Boston

Boston Billy he went where he chose,

Wearing white spats with his fugitive clothes.

He spoke in that lingo that rang through his nose,

And sang all the while in his upstairs hose.

Cold Billy Boston, that’s how they called him,

No fellow friendlier than he was a friend,

Yo Billy Boston, yo with your pride.

Oh, all the good bishops stood up and they cried

When spiffy old Billy old Boston died.

He doffed his elegant fugitive hide

And died of a Sunday morning, oh.

I Like to Fondle Cowry Shells

I like to fondle cowry shells and I-Ching coins,

As anyone would do.

I gather rocks with smooth red sides,

And set them all in rows.

I whistle three-note melodies and yodels,

For dancing and for show.

I send my friend forget-me-nots,

In case my friend forgets.

I keep my treasures near in cases,

Boxes, files and folders,

I sand my fingertips and reach.

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Almost Sibelius, or

Moonlight on the Salt

The Salt River runs along our little sub-town,

a thumb on the glove of adjacent Citiesville.

It's hard to see the moonlight on the Salt.

The lights of downtown Thumb and

Freeway streams and... confuse the eyesight.

Is that some moon, or Christmas balls?

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My Massachusetts' Loose

My Massachusetts' getting loose,

It's stirring my impatience, and my bones

Are tired of all this carrot juice,

And never mind vanilla ice cream cones.

I want to fly to Madagascar,

Wallow in the wee wet hours of night,

Dribble basketballs of custard,

Illustrate the music in the quiet.

Don't hold me back when I'm this way,

I won't be stopped or scrubbed or pacified,

I'm a happy man today,

My beans are most decidedly refried.

And when I flit to Madagascar,

Hold your passion, I'll be coming back.

A shining, reddened scimitar

Will show that I've still got the knack.

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Ducklet

While driving today I saw a mother duck

With four ducklings full of pluck

Crossing the street with great intention,

The mother being the necessity of invention.

At the curb the mother duck hopped up

Onto the sidewalk. three of the ducklets popped up

After her. The fourth and smallest made a hop,

Hopped urgently but didn't make it to the top;

Fell back into the street. It tried again but alack,

Making it higher but it still fell back.

I thought it would try again, but it simply turned right

made a dash for the corner and at the green light

Scrambled up the wheelchair ramp to join the loop,

Marched forth in tandem behind the troop.

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The Cat’s Meow

My Cherokee is mostly Siamese,

Especially the part that speaks.

She never stops complaining

Until canned food so all sustaining

Sits in her bowl and belly.

My mother’s name was Nellie.

What would she have done

With a cat like this one?

Jack Wilson is a writer and artist in Tempe, AZ

http://www.geocities.com/galimatio/jackwilson.html