in the thrust of her shoulders.
This is a mask
Come to life
And dancing!

Brave Voyage

Come, my Sweet
Let us walk in the sleet
(If you can keep your feet!)

Creep like a couple of snails
Clinging to rails
When all else fails.
Poets have sung of walking in rain,
Or even snow . . .
Fain would I go in the sleet . . .
(If you can keep your feet!)

Ultimatum

Another blizzard and
Well . . . I Warn Yuh
I'm off like a streak To California!

Black Coffee

Smiling sweetly, respected trulls
Drinking coffee from polished skulls.
A touch of arsenic, "One lump, or two?"
And the cups go round with their deadly brew.
The Atomic Bomb is an awesome thing
But so is woman . . .
Gossipping!

Sufficient Reason

I prostitute my Art
Because it's tactical;
For starving in a garret
Isn't practical!

His Mistress is Heard Singing

"I long to turn to you and say:
Hullo my Darling. . .
How was your day"
What did you do
And who did you meet
And what was the 'to-do'
Down the street?"
These are the little
The darling things
That go together
With wedding rings!

Wide World

O when you lock your doors each night
You either shut the world outside
Or else your own four walls enfold
A planet twice as far and wide!

Tsk! Tsk! Mister Santa!
If Santa Claus comes down my chimney
This year
And puts sooty big foot marks
All over my white hearth rug
I'm going to give him What for!

Last year
He not only knocked half the ornaments off the tree,
And generally bunged things up,
But he insisted on putting beer bottle tops
In the twins' stockings
Instead of the annual quarter.
If Santa Claus comes down my chimney
This year
And doesn't mind his "p's" and "q's" . . .
I'll send him off to bed
And finish the job myself!

Sorcery

What is this shock of sweet delight
That puts all sober thoughts to flight
On hearing someone speak your name
This little candle in my heart
That glows and burns and warms each part
Of day and night. This friendly thing
That stirs in me till I must sing.
Your look and voice, the enchanting way
You pin a flower on my day!

Everywoman Song

O some men are married to gorgons
Who swallow them at one swallow,
And some are married to frigidaires
And dwell in an icy hollow.
And some there arc, that are bound in chains
As golden as they can be
But you're the luckiest one of all
For Darling . . . you've just got me!

Sung in High Dudgeon!

I'd like to be the deadly type
Who plunge the knife . . . before they wipe
The previous victim's flowing gore
From off the blade. Sad to relate I seem to be
The victim! … A chicken-hearted sort of thing
I've no desire for "skewering"
My fellow man.
But by observing I may learn
To give that rapier lightning turn!

Wise Child

To sing to you would be absurd.
You'd not believe a single word!
To touch you would be madder still,
And so I sit and fill . . . and fill
My eyes with looking. Like a child
Who sees an iced cake,
But knows from sad experience
The tummy ache!

Women are Like That

"Here, in the drift of the dunes" he said,
"Turn your head"!
"Now the curve of your throat is a troubling song
Your face is a flower, dreaming and white,
My heart cries out in the rapturous night.
Give me your lips and your heart", said he,
But she shook her head . . . emphatically!
"Gee, but you're sweet!", the other said,
And tilted back her little head
Appreciatively.
He didn't call her "fairest one",
She didn't mind … or think it queer …
But looked on him, adoringly,
And whispered . . .
"O my Dearest Dear"!

Tea-Party

They get their heads together,
The honeyed malice drips.
And all the gentler little wives
Get out their blacksnake whips.

It's such a pleasant pastime
The hours simply fly.
Before they know it's time to go
But who will make the try
O who will have the fortitude
To rise and first depart
Knowing full well the hungry horde
Is dining on her heart!

Hobson's Choice

Life is a rose
And life is a thistle -
And life is the screech of a steamboat's whistle
But nevertheless - if you asked the Dead
They'd probably choose to be in your bed!

Letter from Paris

You write of Paris like a man
Telling of the woman he loves.
There is love in the lines that draw the city under rain;
The higgeldy-piggeldy garrets
That climb crazily against the tender pink of the sky;
Montmartre, with the cafés, just as you'd read they'd be!
Everything just as glamorous . . . just as exciting
A gay … a mocking . . . a shining, shimmering place
A feminine city!
Your regret at leaving Paris
Is like parting from a woman.
Paris has wounded you
With her loveliness!

Conjecture

Why should I think of you
As a Perewinkle?
Retired . . .
Out of sight in your shell . . .
Safe!
I wonder what would happen
If once again in your lifetime
Someone, armed with a sharp pin,
Pricked you into the daylight?

Time Was

When you were here, life did not run
In prim and ordered placid rows
The sky was full of spinning stars
And laughter danced upon its toes!

"Track"!

This is release;
This, the sloughing off of the outer husk;
The spruces lean
To clutch you in a green embrace;
But your spirit has already outstripped them
Flying in arrowy rhythm
Round a sudden turn In the ski trail!

Travellers

We traveled down a grassy road
O sweet it was to wander!
And parted at the forks of it
And this is what I ponder:
Would it have been a braver thing
For us to stay together,
In spite of any single thing . . .
Against whatever weather?

Ailurophile

When neighbours' cats begin to yowl and