PURR

I brought him home when he had been left

all alone in this world.

He was six months old.

He was cold.

And he was hungry,

Somehow he knew I did care.

But all he did was purr.

Almost an all-black cat, there he sat.

With a twinkle in his eye,

Perhaps because he had one white spot that

Looked just like a bow-tie.

On his left paw was a spot of white fur.

But all he did was purr.

The days when I needed his purr,

He sat beside me on a chair,

Washing his face and watching mine,

Waiting for my touch,

Simply filled with joy as my hand drew near.

Then he really did purr.

We moved away and he hid under the porch,

Not wanting to know where we went,

If we left for good reasons or had been sent.

Weeks later we called the new home owner,

And were told he just sat there in the chair.

But all he would do is purr.

-- CLAYTON DAVIS

DR. SEUSS

You turned our minds loose.

You said, "Cat, get in the hat."

And there it sat.

The Grinch stole Christmas.

And made us say, "Alas . . ."

Your sojourn was not for naught.

Because we'll keep your thought.

Thanks, Dr. Seuss.

-- CLAYTON DAVIS

BEARDED BART CAN'T SHOOT WITH SOMETHING WARM IN HIS BOOT

Crost yon green-carpeted pool table

Stared Bearded Bart,

Malice in his heart.

Thoughtfully chalking his stick,

He feared the next shot.

Money was lost, if the eight ball

Failed to fall.

An old dog,

Sleeping beside a chair,

Awoke and walked

From there

To here.

As dogs will, he raised his leg

Above Bearded Bart's shoe.

Something warm and wet

Soaked Bart's sock.

Bart's eye wavered.

His arm trembled.

The shot was missed.

What the dog did

Rhymes with mist.

-- CLAYTON DAVIS

DON'T KILL TIME

WHILE IT'S KILLING YOU.

Clocks and calendars cause old age.

Try to hold back time,

You bold sage.

Desire flags.

Flesh sags.

Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock.

You may slow the tick.

Only God can stop the tock.

-- CLAYTON DAVIS

GOING FOR A COUNTRY DRIVE

My child, today's a good day to be alive.

Let's go for a drive.

Where, oh where will we go?

Far from here?

Not far.

No, my child. Not in this car.

What will we see?

What? Oh, tell me.

I'll let you guess

while you dress.

Give me a clue.

Please, won't you?

This riddle is a clue,

just for you.

The first one clangs and roars.

Another soars.

Something that moos.

And a tool the farmers use.

Buzz, buzz. This one's hard to see.

And the last one is taller than your knee.

I know. I know.

Tell me, if it's so.

Trains and Planes,

Cows and Plows,

Bees and Trees.

What a wise child,

to guess all the things she'll see.

Won't you go for a drive with me?

--CLAYTON DAVIS

SPRING'S FIRST ROBIN

A chilly, silly robin sat on my lawn.

Was that a red sweater it had on?

Hunting a morsel to eat,

it had small, tiny, very cold feet.

I think it remembers the worms,

the ones it found last year.

I'm sure that's why it came back here.

Do they walk from all the way down south?

Hey, you. Yes, you, the one with cold toes.

Did you walk? Speak, open your mouth.

Oh, oh. There it goes.

At least one of them can fly,

not afraid of the sky.

Y'all come back soon now, you hear?

Spring's first robin,

there it goes, oh dear.

-- CLAYTON DAVIS

TASTEFUL HAIRDOS

A resident pigeon flock took flight

And winged atop the village square,

Where she sat, her head bare.

Sitting steely-eyed on the park bench,

She glared at me.

I was not fit to breathe her air,

Nor could I ever sit near her there.

"Go see a barber," she said.

"There's too much hair on your head."

I looked up, hoping for justice.

Was there mercy up there?

Would it come from the air?

Relief was in sight,

even from that pigeon flight.

One pigeon's digestion demanded

More space in its intestine.

Out plopped the dropping,

Arcing down . . . down, until it

Graced the crown of gray hair

Atop those steely eyes.

She wore the pigeon's dropping with pride,

Glared once more at me,

And departed with determine stride.

(My hair looked better than hers,

But who cares?)

--CLAYTON DAVIS

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