THE BUBBLING VERNACULAR

Spilled milk does scald the mettle,
But conscientious chefs recoup
Vernacular, the bubbling soup,
Out of the manuscript and kettle.

So who left the imp cavorting in the pottage?
Was it apprentices, so stirred they hesitated,
While verbiage stewed and musings percolated,
Or the adept indulgent in his dotage?

The cook, whose guests decorously consume
Blend and essence from the sparkling table —
Measured cadence, phrases from ewer and ladle —
Hides and licks the jargon from the spoon.

SEA CALLIGRAPHY

With oars I sign the guestbook of the waves,
And leave a wake of whorls to be my signature —
As binding and ephemeral a ligature
As ever a sailor looped on phantom staves.

Astern, in cursive carried on the crests,
My strokes are swept expanding, slackening, dodging;
The tides' epistle's to the Inn addressed,
And to the Innkeeper in his unfathomable lodging.