Our Father who art in the eye
of the beholder I make all things
newfangled wine in old ways
to skin a categorical imperativoli
garden path of righteous mome rath
outgrabing the graybeard lion
in his lares and piñadayadayada
so what ellis island and two if
by seahorse joust around the corner
drug kingpinafore he’s a jolly good
swagman overboard of directory
assistants required of thee but
to do justice to this fine poem
A neonate, none newer
A neonate, none newer,
ate an oaten entree
near a teeter-totter.
Art wet? Want tea? Want water?
Want rennet? Naan? Annatto?
Want a tater newton? Taro?
Arrowroot? A two-ton torte?
Roar not, O roar not!
We own error, we atone!
Neonate on teeter-totter now.
[Oligogram: AEO NRTW]
The other shoe
Underlying the climate of dread and despair
is the great unspoken fear that plutonium
will be demoted to the status of dwarf element.
Americans, as famous for their ignorance of history
as for their knee-jerk affinity for buzzwords,
fail to recall that the plutonium bomb was Fat Man,
not Little Boy. No, if you want a dwarf –
or for that matter a sprite – element,
go yell “Get a halflife!” at livermorium,
which measures its own in hundredths of a second,
whereas plutonium’s, at least in its top form,
is eighty million years.
Esther Greenleaf Murer is a relic of the 20th century who has given up trying to make sense of the 21st. She has been writing poetry since the age of 6 and got serious about learning the craft when she turned 70. She published her first collection, Unglobed Fruit, in 2011. She has been featured poet in The Centrifugal Eye and Kin. She lives in Philadelphia.