Elwood P. Dowd Revisited

Most folks were proud of Elwood P. Dowd,
His demeanor and strict social grace.
He never prejudged,
Or ever begrudged
Those fortunate to enter his space.

He was quite a gentleman to friends and kin,
Seemed always quick with a quip.
Those folks who knew him,
Could see right through him,
Elwood always enjoyed a good nip.

His family was tolerant, often despondent,
He never hurt or caused anybody harm.
When away from his home,
His quirks were well known.
Many felt he should be on a funny farm.

Dowd went to great ends, to make new friends,
Most found him quite debonair.
Eccentric yet humble,
With never a grumble,
The man had distinct social flair.

What folks questioned most, was his one friend of boast,
One invisible to all those but him.
A rarely seen host,
A virtual ghost.
That Elwood always treated like kin.

He was six foot or more, a pooka of lore,
Starch white with two pointed ears.
He wore a black bowler,
That made him look older,
He often drew disjointed jeers.

Despite his affection and lack of reflection,
Dowd's acquaintance was to others referred,
A blind trepidation,
A figment's imagination,
A voice that fellow brothers never heard.

As others cast doubts, Elwood always looked out,
For his comrade and true trusted friend.
Folks could never see,
His stout loyalty,
His devotion and commitment to the end.

Some live their lives, just trying to survive,
Make it from one day to the next.
They move through life's scenes,
Invisible it seems,
To those who could barely care less.

One's social discord, inability to afford,
Life's wishes and indulgent pleasures.
Is never just cause,
To be shunned and appalled,
By those rich in abundance and treasurers.

Though Elwood P. Dowd stood out in a crowd,
He was wealthy in stature and habit.
Visibility didn't shroud,
The joy Elwood found,
In every man, woman, child and six foot rabbit.

Thank you Harvey.


Copyright © November 2009
Kevin Mooney

kmm001
111509

My Constant Companion

I have a constant companion who's always in front of me,
He's usually shy and hiding, in his shrouded canopy.
He likes to play peekaboo and always has a ball,
His stature often vacillates, from short to very tall.

His voice is non-existent, he has no face you see,
He's annoyingly persistent, uncontrollably.
His head is rather large, no arms or legs to play,
He's really quite peculiar, in a manly sort of way.

I have to take him with me, everywhere I go,
He's part of my persona, my unforeseen shadow,
His single-minded arrogance is embarrassing to me,
As he rises without warning, non-consensually.

And when I let him out to play he's happy as can be,
He stretches beyond amazement, his one-eyed world to see.
The women, they all love him, he's coy-full and carefree,
His greatest gift, the joy he brings, his masculinity.

And when the day is finally done, his purpose spent, complete.
He tends to dwell in a turtle-shelled, zippered hotel suite.
He sleeps calm and peacefully, his goals firmly met.
His dreams form increasingly, often warm and wet.


Copyright © June 2009
Kevin Mooney

kmm029
061509

The Spurious Bull Frog

There once was a spurious Bull Frog,
Who sat curious on an old wooden log.
He thought pensively,
What his life would be,
If instead he'd been born a Bull Dog.

Oh what a life that would be,
No strife only prosperity.
Trade rib-its for barks,
Take long walks in parks,
Live and nap in the lap of luxury.

Instead of mosquitoes and flies,
He'd eat food that others would buy.
He'd trade in his croaks,
For a few doggy jokes,
Wag his tail as folks walked by.

Of course life as a frog's not too bad,
There's no fences or leashes to be had.
While munching his lunch,
He had a new hunch,
To houses he'd prefer lily pads.

And as the curious spurious Bull Frog,
Considered his mysterious bog,
It occurred to him,
To jump and swim,
Was more luxurious than being a Bull Dog.




Copyright © June 2010
Kevin Mooney

kmm001
060510

The Blind Pickled Porcupine and His Drunken Skunk Friend

One late night at The Watering Hole,
The barn owl hooted This is Last Call!
At the end of the bar feeling just fine,
Was Gimbelstein the blind porcupine.

Now porcupines can be funny creatures,
They're quite social despite their features.
Gimbelstein tends to be friendlier than most,
A pickled blind porcupine jovial host.

On this one particular occasion,
He didn't need additional persuasion.
He was now down to his very last nickle,
And found the barn owl to be somewhat fickle.

So Gimbelstein stumbled on his way,
Deciding he'd return another day.
On his way home he ran into,
PJ the Skunk who was drunk too.

Now the only thing worse than a skunk that's drunk,
Is happening to find a blind pickled porcupine.
PJ Skunk bowed and said how do you do?
Sensing him polite, Gimbelstein bowed too.

Now PJ had eaten before getting started,
And when he bowed, accidentally farted.
Though Gimbelstein blind and somewhat obtuse,
He thought maybe PJ some mother's loose goose.

Suddenly Gimbelstein noticed a ripe smell,
It smelled like a skunk but he couldn't quite tell.
Of course 'ole PJ feeling quite well,
Decided he'd play and simply not tell.

Gimbelstein offered the goose his right paw,
And said that the two of them better not stall.
Smells like a skunk might be coming this way,
We shouldn't get dunked by his awful foul spray.

As PJ took the paw the porcupine held out,
Gimbelstein's needles stood straight and stout.
Poor drunk skunk PJ just never saw,
The porcupine's needles penetrate in his paw.

Of course a skunk's senses are his best defenses,
Hence PJ's best offense was his unpleasant essence.
So quite unintentionally and most unconventionally,
PJ stunk Gimbelstein with his offensive scent.

The blind pickled porcupine didn't seem to mind,
The drunk skunk's tearful yet bearable spray.
He simply assumed that PJ's perfume,
Was some other loose goose's aromic bouquet.

In fact PJ's spice brought tears to both eyes,
Of Gimbelstein the blind and pickled porcupine.
The tears that he cried cleared both his closed eyes,
Suddenly he could see for the very first time.

When he up and realized that PJ had lied,
And wasn't a mother's loose goose at all.
He first felt irate then managed to hesitate,
When he saw his spent needles in poor PJ's paw.

Once he relaxed he then kindly asked,
Could PJ control his droll pungent smell?
PJ replied with a wink of his eye,
Maybe I can, but I'll never tell.

The pickled porcupine couldn't really find,
Any sound reason they couldn't prove friends.
After all, the drunk skunk's stuck paw,
Was bound to eventually improve and mend.

And as for what stunk, it wasn't skunk gunk,
But simply drunk PJ's flatulent funk.
Gimbelstein confided that he had decided,
He could get used to the unpleasant skunk rump.

The spray, though quite putrid, made his sight lucid,
The tears derived aided him miraculously.
The funk he could handle, the smell and the scandal,
Of a drunken skunk's friendship controversy.

But as for the flatulence, it caused him hesitance,
Gimbelstein wasn't sure what advice to impart.
PJ had confidence that his incontinence,
Was a trite, yet demure, quite innocent fart.

So the skunk PJ maintained his rank pre-spray,
The porcupine Gimbelstein reined in his pins.
They drank together from that day forever,
Two Birds of a feather and drunken close friends.



Copyright © September 2010
Kevin Mooney

kmm001
091510

An Albino Rhino

 






There once was an albino rhino,
The only such rhino I know.
He was certainly a sight,
A pale ghostly white,
No color from horn tip to toe.
 
All of the regular grey rhinos,
Found him somewhat absurd.
He never socialized,
Was often ostracised,
From their otherwise, colorized world.
 
One day the albino rhino,
Met a pink phosphorescent elephant.
He didn't know,
An elephant could glow,
But saw her special and like him different.
 
They became best friends which was rare,
Ignored random gawks, laughs and stares.
After awhile,
All the elephants smiled,
Saw them as an interesting pair.
 
One day some hunters came by,
Thought they'd give elephants a try.
The grey rhinos knew,
There was nothing they could do,
But stay back and not question why.
 
But the albino rhino couldn't stand,
To watch his friend's slaughtered by man.
He considered the situation,
Then in sheer desperation,
He decided to execute a plan.
 
As the hunters drew close and took aim,
That's when the first charge up and came.
From dust that was stirred,
Came the cloudy white blur,
Of a ghostly rhinoceros frame.
 
Slightly rattled and somewhat confused.
The hunters were not that amused.
Though something charged by,
In the blink of an eye,
Their deadly efforts would not be refused.
 
Having had their first shots deterred,
They refocused, regrouped and conferred.
Dug themselves in,
Retried once again,
And took aim at the pachyderm herd.
 
Suddenly the earth shook and swayed,
The hunters turned, looked in dismay.
Toward them rumbling loud,
Came an enormous tumbling cloud,
And sharp horns of a rhino parade.
 
Without time to regress or refrain,
And no one but themselves to blame,
The hunters bid adieu,
Then backed off and flew,
Leaving guns and sought after game.
 
When the clouds of dust had all cleared,
Two crowds of musk appeared.
They stood tusk to face,
Each distinctive race,
Then both elephants and rhinos all cheered.
 
As a great celebration began,
The rhinos regathered their clan.
But off to the side,
Attempting to hide,
Was the albino rhino that first ran.
 
Together with horns and trunks raised,
The two herds offered honor and praise,
To the Albino Rhino,
They all now loved so,
For his courage and unselfish ways.
 
As for his precious pink friend,
The rhino remained loyal to the end.
Despite her big ears,
She never had fears,
Of standing out in a crowd again.
 
The moral of this story should make sense,
Don't worry if you have a difference.
God's creatures are born,
With all features and forms,
What counts is the love you dispense.


Copyright © June 2010
Kevin Mooney

kmm001
061310

Can Tigers Really Swim?

Can a tiger hold his breath?
Can a tiger swim?
I suppose,
No one knows,
No, no one knows but him.

If he was in danger,
Of drowning or facing death,
Could he hold his nose?
Could he hold his breath?

After all, he is a cat.
There's no doubt about that.
And everyone knows,
Whereever you go,
All cats hate to get wet.

Yes, I suppose,
He could hold his nose,
Dive down deep,
As deep as deep goes.
Yes I suppose,
A tiger can swim,
Of course nobody knows but him.

Copyright © May 2010

Kevin Mooney

kmm001

053110