‘Yoda Looks for Love,’ ‘Plan B,’ ‘Time Travel,’ ‘Plot du Jour’ and ‘Bet on the Little Guy’

YODA LOOKS FOR LOVE

In a galaxy remote, or so the poet wrote, he travelled

with a man from Mandalore.

In a swamp on Dagobah, Luke Skywalker he saw. He

taught the boy about the Jedi code.

Princess Leia was a human, with skin just like albumen,

and hair in lovely buns above her ears.

But he barely reached her knee, so their love was

not to be; his little heart’s been aching all these years.

Now his planet’s sundered, and he’s going on

nine hundred. He’s looking for a lady, short and green.

He’s sending out a vibe that he’s looking for his tribe

and hopes a lady hears what that would mean:

For who will love you only, when you’re sad and lonely,

Yoda lady, Yoda lady, who?

PLAN B

Let’s go incognito—

sign up for witness protection,

get new noses and a bungalow

in the middle of nowhere.

I’ll get a job where you stare

at a computer all day. You could

stay home and clean the house.

Or wear a wig. Hand out

perfume samples to ladies grazing

the department store.

I’ll buy power tools

and make knick-knacks out of wood.

At night we’ll sit in front of the TV

and watch until we fall asleep.

Enough of this wasted life

being ripped superheroes,

beating up criminals using our

superpowers, saving our country

from the devious plots of

terrorist cabals and evil aliens

bent on the destruction of the world.

Let’s get a real life.

TIME TRAVEL

Lying on moss-coloured clouds,

eyes closed and drifting,

I travel back half-a-million years

to a river’s edge,

the lush forest echoing with bird song.

A high-pitched whine makes my jaw vibrate,

stirring a memory.

I can see my reflection, the fur-clad

hominid, rippling back from the water.

I put my agile fingers in my mouth

and wiggle a loose tooth.

The bloody tooth comes away

and I throw it in the river.

Lush ferns dance in the wind,

the river makes its running-water sound

as a woman’s voice floats down from

the blinding light overhead:

Can you sit up now and swish? 

PLOT DU JOUR

Main course on the flight today is

a mélange of locally shredded morals

roasted to irresistible perfection

on a steaming bed of sweetened lies,

drizzled with a soupçon

of the chef’s height-of-arrogance reduction

and slow-cooked in zesty conspiracy theory

for twelve hours with constant

stirring up of resentment and the addition

of fragrant excuses.

Sides include glazed facts infused with

a velvety topping of nut-based drivel.

BET ON THE LITTLE GUY

the odds are against us

not a fair fight when

tiny flies fuzz about

rope-a-doping us

our eyes barely follow

the loopy dancing

while their giant compound eyes

bird-dog us

big galumphing buffoons

telegraphing our jabs

they swerve and swoop

around our flailing arms

land on eyelids for a second

then away again

we slap ourselves on the head

imagine them laughing