Gus Feroni

A morning bike ride,

Can you not smell it too?

The soft, sweet smell

Of decay and growth

From the cherry trees?

The blossoms, no sooner

Full bloomed, than dying,

Their nectar rotting

Even as the bees come

To taste their glory,

Each nascent leaf

Deciding if it’s bud

Or blade: unsure,

Fresh clorophyll

Bursting from old growth

Just like my teenage boy.


I would not trade this old tree

For young twigs,

This worn bike

For oiled machinery,

You can keep

Your slow, calm path

And I will ride my way,

Sometimes unseated

By a passing tragedy,

Or crawling back

In the saddle to ride

Unheeded, scented lanes.



3 female scientists in lab coats

I sit upon the lavatory,

It’s absolutely fab

To think majestic thoughts, such as:

My bum’s a science lab!


A little poo ker-sploshes out,

It’s followed by a wee,

Then farts like thunder burst aloud!

I’m making chemistry!


I shout out from my toilet stall,

Out loud for all who pass:

Three states of matter have I here:

Solid, liquid, gas!



In the style of Dr. Seuss

Ink/watercolor of 2020 disasters: virus, death, wildfire, BLM protestors, etc

I read your gloomy tale

With my tail between my legs,

Like a Horton who is sitting

On another birdie’s eggs.


What a tale of doom and gloom!

What a tearful thing to read!

It was truly not auspicious,

Not a bless-ed year, indeed,


Twenty twenty wasn’t good,

Not for us, nor anyone.

It was not a Hatter’s party

And it wasn’t any fun.


As we start another year,

As we head off down the field,

Who knows what two-oh-two-one

Will definitively yield?


All I know is that we’re here,

That our family’s intact,

That we somehow stayed together

When it seemed that all was cracked.


Now we feel uniquely human,

And perhaps a little wiser,

Hoping last year was the final course,

And not the appetizer!



Beer bottles with viral spikes

We are young and strong and brave,

We heal without even a suture,

Yet we’re marching toward the grave.

It’s the certainty in our future.


In middle age, we know how to behave:

Sure of foot and knee and hip.

Yet we’re marching toward the grave,

Being careful we don’t trip.


If we’re lucky to reach an old age,

Our life…Death would love to purloin it.

We’ve got one foot in the grave,

And we don’t want the other to join it!



Drawing of a teddy bear


Throw out the stuffed bears

That have gathered dust

Under the bed



Keep bunny

Just because



Remove the fish and cow

From the wall



Take down the bunk bed

Symbol of sleepovers



Replace the pink drawers

That were your sister’s

And you’ve tolerated them

Long enough



Take up the rug

The one with roads and houses

For your cars

That still live in the pink drawers






For my mother

Mattress lying askew on bed

The sheets are all clean.

Arranged on the floor:

Three pillows, three cases,

A crumpled duvet,

Fitted sheet,

One bear.


We heave the thing

From one side,

Slide it off the other side

Of the bed.


Lift the heavy side up,

Standing upright,

Taller than either of us,

And walk it around the other way,

Trying not to slip.

Then line it up,

Cry, “Timber!”

As we let the great dead thing

Flail onto its base,

A cloud of unseen dust mites

No doubt circling round our heads.

Ease it into its resting place,

A giant slice of sandwich bread.



Gus Feroni

Gus Feroni

Gus loves to make people feel a little lighter through his poetry