Everyday Majestic Musings

Stand behind the yellow line.
Not blue like Klein, not red red wine, not puce-ish pink like calamine.
The sign declines divine design.
The sign enshrines thy storyline.

No deadline for a live line where a life line flatlines.
Not a dead line, a lifeline, this death line.
A bright line for a bloodline.
It's a foul line, this foul line,
a fell line, this fall line.
For some a goal line,
for all a front line.

We, the undefined undersigned, remind the plum wine inclined:
Please, stay well off the well-off line,
lest one's incline go supine,
one's plumb line turn minus sign,
one's outline make headlines.

For the saddest punch line outshines the sunshine:
"But doctor," the B whines,
"I am the train line!"

Pink puffs proliferate.
Boughs bend beneath their weight.
Blossoms bloom to captivate
buzzing bees that circulate
and congregate and pollinate
to help the cherries propagate.

Once upon a painted time, in a place known for its giant hearts,
where the houses stand shoulder to shoulder in solidarity,
proud of their colors, proud of each other, proud to be defiant parts
of the storied grid of bricks that, planned, older and older, wall this rare city
where a mishmash mesh of lights on lines
crisscross tightly aligned lanes
like ties that bind and intertwine
to bond with brother-loving chains.

A frog rides a swan in a brown bicorne hat.
The frog's in the hat, not the swan.
By which I mean that the frog's wearing the hat.
The swan has no hat to put on.

It dangles its toes. The frog, not the swan.
The swan's toes are hidden. Who knows if they're gone.
Swim the lake of St-Bernard, Col du Grand.
Cross the kelps, First Consul Tadpoleon.