Octavian Octopus
lives In the sea
with eight long tentacles
to hug you and me

He spends his days
with Seahorse Sabrina
who dreams longingly
of being a ballerina

Octavian wants so much
to be like his crony
but sadly, all of his
dance moves are bologna.

Still he felt that
he needed to impress
his funky fresh pal
in the pretty pink dress

so for hours, Octavian
practiced his spins and his twirls
he even got a costume
with glittery frills


So came the day
of the big talent show
He could show old Sabrina
that he too, was a pro

But alas,
half way through his act
his big squirmy arms
got caught in a crack

He tripped and he stumbled
and fell off the platform
tears started to fall
and away, he started to storm

"Stop!" a voice shouted at him
and he turned around to see
his best friend Sabrina
giggling with glee

"the very best dancer,
you don't need to be
if you really want to
be friends with me"

He smiled and she laughed
"you're very cool, you silly-old-goof,
but just be yourself,
not a stumbling doof"

The Emperor Octavian, called the August,
I being his favorite, bestowed his name
Upon me, and I hold it still in trust,
In memory of him and of his fame.
I am the ******, and my vestal flame
Burns less intensely than the Lion’s rage;
Sheaves are my only garlands, and I claim
The golden Harvests as my heritage.

What I should have said
when Mike Whittle died, was
what a mighty man he was,
though small in stature,
yeah, how he set the students’
minds on fire.
Instead I said
he always jabbed himself with insulin
while we were having lunch
and I said that this was a literary tradition
like Polonius being stabbed in the arras
and Mark Antony falling on his sword after Actium
before Octavian could get there ahead of him.
And then I said that Antony's lover Cleopatra died
when she arranged to be bitten on her ***** by an asp.
And I thought I was a smart *** by saying
don’t get confused and think she was bitten on her asp.
Well, Mike and I did laugh about literary allusions,
along with all that insulin and his pancreas,
during all of those immortal lunches.
But what I should have said was that students
worshiped him, and they said that
‘he gave me my love of learning’.
Mike, you mighty little giant.
And how I loved that you could laugh when the admin staff
tried to cut you down because they hate popularity so much.
Those blasts of laughter in your classes
frightened them and they thought you were
an iconoclast. Oh Mike.  I love you, just like all your students.
That's what I should have said about
the gifts you gave us all in
Learn, Love and Laughter 101.
This is your immortal epitaph.

Mike T Minehan

I want, to be able pure poems to write,
To sleep near the sky like star gazers at night,
To dream near the belfries, enchanted and filled
By their solemn anthems diffused by the wind.
With chin cupped in hands from my attic to see
The workshop which chatters and sings and feels free;
The chimneys, the steeples, these masts of the town,
The skies making people in fancy to drown.

How nice is to see through the mists a star bright
And a lamp at the window, burning still in the night,
The rivers of coal rising up in the air,
The moon pouring down its pale charm everywhere.
The summers and autumns will quietly go;
When winter arrives with its white and dull snow
I'll close all the doors and pull down the blind
And build lofty castles at night in my mind.
I'll dream all the time of blue distant horizons,
Alabaster small fountains which weep in the gardens,
And kisses, and birds, chirping loudly and rife,
The pure love affairs we cherish in life.
The bustle, enticing, at the window will drum,
With my head on the desk, I shall sit still and numb,
For I'll dive in the sea of exquisite delight
Of evoking the spring with my will and my might,
Of bringing the sun near my heart and create
Of my fiery dreams an abode warm and great.

On a ridge so nice,
Nest of Paradise,
Here come in the end,
Down the ***** descend
Three white flocks in queue
And three shepherds, too,
From Moldavia land,
Transylvania land,
And from Vrancea land.
And the second one,
With the Vrancea's son,
Well, they schemed a lot
And devised a plot
At the end of day,
Merciless to slay
The Moldavian guy,
Richer – cant' deny –
For has many sheep,
Which are fair and leap,
Horses trained for ride,
And dogs full of pride.
But that ewe, so cool,
With a gray-white wool
Three days in a row
Spoke in a voice low,
And walked to and fro.
– O, gray little ewe
And with white wool, too,
Three days in a row
Spoke in a voice low!                    
Doesn't the grass grow
Or you're feeling blue,
My beloved ewe?
– O, my shepherd dear,
Bring your sheep down here
Near the woods today
Where we have much hay,
In the shade you'll stay.
Master, hear my clue,
Call a dog to you,
Bold and of good breed,
True to you, indeed,
For when night is near,
They will **** you, dear,
The Vrancea's mean son
And the other one!
–  My ewe with meek eyes         
If you are so wise
When you see me dead
On a foxtail bed,
Tell the Vrancea's son
And the other one    
To dig me a tomb
In this pasture's womb,
Near the pen for sheep
To bury me deep;
Or behind the logs
To hear all my dogs.            
Tell them what I say,
Near my head then lay
A pipe made of beech
Its nice song to reach,
A pipe made of bone,
With a doleful tone;
A pipe thin and real,
Which plays with much zeal!
Wind will sweep the grass
And through them will pass
All the sheep will flee
Here to cry for me
Shedding tears a sea!                
If I'm killed, don't run,
But tell everyone
I married one day
A queen far away,
The world's bride, I'd say;                  
At my wedding, tell
That a bright star fell;
That the moon and sun
Held my wreath for fun.            
Firs and oaks with nests
Were my lovely guests,
Priests, the mounts with herds,
Fiddlers, the wild birds,
Birdies stood to watch,
Stars shone like a torch!
And I'm asking thee
If one day you see
Old mom feeling down,
With a belted gown
Crying in despair,
Asking everywhere,
Shouting in the air:            
"People full of joy
Who has seen my boy
Shepherd proud and dear,
Slim and without fear?
His face soft as silk
And as white as milk;                  
His moustache so sweet,
Yellow ear of wheat;          
His hair combed with skill
Black like raven's quill;
His eyes deep and droll,
Two pieces of coal?”
You, my dearest sheep,
Pity her and weep
Then tell her somehow
That I'm married now
To a young queen nice,
There, in Paradise,                      
But don't give detail
To that mother frail,
That on wedding night
A star lost its light
Firs and oaks with nests
Were my lovely guests,
Priests, the mounts with herds,
Fiddlers, the wild birds,
Birdies stood to watch,
Stars shone like a torch!