Blake Visits the Aquarium
Octopus, octopus, sticking tight,
Though I pull with all my might;
What slimy, squishy deity
Could frame thy eight-fold symmetry?
Who coulda thunk, much less devise,
The ghoulish glimmer of thine eyes?
What ugly mood was he evoking?
When he made you, what was he smoking?
What's with the suckers? What's with the ink?
Why change colors—do you think
You look any better red than yellow?
You're still essentially wet jello!
Octopus, octopus, flee in fright,
To some dark hole, and well you might;
Your maker must have thought of thee,
While suffering gastrointestinally.
by Tom Schmidt
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After decades spent launching academic paper airplanes from ivory tower windows, Tom Schmidt now composes poems from the tree house he built above his bee-loud glade in central Vermont. His outlook is much improved. Now and then an editor likes his work, but more often his family and friends do, and that's a deeper satisfaction. His grandsons are more impressed that he can make authentic noises for eight different kinds of construction vehicles. And they love the tree house.