For Aeneas and Aibhilin, at their Handfasting

Laird Colyne Stewart, September AS 38 (2003)

A cloud of fine flour floats in the air,

A clatter of platter, pot and tureen,

A hand that sprinkles, kneads and rolls with flare—

A master cook who seems, outward, serene;

But a bustling kitchen with but one cook,

It seemed too empty, too large and too vast,

Lacking was a partner, to share a taste

Of a love that like a good wine will last.

Now two happy chefs labour in the steam,

Chopping meat, grinding nuts and kneading bread,

Their lively hearts as light as fresh whipped cream;

A blazing oven warms their wedding bed.

Their love is a recipe for success,

May their long lives know naught but happiness.

Don Capo Plays Bocce (at Aeneas and Aibhilin’s Handfasting)

Colyne Stewart, Sep AS 38 (2003)

Four people stand upon the grass

And gaze upon the can of trash,

the white jake sparkles by the tin--

the one that all the trash is in.

The don, he stands in dinner coat,

his beard as manly as a goat's,

his tails flapping in the wind,

his knees bared bright above his shins.

In his hands are balls of green,

his eyes contracted, hard and mean,

he contemplates the weight and lay

of other balls laid in his way.

A burly arm is brought far back,

Hairy knuckles on the ball's hide crack,

Then like an ape upon the mound,

he rolls his sphere along the ground.

It leaps past foes and o’er the ditch

that makes the course into a bitch,

stops right beside the jake to rest

and we know the baron's balls are best.