Categories
Limericks Poems

March 2020 Poems

Les_Très_Riches_Heures_du_duc_de_Berry_mars
Paul Limberg – March, a part of The Très Riches Heures du Duc de Berry 

Contents
A Lover’s Rhyme
Courting Behavior
Late Last Night I Went to Bed
Love
Mayfly
Mr. Shaker the Undertaker
The Afghan
The Blind Man Who Saw Through Lies
The City Girl
The Coronavirus
The Fleet Girl
The Girl Who Did Handstands
The Gold Miner’s Industry
The Hollow Man and the Zealot
The Man of the Prairie
The Man Who Loved Beer
The Plainsman
The Political Scene
The Prison
The Proud Porcupine
The Restoration of Frost
The Ripps Go Fishing
The Three Magicians – The Amateur Magician
The Three Magicians – The Grim Magician
The Three Magicians – Playful Magician
To Make a Bed
Torture

 

A Lover’s Rhyme
On an autumn morning, chill and fair,
early snow slicks Istanbul’s cobblestones,
baklava scents the Bosphorus air,
and caressing lovers lie as bare as bones.

Leafless branches reticulate the Charles Bridge,
while wind knots the old square’s fog;
crows stare balefully from Saint Vitus’ ridge,
and lovers vanish in the shadows of Prague.

One spring day in the serried Balkans,
where the granite rises in a sagittate spine,
amidst meadows and wildflowers two lovers lie talking,
deaf to the world in the midst of that chine.

Each lover’s story is like a scene in an arras,
woven by hand from Kabul to Paris,
in the dells, the cities, and the lands in between,
where time doesn’t matter in the weave of the scene.

 

Courting Behavior
There once was a jester in court
For whom punning was his favorite sport
He said to the queen
Now I think it’s obscene
The way that you move in your court.

 

Late Last Night I Went to Bed
Late last night I went to bed
And tentacles crawled around my head
They pulled me deep
Into my sleep
The tentacles around me curled
And pulled me to another world
One with dreams and nightmares real
With swimming sharks and snakes and eels
With valley floors with heads of stone
With dancing skeletons made of bone
With burning coals and fires blue
You know these lands, for you’ve slept too.

I stood atop a rocky spire
And looked upon the world entire
I saw winged creatures gold and black
And leapt from the spire to one’s back
It sailed with me past ticking clocks
And places where mermen lived in rocks
And then I fell from that beast’s back
And plunged and plunged into the black
A cyclops hairy, vast and great,
Roared that I’d be the next thing he ate
His voice rolled off the cave walls as he spoke
And remained in my mind after I awoke.

 

Love
The cities are shaking with the rumble of traffic
It seems like half the birds are missing toes
The sunbeam on her face makes her look seraphic
Laying amongst the bedsheets, wearing no clothes.

It’s a cold water flat and the sink’s always dripping
The winter sun’s horizontal, weak, and cold
There’s snow on the sidewalks, people are slipping,
And it seems that, long ago, the city’s heart was sold.

Then he turns her head, and he kisses her lips
She wraps her arms around him, sees his eyes above;
She spreads her legs and lifts her hips,
And in the cold and lonely city, they fall to making love.

A short time later, and already they’re both old and grey.
That’s just the way time goes, just the way life is.
They grew together and grew their own way
Till not even they knew what was hers and what was his.

Because on that day, all those years ago, they traded hearts.
He gave her his, and she gave him hers,
And he said, “Life is made of new beginnings and old parts,
But what I have you can have, and what is mine is yours.”

And she took what he had, and she gave herself to him.
They gave each other everything; nothing did they save,
Sharing the thoughtful moment, and the slightest whim,
Until there was nothing they could give, that they hadn’t already gave.

 

Mayfly
In the pond, between brown trout and rock dove,
Spawns the short-lived mayfly,
Who, like brief life and yet briefer love,
Exists for a revolution and then does die.

Between the head of the path and its end,
Whether it be hard stone or soft dirt,
Whether it lies straight or climbs and bends,
In life, in love, there is pain, and there is hurt.

We are mayflies, alive for but a brief time,
Inhabitants together of these strange parts;
Why, then, should we give our prime
To anything but what is dearest to our hearts?

 

Mr. Shaker the Undertaker
Old Mr. Shaker was the town’s undertaker
And to see him marked a very dark day
He’d wrap you in sheets, burn you in heat,
Or embalm you in formaldehyde.
Old Mr. Shaker would pack you off to your maker
And he’d whistle as he went by in his ride.
He was the one not to meet if you passed in the street
For he measured you up with his eye
He’d say to himself, This man’s six feet, two hundred,
Why just think if he’s sundered—
I’d have the perfect shape casket for him!
Or maybe he’d think speculatively,
It’d be droll if consecutively
The Anderson triplets came in!
For the girl with blonde locks
I’d find a blonde box
And for the middle child with parted hair…
Now him, I’d dissect with great care!
I’d take his heart to Kentucky
To a transplant that’s lucky
Then I’d attend the Run for the Roses…
I’d send his brain to D.C.
So the politicians could see
The organ they should use when they speak!
I’d send his arms to the Navy
For times wet and wavy
So they’d have two more appendages to swim
I’d send some blind man his eyes
So that he’d realize
The colors of the world he lived in
And that last Anderson child,
The most beautiful and mild,
I’d have her embalmed for all time.
I’d drain all of her veins
And I would go to great pains
To ensure she was properly styled.
Then like a man with a truck who is mounting a duck
I’d find her a space over the fireplace
And affix her there as the revered child.
And if in a thousand years she’s forgotten
At least she’s not rotten
Although I wouldn’t want to say how she’d smell…
Old Mr. Shaker was a versatile undertaker
And he had been for a good while
He was at once butcher and baker
And beauty-maker
In his mortuary made of green tile.

 

The Afghan
A boy was once born in Afghanistan
Near the peak of a Hindu Kush mountain
He came during a short, gentle spring
To a mother who would sing
And he became a kind and gentle man.

 

The Blind Man Who Saw Through Lies
There once was a man with no eyes
Who nevertheless saw very well through most lies
Whether the lies were subtle or bald
And whether they soothed or appalled
Before the blind man they had no disguise.

 

The City Girl
There once was a girl born in the city
In a neighborhood both dark and gritty
Her mother gave her books and red bows
Her father called her his lovely rose
And she grew up to be both bright and pretty.

 

The Coronavirus
There once was a coronavirus
And news of it did much to tire us
All the games were postponed
And the children sent home
So the disease’s demise was desirous.
March 12th, 2020: President Trump cancels flights from Europe due to COVID-19, popularly called the coronavirus. The following day, the NBA postpones its season, following a positive test from Utah Jazz player, Rudy Gobert.

 

The Fleet Girl
There once was a girl with no feet
Who nevertheless was really quite fleet
She raced an arrogant man
Who sneered as he ran
Until he lost by a foot in the street!

 

The Girl Who Did Handstands
There once was a girl with no hands
Who nevertheless loved doing handstands
She’d stand on the stumps of her wrists
As if they were fists
And wave her legs in the air for her fans!

 

The Gold Miner’s Industry
Under the naphtha torch’s light lie tailings of ore.
Shadows flicker on a collapsed mine shaft
Which fell one night like a melancholy piano score
On men whose lungs tore each time they laughed.

And here the mercury man’s shop stands on mud.
His skin’s peeling off. His ankles are deathly thin.
He washes gold in a mercury-filled pan of wood
Then sets that metal in fire to burn away its silver skin.

What will become of him?
He will work for little, until he dies.
He will lie, cold and grim,
Amid the gold that draws our eyes.

 

The Hollow Man and the Zealot
The hollow man and the zealot lay skylighting the vast desert on their stomachs
watching for anything mobile and columnular, squinting into the waves of heat
and the low hellfire sun which dipped crepuscular like a ball of blood.
Above the crest of the world the sun hung suspended, huge and balanced,
and the men fell in to watching it as if towed by a riptide into Andromeda and Ursula seas.
It set in a neon cataclysm, banded the faroff mesas, until all else became parentheticals and mud.

When the moon came out, it came out vanilla and strong
like the sunless flowering of night blooming jasmine
while from the distance rode a backlit man not deadtired nor horseworn before the floating circle
and the hollow man whose diction was three parts doggerel, whiskey, and graveyardsong
rasped smokily I tell thee wait; I have the time, the time.
He slid from under his belly a heavy revolver and spinning its cylinder made ready to kill.

Can’t hardly wait whispered the zealot who like all unwise men was mercurial
and who braided with such characteristic the strains of violence, insecurity, and assumption
and so saying he ran his hand through his short black hair as was his habit
and tendered the necklace of bleached doe’s teeth he wore for motives superstitious and bestial.
At a canter the rider lifted off his hat in that lonesome waste and the zealot spat in derision.
Hush hush hush! rasped his companion Hold your nerves and spit!

The rider came along across the shale, through the dwarf scrog and a crowd of desert bats
looking like some classical and celestial organism astride his white horse.
He wore a bandolier braced with bullets, pistols in his belt, a rifle across his back,
rode with the drumming energy of a raw heart while wondrousstar-staring as if the Leonids were at that
moment showering. He rode as if nothing lay or had ever lain in his course.
He rode as if, if he chose, he could empower a man to paint his godless world black.

The hollow man lay his thumb on the hammer of the revolver, cocking till it clicked and held.
He sighted along the barrel; just after he pulled the trigger the man popped crazy off his horse
and the hollow man seeing such sight rose and fired again and the horse fell
and so seeing turned his back and walked from that deathquilt without looking to see its pattern.
The zealot rose fingering his toothy necklace giggling at such dreadnought wanton force
then followed the hollow man, vanishing deep into the cobalt lit mesas and scrub chaparral.

The zealot and the hollow man sat sitting round a fire surrounded by soaring mountains
and near them sagged a dilapidated church, a steepled shack, with three rotten wooden steps
and inside: bare rafters termite ridden floorboards and a baptismal font of rose porphyry
carried by the zealot’s jackass through the metamorphosed and steep passes of the mountains,
and the hollow man sung singing, All the wicked man’s foibles and vile contretemps
the wicked man’s sins, the wicked man’s deeds, I make for free. I make for free. I have for thee.

And without a warning, the hollow man pulled from his holster his revolver and, aiming it at the zealot,
fired the gun six times in lethargic lethal succession and when the zealot dropped dead
the hollow man emptied the cylinder, refilled it with bullets, and left the fire burning,
for at his core he was empty, not full of hate, nor vengeance, nor malice, nor rot,
but full of no emotion, neither melancholic nor apathetic, just a husk of humanity in dread
shape with only a penchant for the spoken word and any skeletal song he might be heard to sing.

 

The Man of the Prairie
A boy was once born on the prairie
In a bleak night’s blizzard in January
The drifts blew high against posts
And the wind howled like wild ghosts
He grew to be a hard man and solitary.

 

The Man Who Loved Beer
There once was a man who loved beer
And he drank till he was filled up to his ears
He hiccuped and laughed
And said, That’s a mighty fine draft!
I think that I’ll drink it all year!

 

The Plainsman
He’s a true plainsman
With dreams bigger than the town
And when the city limits expand
The plains dwindle down.

There used to be bison on those plains
But they vanished years ago
Then so did the rains
With the water in the arroyo.

He can see the ghosts of cattle
In herds of ten thousand head
Now there’s no more than the rattle
Of a snake in this homestead.

There’re no fences in his mind
Outside there’s wire running every mile
The unbounded country was lined,
Developed, and made infertile.

The prairie land
Once unpenned
Waves wheat like a hand
To an early untimely end.

His last sight of the plain
Is with a helpless glance
Like the land is a missed train
Vanishing in the distance.

 

The Political Scene
There once was a political scene
Where politicians were awful and mean
They loved to berate and to hate
And when they called themselves great
The people wished they’d get COVID-19.

 

The Prison
He sat as the only prisoner beneath the low hanging ceiling with a drip
in the humid cell with the small barred window that looked into the jungle,
and he looked in at the captain who struck a match for the cigarette between his lips
while outside the rain splashed into the ferns and the dense vines’ tangles.
The captain was leaning back in his chair, and he was playing solitaire
with a pack of dog-eared cards as a ceiling fan spun slowly overhead
like a child pushing against a mountain, for the fan could not move the heavy air,
while the rain poured down in drops as big as grapes and as heavy as lead.

The prisoner knew that in this prison there was no time or meaning to life
that the thing to do was to survive with as little pain as one could manage,
and the captain coughed after he exhaled and set the matchstick near his knife
then set his chair down and laid his elbows on the table, rickety with age.
The captain turned over his card, and the prisoner watched with interest
for there was nothing to do in the monotony except to stare,
like living in the doldrums on the sea, and it seemed killing time was best
so the prisoner watched as the captain leaned back again in his chair.

The captain studied his cards, and he took the cigarette out and exhaled.
The smoke drifted up to the ceiling fan, and the fan dispersed the smoke,
then the captain laced his fingers behind his head, for his interest had failed,
and the prisoner glanced down and fingered his shoelace, which was broke.
Then the prisoner knew the electricity went out because the fan slowed and stopped,
but there was no change in the captain, so the prisoner lay back on his bed
and listened to the dull music of water as the rain continued to drop;
there was no wind, and there were no thoughts in the prisoner’s head.

Far in the distance came the deep whoomping sound of a mortar being fired,
so the prisoner lifted his head, and he glanced at the captain
but the captain hadn’t moved; he either hadn’t heard or was just too tired,
and the prisoner glanced around gloomily at the cell he was trapped in.
It was made of stone and cement and contained a toilet, a sink, and a bed.
The bed was a mattress without box springs, sheets, or pillows,
and on that mattress the prisoner lay again, his hands beneath his head
and considered briefly, without contrition, the paths that he once chose.

Six months ago, a white woman had entered the prison, and the captain stood straight,
and the prisoner spoke in his broken English to make the woman smile,
and after the translator interviewed him, the prisoner knew she had come too late,
for the prisoner felt her presence not as a warmth but as a kind of wicked trial.
And it used to be that on Fridays, the captain would serve them both coffee.
The captain would sit next to his cell and hand the coffee through the bars,
sometimes they would play cards and even talk in a way that was almost free
and the prisoner learned that his jailer, too, was a prisoner of the long hours.

Now the captain leaned back in his chair with his eyes shut, and the prisoner slept,
and there were no sounds except the steady drumming of the rain.
Whoever fired the mortar did not fire it again, and the peace was kept,
and the electricity returned, so the fan began to turn again,
then the captain opened his eyes, he lit another cigarette with a match,
and he shook the match’s flame out with a few flicks of his wrist
and the captain considered the loneliness of his official watch
and put out of his mind those chances that he had always missed.

 

The Proud Porcupine
There once was a proud porcupine
Who was well pleased with his needles and spines
One winter he became ill
And he lost all his quills
Now he’s sad because he looks like a swine.

 

The Restoration of Frost
The Restoration of Frost is, so far as I know, the only mystery to ever be written in the form of a terza rima.  A terza rima is a kind of a poem that uses a rhyme in the pattern ABA BCB CDC DED, and so on.  The form was made popular by an Italian, Dante Alighieri, who wrote a terza rima poem which included the seven circles of Hell.  It was called The Divine Comedy.

My poem, The Restoration of Frost, tells the story of a cynical, hardboiled detective whose name is Frost.  One day, the wife of a diamond merchant comes to Frost, and she tells him that her husband was murdered by the butler, that the diamonds have been stolen, and that the butler has disappeared.  The police have proven powerless, and she believes that the hard-drinking Detective Frost is her last hope.

Illustrations by Amanda Güereca.

Restoration of Frost Illustration 1

He sits up nights with whiskey, learning French,
in a lonely apartment amongst sirens,
squalling sounds, swindling, and a human stench.

Alouette, je te plumerai … each pin,”
he mutters, “Fall naked from the sky, bird,
into men’s cold cities and thrice-damned dens.”

Outside the sun rises: pale, weak, obscured;
even as the man sets, sinks in his drink,
as the moon wanes, and the night is interred.

Sewers exhale their smoke; trashmen, their stink;
Madmen envision grey futures of death;
the sun shades the city sky orange and pink.

The rousted city draws its first morning breath.
It lifts itself from quotidian sleep,
aciers son esprit, et se déroule son fouet.

Yet the man, with his head on his hands, sleeps,
the unstoppered glass bottle beside him:
king of his castle, captive of his keep.

Then comes a knocking: hard and fast and grim.
“What?” mutters the man. “Who’s there? At this time?
I warn you, faults are thick where love is thin.”

“Open up! There’s been a terrible crime!
My husband’s lying dead, dead on our floor!
Ash and dust extracted from the sublime!

Are you Detective Frost?”
—“Not anymore.”
“But you once were? Detective Frost, that is?”
The man opens, just a crack, his front door.

“That was another life. What’s your name, Ms.?”
“Emily King. Can you investigate?”
She is a woman of puffy eyelids,

her mane of hair seems to be half her weight;
she wears short heels and a Desigual dress,
and sways like a pendulum oscillates.

“The police,” she says, “Have made no progress.
My love’ll be buried, to rest in peace;
his warm largesse became cool emptiness.

He is beyond the clergy and police;
he’s at the disposal of God’s great will.
And our lost wealth was in a worn valise,

but can be regained by a man with your skill.
I’ve heard you were once great. Almost divine.
So help me. Please. Come on, say that you will.

I’m in my hour of need—”
—“Stop,” he signs.
“I’m not the shadow of the man I was.
I’m a drunk now. I live like listless swine.

I’m not who you want, if I ever was.”
“Well for God’s sake, at least open the door.”
“You’ll just see straight whiskeys and neat vodkas.”

“Open the door! Damn it! Open the door!
All the way! Not just a crack! Look at me!”
He swings the door open halfway, then more.

There is a silence as he blinks and sees.
There she stands in the shabby corridor,
flickering like a candle in the breeze.

“Fine. Let me get my coat from off the floor.
It’s a bitter dawn, made worse by the cold,
and my intent to restart what I forswore.”

He mutters as he walks, “Where’s my billfold?
Where’s my coat and my hat and my resolve?
Time never brought wisdom, just made me old.”

“How long will this mystery take to solve?”
she calls, “How long till the criminal’s nicked?”
“Damn it,” he mutters, “I shouldn’t be involved.”

He calls back, “Impossible to predict.”
Silence. Then, “Can I call you Detective Frost?”
He mutters, “You can call me ‘Derelict.’

Or maybe even ‘Detective Well Sauced.’”
But he calls, “Yeah. Yeah, you can call me that.
Look, let’s go. I think my damn billfold’s lost.”

He walks out the door, putting on his hat,
leaving the front door unlocked behind him.
“You’re not locking up the door of your flat?”

“Lady, inside my place, pickings are slim.
Any robber is welcome to my trash.
Now, let’s go.” And he pulls down his hat brim.

The drive takes them past tall maples and ash,
along a quiet, winding road near cliffs
and views that overlook winter’s panache.

The houses in this part seem formal, stiff.
Quiet monsters that look down and glower,
giving the peons a conceited sniff.

“These places give fine looks to wealth’s power,”
says he. “I don’t like ’em.” There’s no reply.
They enter her drive, pass a stone tower.

Frost asks, “Why didn’t the guards raise a cry?”
“We think,” she says, “It was an inside job.
“William is missing with no alibi.

William is the butler and is macabre.
His sense of humor always disturbed me,
But he seemed cleaner than the pope’s façade.

His bad humor was the sole fault to see.
So we kept him… To my endless regret!”
“Hm. Tell each detail of last night to me,”

says Frost. “Any trifle may be an asset.
I must know the times, the places, all things.
Don’t withhold anything from your vignette.”

“My husband was known as a diamond king:
Michael was the CEO of DeBeers,
a job which brought us wealth and its trappings.

Last night, he got a shipment from Algiers,
a shipment worth fourteen million dollars,
which were to be bought by Dubai’s emirs.

Maintenance, by the company installer,
on the office safe, made that place unfit
for even the care of a prize much smaller.

Needless to say, Michael abandoned it.
He brought the diamonds home in a valise:
a small, innocuous, brown leather kit.

He told no one of the stones in the piece.”
“Then how did you know what was in the bag?”
“Well, he told me, of course, to keep the peace.”

“To keep the peace?”
—“I asked about the bag.
I thought it might be linked with a tryst.”
“Geld a stallion and you’re left with a nag.”

“Oh please! Men are pigs! True men don’t exist.
Some men are true to infidelity,
but that’s all. The honest man is like a mist:

looks white, but he’s gone with day’s clarity.
So Michael showed me diamonds in the purse,
diamonds of unusual rarity.

He said to me in a voice quite terse,
‘Don’t say a word of this to anyone;
Its loss would be too great to reimburse.

I’m revealing this out of affection,
trust in our partnership, and profound love.’
These words must have caught William’s attention.

He was passing on a small walkway above,
one used for that room’s second floor of books.
He’d been, I fear, overhead like a dove.

‘What’d you see with your stealthy, furtive looks?’
Michael asked.
—‘Nothing, just sorting the shelves.’
‘That little lie puts me on tenterhooks,’

Michael whispered to me. ‘Between ourselves
let’s not let that valise out of our sight.’
Then, ‘Will! Em and I want the house to ourselves!

Go on home, my man, and have a nice night!’
Then, in a whisper, ‘Better if he’s gone.’
Then, louder, ‘And see that your mouth’s zipped tight!’

Will came down from the walkway he was on,
gave us a little bow, and left the room.”
“Did he leave the house, not just the salon?”

“I can’t be sure. I can only assume.
I assume that he left; we did not check.
Then I guess he returned, through the sunroom.

The door was ajar, accessing the deck.”
“Tell me where your husband’s body was found.
In the sunroom? In the study? On the deck?”

“I found him in the hall, dead on the ground.
I had heard a scream, rushed out; a door closed.
It clicked softly shut with a fatal sound.

Mike was just unconscious, I first supposed.
I ran to him, neglecting the thief’s escape.
I saw piano wire, his neck exposed,

long lacerations across that landscape
of innocent flesh and beloved skin.
His mouth was lying horribly agape;

his lips were purple, his face white and thin.
His eyes stared into a world beyond ours.
All that was left was what might have been.

I screamed for what seemed to be hours
I then rushed to the door and found it locked,
but heard the window of that damned tower

pushed open hard by the one being stalked.
Then I saw diamonds scattered on the floor.
Then clearly as sun shines I could concoct

the whole scene as if I’d seen it before:
Mike was garroted by piano wire;
the killer had hid behind the hall door,

and when Michael had tried to retire,
the craven killer sprang out, strangled him,
and stole the valise that he did desire.

Michael’s screams—telling, bloodcurdling, grim—
brought me running from my chamber too late
with just time to hold him to my bosom,

to see my man forever insensate,
and the door of the study being locked,
and to feel on my heart a doleful weight.

Oh heaven, Detective Frost! I’ve been mocked
by a cruel fate and damned to lonely life:
all paths were open, now they are all blocked.

The servants entered, and, sharp as a knife,
the maid called the police, and the driver,
who kept his mind calm in this bloody strife,

ordered the grounds closed to that conniver.
‘The window!’ I cried, ‘I heard it opened!’
Bless the soul of the quick-thinking driver,

he said, ‘Will cannot get out! He happened
in his dark escape into a high room
in which he is now surely imprisoned:

to leap from that place would spell certain doom.
No, he must still be inside that study;
his quickest refuge shall be his fastest tomb.’

We waited in that place of perfidy,
like a hunter waits for dangerous prey,
near to the body, lifeless and bloody.

When the police came before the break of day,
they forced the door. But the room was empty!
The detectives checked for another way

that the criminal might have gotten free.
There is a drainpipe along the house wall,
but it is connected only weakly,

and any climber would certainly fall;
the frail pipe would tear away from the house,
and gravity would wrap him in his pall.

And the ground is soft. Not even a mouse
could escape without leaving a footprint.
Yet no impressions were without the house.

Further inquiry yielded not a hint.
The detectives left for other business.
And that is why I’ve asked you to represent

my side in this perplexing and anxious
matter, which seems so simple but is not.
The man, William, killed my husband, backless

in his fell execution. Then he sought
refuge in a room without an escape
except for a window whose height cannot

be negotiated by man or ape,
and yet when the door, locked on the inside,
was forced, there was within no living shape.

But there was not a single place to hide!
Where’s William? Murderer of my husband?
Thief, assassin, evil personified!”

“One thing’s sure,” says Frost, “Nothing will be banned
from the net of inquiry. All’s open.
Your account’s been near all I could demand.

Yet some questions remain. When all seemed done,
did the cops lock the door before leaving?
Could William have escaped from his bastion?”

“The detectives locked the door, perceiving
that if Will were inside, he could well flee.”
“And yet, while the cops were conceiving

that such a bold escape could come to be,
still they departed the scene of the crime?
Such actions seem, to be frank, unseemly.”

“Further inquiry was a waste of time,
was what the shrugging detectives told me.”
“Well, they’ve left us the work of muck and grime;

we’ll be on our own,” Frost replies blithely.
“Ah,” says Ms. King, “We have arrived at last.”
The mansion looms behind a copse of trees,

its wings spread, like a dark bat’s, wide and vast.
Great windows look, from behind the old copse,
inward: shared wine and spilled blood, dry at last.

The great home stands on a cliff’s rocky tops;
grey granite underlays its foundation.
Their car crunches gravel up to the door, stops.

Frost gets out. “I’d like an examination.”
“Certainly, my late husband is inside.
He has not been moved from his location.”

“Ms. King, I’ll begin my research outside.”
“Uhhh, as you wish. But the detectives said—”
“Ma’am, seasoned sailors trust but wind and tide;

they pay no mind to what the lubbers said.
This William left us with the silent dead,
So I’ll go where my thoughts will have me led.

I’ll see the clues, and ensure they’re well read.
Now, the wildest fires may start with sparks,
so keep vigilant; there’s danger ahead.

This scene could become the darkest of darks—
Yet still I’ll tell you, ‘Stay hopeful, Ms. King’:
even the softest killers leave their marks.

I’ll find the thief, the killer, the cruel thing.”
“In a time when everything has gone cold,
you’ve made winter’s white death show signs of spring.

Thanks. Some kind words are more precious than gold.
There’s in brave substances a common core:
invisible to the eye, lovely to behold,

in those that cast not their shadows before,
those who walk with their faces to the sun,
like heroes who stand ready at the fore.”

“I ain’t all that. I’m just a mother’s son.
Now go inside, stand your guard with the rest,
and I’ll work. Sooner began, sooner done.”

Detective Frost watches her leave, “What’s guessed
at in the darkness, without facts,” he states,
“Is a surmise which must be reassessed.

I won’t give her story an ounce of weight,
till I’ve confirmed the empirical facts:
the fox won’t tell of the chickens he ate,

and the stuff of greed is what honesty lacks.
I’ll take her story with a grain of salt,
til I see the grounds and scene of attack.”

Walking over wet leaves, puddles, and gault,
his eyes wandering over the edifice,
walking fast at times, now making a halt,

Frost strolls the grounds: solemn, thoughtful, cheerless.
He ambles to the foot of the mansion
where a drainpipe of uncommon thinness

descends from the rooftop then does run
past a window large enough for a man.
Frost shakes the pipe, which almost comes undone,

for the pipe is affixed by no more than
three rusting brackets of uncertain strength
from where Frost stands to where the pipe begins.

“Hm,” says Frost, “And most certainly the length
of the drop from the window to the ground
supports an extent of her narrative’s length.

Nor are there strange indentures to be found.
The ground is too soft not to be impressed;
the mud testifies: Ms. King’s account’s sound.

Now, let’s see what eggs the bird has in her nest.
In a woman’s home is her façade found,
and in her unreadable heart: the rest.

Detective Frost strolls quietly around
to the massive front door, which he enters.
He strides up the staircase that’s marble bound

with red and white tiles like blood in winter.
On the second floor, Frost finds the servants
and Ms. King waiting. “Not to the sprinter

will go this race, but to the observants,”
Frost says, nodding approvingly, “Patience
can be more opportunistic than chance.”

“We have stayed at our proper assignments,”
says one man tiredly. “It’s been a long night.”
“I believe Ms. King said you had good sense,”

says Frost, “You’re the driver, if I am right?”
“That’s right, I am. And my name is Michael.
We’ve been waiting outside this room all night.

We’ve been sleepless and angry and watchful.
The door of this study has not opened;
It’s not admitted nor dismissed a soul.”

“I’ll do my best to bring this to an end,”
Frost replies. “And see your care rewarded.
I must now see Mr. King’s tragic end.

Ms. King? Could you lead me to the blest dead?”
Ms. King wordlessly points to a sheet
that covers the corpse like a sad shroud’s spread.

Detective Frost walks to the corpse’s feet,
then steps forward, and he pulls back the cloth.
Mr. King’s face is placid, his look neat.

“Is there much to see?” Ms. King, her voice wroth.
Frost examines the neck’s lacerations,
“No, but with little meat we must make much broth.”

Then he says gently, “My consolations.”
He tenderly covers the departed.
Frost stands. “Another examination

of this puzzling study must be started.
Who has the key? Please, let’s open the door;
we’ll see if the law has been outsmarted.”

Ms. King produces the key, “Yes, let’s explore
the interior of this baffling room;
time’s come: we won’t find what we don’t search for.”

Ms. King inserts the key of the room,
turns the lock, then she enters the chamber.
Detective Frost follows into the gloom,

flicks the lights, says, “Let’s see what did occur.”
The illuminated room contains books,
a desk, a globe, a humidor of fir,

liquor bottles, paintings, knick-knacks, and nooks.
“All these things,” Frost says, “That I now see, were
in their same place before? Anything look

out of the ordinary? Or disturbed?”
“No,” she says, “Everything is in its place.”
“Well, all right,” says Frost, not a bit perturbed.

He examines the walls, books, and shelf space.
He walks to the window, gauges the drop,
pulls the pane on its hinges, steps back a pace.

Then he pauses to consider the chase.
He looks from the door to the room’s window,
passes his eyes over a standing vase,

mutters, “Where, indeed, could this killer go?”
reviews the room again, opens desk drawers,
and does, on Ms. King, a doubtful glance throw.

“Ms. King, if you’ll permit, I’ll step outdoors.”
“Do you have any clues, Detective Frost?”
“I have hopes. Michael and maids, guard the doors.

Don’t open or close them at any cost.”
With those words, Frost sweeps out of the study.
He heard the doors being shut as he crossed

the hall, past the shroud and body bloody,
then down the marble stair, and out the door.
“Not sure how to clear a case so muddy,”

he mutters, “Or which line to next explore.”
Frost pulls from his coat a Haitian cigar,
sits on a bench, brings his thoughts to the fore.

“What dark things were illumed ’neath night’s dark star?”
he wonders aloud, as he considers
the night’s events, and lights up his cigar.

“And those diamonds—sweet smelling, but bitter!
How’d the lady play her game? Fair or foul?
was it the sparkling stones that undid her?

Or… is her tale true as the hoot of an owl?
I shall just take time to review the facts…”
He sits; the smoke wreathes his head like a cowl.

He puffs and puffs: the cigar glows, reacts.
The smoke swirls in thick clouds around his head,
then wafts, by a breeze laden with bees-wax,

through brisk air, where it then dissipated.
Frost frowns. He stares thoughtfully at the smoke.
He looks at his cigar, wrinkles his forehead.

He looks again at the slow, drifting smoke.
He purses his lips, uncrosses his legs;
overhead rustle the leaves of an oak,

“I’m deep in the bottle, but not the dregs,”
says Frost, “I have one creative idea.
Shipwrecked sailors can still feel their sea legs,

just as I, a ruined hound, can still smell a
scent. I will smoke my coffin nail indoors,
and I will test the strength of my idea.”

Frost strides inside along the marble floors.
He ascends posthaste up the spacious stairs,
enters the hall, makes for the study doors,

past Michael, Ms. King, and the maids’ stares,
all while puffing madly on the cigar.
He shuts the room’s windows against the air.

“Leave the door open and stay where you are!”
he commands, sitting at Mr. King’s desk,
raising his chin, sending smoke near and far.

“Mr. Frost!” says Ms. King, “This is grotesque!
Get it together—don’t smoke in my place!
This is a somber scene, not a burlesque!”

“This smoke is needed for solving the case!”
Indeed, as Ms. King, Detective Frost, Mike,
and the others watch, the smoke slowly traces

to the wall, then drifts through a crack, ghost-like.
“My God,” Ms. King whispers.
—“Shh!” orders Frost.
“Don’t let the mouse see what the cat looks like!”

Frost motions to Mike and the maids, “No cost
is too high to pay for the man within;
he’ll readily ensure your lives are lost.

Between careless and care, let caution win!
The butler’s hidden in a secret space;
he’s behind the wall where the smoke got in.

The smoke was drafted to that hidden place.
His secret was betrayed by air currents;
so little reveals such a huge disgrace.

But I suspect he has no deterrent
to forced entry; his weapon was wire,
swiftly snatched in a mood black and fervent.

But come danger, we shall fight fire with fire.
Had he shown restraint, so would we now.
Both crooked and straight wood burn alike in fire,

so beware: righteousness earns no golden crown.
We shall take him by surprise, Mike and I,
but we may need you all to take him down.

Are you set? If so, stay. If no: Goodbye.”
“We’re set,” whisper the maids.
—“And I,” says Mike.
“All’s well if he’s in hell, so says I,”

says Ms. King. “While the iron’s hot—we strike!”
“All for one, one for all,” says Detective Frost.
“We’ll break through the wall as a hammer’s like,

fight him till he’s taken or we’re all lost;
we’ll never quit, never capitulate,
until that sinister arachnid’s lost!

On the count of three, no one hesitate,
we’ll put our shoulders to the dummy wall,
then wed the devil to his absent mate.

Ready? One, two, three! Shoulders to the wall!”
Ms. King, Mike, Detective Frost, and the maids
throw themselves against the study’s false wall.

The wall collapses beneath their combined weights,
as they crash into a dim compartment,
where dust thickens like fog in humid glades.

Cringing at the force of their bombardment,
is William the butler, valise in hand,
whose blood-stained hands tell of his dark event.

The five raiders untangle, try to stand,
as William beats at them with the valise,
and deals them blows with his bloody free hand.

Detective Frost, shouting, “Death makes good peace!”
launches himself at his deadly opponent
and begins beating him into pieces.

“Stop! Stop!” cries William, quailing, curled, and bent.
“Never!” roars Detective Frost, “I’m feeling good!
My life is becoming your punishment!”

“Stop! Stop! I’d take it back, if I could!
I’d have left the wire, forgot the rocks,
I’d have gone on home, as I knew I should!”

“The past is only a number on clocks!”
cries Ms. King, “You can’t bring my husband back!
What’s done is done, now our judgment talks!”

“Enough!” shouts Michael, “We’ve won the attack.”
He pulls Frost off of William, as Frost shouts,
“I haven’t had enough man! Hold me back!”

So Mike stands between Frost and the mad rout,
and Frost, a moment later, breathes deeply.
Mike says, “Stand up, Will; we’re taking you out.”

“That poisonous cobra got off cheaply!”
exclaims Ms. King.
—“There’s more to come,” Mike states.
“The judicial fangs will sink more deeply.

But come on, Will, you’re going to Hell’s gates.”
Detective Frost and Mike tug Will to his feet,
as Ms. King phones the police’s heavyweights.

They wait calmly for the police fleet,
resting in the study, hardly speaking,
till Ms. King asks, “How’d you solve it so neat?”

“While outside, I saw the cigar smoke drifting,
and I thought that result would happen as well,
if something was here to do the drafting,

such as a small crack from a secret cell.
I didn’t think the killer had left the house,
but he’d hidden himself so very well

that it was like catching the squeak of a mouse.
I feel like William probably observed
Michael use this hidden room in the house,

and, though the butler, himself he served
more truly than members of this sad place.”
“Take these three clear diamonds, richly deserved,

as my thanks for solving this opaque case.
I believe that you redeemed your name as well:
stumbling out the blocks, but winning the race.
Although I’m shocked to hear the tale you tell.”

As to my reputation’s return, only time will tell.
Frost replies. “But I’m not surprised, my green clientele:
I’ve seen worse in the past, more malevolent and fell.
Greed’s a terrible driver, if released from its cell;
it’s a cold-blooded killer, if it’s not thwarted well.
Better a closet in heaven than a kingdom in Hell.”

Restoration of Frost Illustration 2

 

The Ripps Go Fishing
Brutus was a child of ten.
He spat at cats and stabbed dogs with pins.
Mr. Ripps, his father, was a wealthy man
And spoiled him as only true fools can.
So Brutus got whatever he pleased,
Till his teachers wished he’d get diseased.
Now life went on in this unpleasant vein
Till the school year stopped and holidays came.
Then the Ripps flew to the Caribbean sea
To do some fishing and be carefree.
They booked a place on a charter boat
Where the crew were hard enough to cut your throat.
Captain Burner was the toughest of all.
He was harder (and meaner) than a cannonball.
But the Ripps didn’t know this when they booked the trip.
No. Nope. They just liked the captain’s ship.
So the day arrived, and they all set out,
With Brutus asking if they’d catch some trout.
Captain Burner told him, “Alas, my friend, No.
We’re fishing for sailfish and dorado.”
Upon hearing this Brutus stamped and screamed,
And he demanded a cone of his favorite mint ice cream.
“What! There’s none aboard,” Burner said with a frown.
“Now, my child, won’t you please settle down?”
“Hey!” cried Mr. Ripps, “Don’t you talk to my child that way!
I’ll have you know I could buy both your boat and bay!”
Well, Captain Burner scowled, but he wandered off,
While Brutus wept and sneezed and dramatically coughed.
His father patted him gently on the arm
And said that, with him there—well! Brutus could know no harm!
Yet soon they reached the waters deep.
There, they woke Brutus who’d gone to sleep.
They threw in the bait, and they started to troll,
And that’s when Brutus demanded to hold the pole.
The Captain said, “Dear child, sit by.
If a big fish got on while you held that pole—well, you might just die.”
Then, quite unnecessarily, Brutus kicked him on the shin
And laughed and cursed and gave a horrid grin.
Well, the captain yelped and gave a black look,
While Mr. Ripps said, “Attaboy, son! You kick that crook!
Don’t you let the captain tell you not to hold that pole!
You be the fisherman, son; you know your role!”
So Brutus tried to lift the fishing pole out,
But it was as heavy as sin and stuck like grout.
Now when Brutus could not pull the fishing rod free
The unpardonable wretch wailed repulsively.
He screamed, “I hate this fishing, and I hate that man!”
He wept crocodile tears, and he pointed his hand.
“That’s right!” said the father. “Now I’ll make this clear.
I’m the boss of all of you here!
Now get something on that line, and let’s catch some fish!”
“Very well,” nodded the captain grimly, “You’ll get your wish.
We’ll put something on; no need to wait.
I’ll use you and your rotten son as bait!”
And so saying, Captain Burner commenced the dénouement:
He took the Ripps, and he tied them on.
Then he tossed his customers over the hull
And brutally ended that swift battle.
Well, that was incendiary,” Burner said calmly. “Brought up some sparks.
One small change here, my crew, we’ll now fish for sharks!”
And after a loud hurrah and a noisy hurray,
The crew caught two big sharks that day.

 

The Three Magicians – The Amateur Magician
There once was an amateur magician
Whose spell made a common apparition
From a deep, white fog
He brought forth a huge dog
That had not a jot of ambition.

 

The Three Magicians – The Grim Magician
There once was a grim magician
Whose countenance was hard and patrician
He produced a wild storm
And drew forth a skeletal form
That had long ago seen the mortician.

 

The Three Magicians – The Playful Magician
There once was a playful magician
Who brought his happiest ideas to fruition
He’d make rainbows at night
For his children’s delight
And he made the moon sing like a silvery musician.

 

To Make a Bed
She pats the white pillows.
The bed is not her own,
as light carries through tall windows
onto the marital pattern.
From room to room, she straightens
and makes the tattling sheets.
She scrubs and cleans the wash basins;
she dusts the powder room.
Affairs between the man
and wife have gone unknown,
though Sarah sees what goes unsaid
when it comes time to clean:
the way tall waves are made in storms,
the sheets have creases,
unexplainable otherwise,
except through men who forget,
who smooth their wives while leaving creases.
Yet Sarah almost can’t hate this man,
his lust and greed, so far apart
from how she would stand if she were in his stead.
It is as if he is oblivious as a child.
Yet hate him she can. It is not impossible.
Sometimes her hands, as if unwilled,
do rip and tear covers, hurl them quite far,
away from that bed. As if the sheets were masts
in gales at sea, they flap with her strength.
She shakes them, wanting to shake the past
affairs and sins away. One washing isn’t enough.
Through shaking, flapping, the creases go.
Action is best, to calm one’s nerves.
She thinks of him, as she replaces the soap:
out with the old, in with the new.
She scrubs at him in the shower,
with each hard swipe, a bit of grunge is gone.
The lines of black mildew erode
under her strong cleaning.
Her mistress enters, the bright woman,
with hair that rolls and curls on her shoulder
and eyes that flash like a quick bird.
“Are things well, Sarah? How is your day?”
And Sarah, quite near revealing all,
now stops and starts as he walks inside,
filling the room with a presence unwanted.
“Oh yes, Miss,” she breathes.
“Indeed. Everything is well.”
“We’re pleased with you,” Rosalyn says,
her arm snaking around her husband’s.
“You do good work in here and in the rooms.
The beds are made with tight, hard folds—
you have energy in your small bones.”
“Yes, ma’am” says Sarah. “It’s conviction
for jobs done well. One thing I know—
that clean bedrooms can make a mind the same.”
He says, “If it’s the same to you, please leave
my shelves the way they are. I like a mess.
I have my things the way I remember,
and touching them would mean losing them.”
“Yes,” Sarah says. “I understand you.”
“But you do do your job, I think, quite well,”
he continues. “The showers are clean,
the place is dusted, the rooms are neat.
Why, you could hardly tell a person lived here!
Everything dirty washed away!”
Quite cheery, he vanishes, pecking Ros’ cheek.
They wait moments.
She stares at Sarah, woman appraising woman.
Servant and mistress relations quite gone.
“What’s wrong? I see something that’s strange in you.
You know something,” says Rosalyn.
“Something that maids can learn when they do work.
What do you know? Is it about, well, him?
Don’t lie, dear Sarah, the shame is not on you.
But, I… I think I know already. It is an affair.”
She leans against the wall.
Her dress seems weak, heavy:
as if the cloth were thin armor,
as if the pearls were made of lead.
“Is it?” says Rosalyn. “Is there someone he’s known?”
“I hate to say it,” Sarah says. “No, I care little for him—
I mean I hate to hurt you, dear.” She takes Rosalyn’s hand.
Her hand is warm and weak, unlike the girl
that Sarah knows as being strong and fierce.
Every strong heart can break.
“But I don’t mind damaging him. He cares
only a small amount for you, I think.
When washing, I am scrubbing him off you.
I scrub away the day, the night, the times
when he and she make love like animals.
Not like people. Not like humans. Not like couples.
Their love is expensive—too expensive!—
because it costs another. It costs you much, I think.
I pay for it also, a price no one should pay.
Yet I pay not as much as you.”
“Oh!” says Rosalyn. “Is it—oh! No! I don’t care!”
They sit with soundlessness for a long time.
At times, silence can clean a wound, can heal a pain.
They hear him hum, a warm and wild and joyous sound.
It comes from in the hall.
Then he calls her by name, “Oh, Rosalyn! Rosalyn!
Rosalyn! Where, dear, are you?”
She does not speak.
The calling drifts away. Perhaps he went outside.
Perhaps some work is in some need of doing.
Perhaps the lawn is going to be mowed.
Perhaps, perhaps, perhaps.
All that is important is that the sound is gone.
The joyous hum is gone.
“I must not sit for long,” says Rosalyn.
“I must better him, move on now.
But I don’t know where to begin or how to start.
This dirty, filthy thing is stifling me. What can I do?”
“Here,” Sarah says, handing her a sponge. “I will help you.
First we should rearrange his shelves. We have our tidying to do;
sometimes it does good to clean and work.
Sometimes it does good to erase his memories.
Sometimes.”

 

Torture
Listen! Listen. The voice was once tenor:
now, soprano.
Imagine—yes, and just consider—yesterday he was silent.
Our clips snap tightly, our pliers are handy,
our clamps are unforgiving, our machines
well greased.
Some things are working right around here.

We don’t even have to be too cautious.
As with all open secrets there is a
wink, a nudge to the vacillators, a cold
hard ethical argument to the protestors, and then
the show goes on.
The show must go on.

On the one hand we sit at a round table
and discuss the pros and morals of
torture. This, while people’s
worlds are being unraveled, a skein of
yarn held by a thread, dropped from a
tall building.
The demolition of a sturdy warm home,
tall, distinguished, memories in every cranny.
All that is left is the thread, the
foundation.
The skein, the home, the soul—deconstructed.
It is the metamorphosis of butterfly—
vividly colored, light—into caterpillar.
From caterpillar to cocoon. Cocoon to seed.
It is a human eclipse.
It is a vanishing.

Categories
Limericks Poems

Sunday Limericks

Porcupine

The Man Who Loved Beer
There once was a man who loved beer
And he drank till he was filled up to his ears
He hiccuped and laughed
And said, That’s a mighty fine draft!
I think that I’ll drink it all year!

Courting Behavior
There once was a jester in court
For whom punning was his favorite sport
He said to the queen
Now I think it’s obscene
The way that you move in your court.

The Proud Porcupine
There once was a proud porcupine
Who was well pleased with his needles and spines
One winter he became ill
And he lost all his quills
Now he feels like he looks like a swine.

Categories
Poems

Late Last Night I Went to Bed

IMG_8724

Late last night I went to bed
And tentacles crawled around my head
They pulled me deep
Into my sleep
The tentacles around me curled
And pulled me to another world
One with dreams and nightmares real
With swimming sharks and snakes and eels
With valley floors with heads of stone
With dancing skeletons made of bone
With burning coals and fires blue
You know these lands, for you’ve slept too.

I stood atop a rocky spire
And looked upon the world entire
I saw winged creatures gold and black
And leapt from the spire to one’s back
It sailed with me past ticking clocks
And places where mermen lived in rocks
And then I fell from that beast’s back
And plunged and plunged into the black
A cyclops hairy, vast and great,
Roared that I’d be the next thing he ate
His voice rolled off the cave walls as he spoke
And remained in my mind after I awoke.

Categories
Limericks Poems

Sunday Limericks

Picture1

 

The Amateur Magician
There once was an amateur magician
Whose spell made a common apparition
From a deep, white fog
He brought forth a huge dog
That had not a jot of ambition.

The Grim Magician
There once was a grim magician
Whose countenance was hard and patrician
He produced a wild storm
And drew forth a skeletal form
That had long ago seen the mortician.

The Playful Magician
There once was a playful magician
Who brought his happiest ideas to fruition
He’d make rainbows at night
For his children’s delight
And he made the moon sing like a silvery musician.

Categories
Poems

Mr. Shaker the Undertaker

Mr. Shaker the Undertaker considers his prospects.

IMG_4843

Old Mr. Shaker was the town’s undertaker
And to see him marked a very dark day
He’d wrap you in sheets, burn you in heat,
Or embalm you in formaldehyde.
Old Mr. Shaker would pack you off to your maker
And he’d whistle as he went by in his ride.
He was the one not to meet if you passed in the street
For he measured you up with his eye
He’d say to himself, This man’s six feet, two hundred,
Why just think if he’s sundered—
I’d have the perfect shape casket for him!
Or maybe he’d think speculatively,
It’d be droll if consecutively
The Anderson triplets came in!
For the girl with blonde locks
I’d find a blonde box
And for the middle child with parted hair…
Now him, I’d dissect with great care!
I’d take his heart to Kentucky
To a transplant that’s lucky
Then I’d attend the Run for the Roses…
I’d send his brain to D.C.
So the politicians could see
The organ they should use when they speak!
I’d send his arms to the Navy
For times wet and wavy
So they’d have two more appendages to swim
I’d send some blind man his eyes
So that he’d realize
The colors of the world he lived in
And that last Anderson child,
The most beautiful and mild,
I’d have her embalmed for all time.
I’d drain all of her veins
And I would go to great pains
To ensure she was properly styled.
Then like a man with a truck who is mounting a duck
I’d find her a space over the fireplace
And affix her there as the revered child.
And if in a thousand years she’s forgotten
At least she’s not rotten
Although I wouldn’t want to say how she’d smell…
Old Mr. Shaker was a versatile undertaker
And he had been for a good while
He was at once butcher and baker
And beauty-maker
In his mortuary made of green tile.

 

Categories
Limericks Poems

Sunday Limericks

Bison Snow

The Man of the Prairie
A boy was once born on the prairie
In a bleak night’s blizzard in January
The drifts blew high against posts
And the wind howled like wild ghosts
He grew to be a hard man and solitary.

The Afghan
A boy was once born in Afghanistan
Near the peak of a Hindu Kush mountain
He came during a short, gentle spring
To a mother who would sing
And he became a kind and gentle man.

The City Girl
There once was a girl born in the city
In a neighborhood both dark and gritty
Her mother gave her books and red bows
Her father called her his lovely rose
And she grew up to be both bright and pretty.

The Political Scene
There once was a political scene
Where politicians were awful and mean
They loved to berate and to hate
And when they called themselves great
The people wished they’d get COVID-19.

The Coronavirus
There once was a coronavirus
And news of it did much to tire us
All the games were postponed
And the children sent home
So the disease’s demise was desirous.

Categories
Limericks Poems

Sunday Limericks

800px-Georges_Seurat_-_A_Sunday_on_La_Grande_Jatte_--_1884_-_Google_Art_Project
George Seurat – A Sunday Afternoon on the Island of La Grande Jatte

The Fleet Girl
There once was a girl with no feet
Who nevertheless was really quite fleet
She raced an arrogant man
Who sneered as he ran
Until he lost by a foot in the street!

The Girl Who Did Handstands
There once was a girl with no hands
Who nevertheless loved doing handstands
She’d stand on the stumps of her wrists
As if they were fists
And wave her legs in the air for her fans!

The Blind Man Who Saw Through Lies
There once was a man with no eyes
Who nevertheless saw very well through most lies
Whether the lies were subtle or bald
And whether they soothed or appalled
Before the blind man they had no disguise.

Categories
Poems

A Lover’s Rhyme

Frank Dicksee - Romeo and Juliet
Frank Dicksee – Romeo and Juliet

On an autumn morning, chill and fair,
early snow slicks Istanbul’s cobblestones,
baklava scents the Bosphorus air,
and caressing lovers lie as bare as bones.

Leafless branches reticulate the Charles Bridge,
while wind knots the old square’s fog;
crows stare balefully from Saint Vitus’ ridge,
and lovers vanish in the shadows of Prague.

One spring day in the serried Balkans,
where the granite rises in a sagittate spine,
amidst meadows and wildflowers two lovers lie talking,
deaf to the world in the midst of that chine.

Each lover’s story is like a scene in an arras,
woven by hand from Kabul to Paris,
in the dells, the cities, and the lands in between,
where time doesn’t matter in the weave of the scene.

Categories
Poems

Poems from February!

In case you missed any, here are my February poems! Send them to your friends!

February
“February” from Les Très Riches Heures du doc Berry, the most famous and possibly the best surviving example of manuscript illumination in the late phase of the International Gothic style.

The Color Yellow Hosts a Picnic
Yellow was feeling sunny,
Blue was feeling blue,
And although Red was being quarrelsome,
Yellow told him to come too,
To a midday picnic party
In a field beside a wood,
One day when the sun was shining
And the temperature felt good.

Well, Blue asked his two neighbors,
The colors Purple and Green,
If they would like to come too,
To the pleasant picnic on the green.
Although Purple felt too aristocratic
To make an appearance there,
Green accepted quickly,
Because she loves the clean, fresh air.

Orange was feeling warm,
Toasting his feet before the fire,
When the invitation came to him,
To join the other colors on the shire.
But he was feeling too contented
In his old, ancestral home,
Wearing his pumpkin-colored robe,
And reading from a pleasant tome.

So Orange and Purple, they stayed in,
But the others joined Yellow that day,
On an afternoon when the warm wind
Carried the fragrances of dirt and hay.
They spread out a checkered blanket,
Which was checked with red and white,
And Yellow said the blanket made her think
Of her friend who reflected beams of light.

At that, impetuous Red nodded and said,
How he and White had once had a drink,
And Red said that his passion had led
Them to produce the color known as Pink!
Well, the other colors blushed to hear this,
But Red was well known for his lack of tact,
So they each continued in their way on that sunny day,
And let every color be as is their nature to act.

Two Young Lovers
There once were two young lovers
Who disappeared each night under covers
They’d reappear at the dawn
With all the night gone
And wonder whether she’d be a mother.

Rebel Pizzanistas
There once were some rebel Pizzanistas
Who were as zealous as the Sandinistas
These rebels put their pepperoni instead
On the underside of the bread,
And called themselves pizza artistas!

The Green Iguana
There once was a green iguana
Who loved to smoke marijuana
When he smiled his lips curled,
When he smoked the smoke furled,
And he lived in a state of nirvana.

And Tim was Left All Orange
Tim the Tiger was born at the zoo,
With a trait that caused a hullabaloo:
When the cat rubbed against his water trough,
Every one of his stripes fell off!
And the baby tiger was left all orange.

The stripes lay like leaves on the ground,
Fluttering in the wind, with rustling sounds.
So the zoo director said to glue the stripes back on,
In the depths of night, before the dawn,
So the baby tiger wouldn’t be all orange.

Well the night that night was a deep, dark black,
When the keepers re-adhered the stripes to Tim’s back.
And the baby cub thought it a very fine game,
Because they petted and stroked him and said his name.
For the baby tiger never knew that he was all orange.

So the keepers worked by Orion’s dull shine,
And, finishing, found they’d made an odd design!
For without the aid of their trusted sight,
They’d glued the stripes from left to right!
And they’d left Tim’s tail completely orange.

Well the people came to the zoo next day,
And they admired the very stylish way,
Tim the Tiger seemed to stand
With his stripes in a horizontal band,
And a tail that was entirely orange.

And although the zoo director was raging mad,
The keepers they were not too sad,
For they said, “Well, if he thinks that Tim has caused a stink—
Just wait till he discovers that our penguin’s pink!”
And over time the stripes fell off, and Tim was left all orange.

And Death Walked a Few Steps Behind
Well, I walk hand-in-hand with Life,
And Death walks a few steps behind,
And wherever I go, and wherever I lead,
Death is sure to follow.
So I had a few words a few years ago,
With that reaper known as Death.
I said, “So long as you’re coming wherever I go,
I’ll go wherever I want.”
He said in reply, “That’s a very fine view,
Just keep in mind, my friend:
When your time comes,
I’ll take you away,
You cannot run too far or too fast.”
So I nodded and considered,
And I went on my way.
And Death walked a few steps behind.

The Ghastly but True Secrets of Madame Tussaud’s Wax Museum
Madame Tussauds has kept a revolting secret for years—
They harvest their wax from children’s ears!
Now, I’m sorry if the truth has jellied your knees.
It’s disgusting, I know.
But that is why Madame Tussaud’s must go
To such lengths to say their wax comes from bees!

Now, the waxman will sneak into a child’s room,
With a silver speculum and a small spoon,
While the child lies deep in sweet dreams.
This waxman will creep very near,
Insert the instrument deep in the ear,
Then spoon the wax out as if it were cream!

When Tussauds first get the wax,
It is as gold-brown as flax,
And they must store it well out of the light.
So they hide it deep in dark caves,
And far underground in fake graves,
So the wax stays in endless night!

And by the time Tussauds brings the wax out,
It has become as treacly as grout,
And they must pour it into enormous glass jars.
Here the stuff sits,
As wax sculptors spoon out small bits
To make their models of stars!

The Bright Butterfly
There once was a bright butterfly,
Who made cheerful the air of the sky,
Three wicked children of kings,
Tore off its fair wings,
Though not even they could ever say why.

The Pennsylvanian-Era Pig
There once was an archaeological dig
On which they found a Pennsylvanian pig
They said How bizarre!
This pig is too early by far!
So they baked it and ate it with figs!

The Violent Boy
There once was a violent boy
Who thought the world was only his toy
He began every fight,
And made girls weep from his spite,
And he grew into an old man with no joy.

The Monster at the Party
A fine party was thrown at the Williams’ home,
And the guests they all wore their best.
Lily had come with her hair in a bun,
A tennis bracelet, and a brooch at her breast.
And Cindy’s diamonds did shine,
While her emeralds looked fine,
And the gentlemen wore cuff links and vests.
But of all the attendees who came,
One was not quite the same—
He stood out from the rest of the crowd.
He wore a suit (that is true),
And he had polished his shoes—
But it wasn’t his clothes that stood out…
He was a good nine feet tall,
And nearly as wide as the hall…
With a face like a tyrannosaur!
He was mottled and scaly,
His white eyes glimmered palely,
And on his sharp teeth were remnants of gore!

Mrs. Williams she said,
“Now I may be misled…”
(Here she gave her husband a forward shove)
“But you should tell him, my love,
That although we’re delighted,
This fellow has not been invited,
And this party is just not for him.
And if he’s aggrieved,
Well, firmly ask him to leave,
And tell him we’re sorry, but there’s been a mistake.”

So Mr. Williams approached the stranger and said,
“Good evening, my name is Fred,
But then Fred stopped himself there…
Because the monster gave a menacing glare,
And Fred’s heart dropped in his chest for a mile
Before he steadied himself and put on a diffident smile.
“Ahem! My friend!” Fred began again,
As he puffed his chest and sucked his gut in,
“Well, I see that you have six arms!
And that’s just one of your charms—
For at the end of your arms there are claws,
And razor sharp teeth in your crocodile jaws!”
At that the monster gave a broad grin,
That creased his pebbly skin.
Then the monster looked through his monocle,
That made his eye seem maniacal,
And he took his top hat off his head.
And wouldn’t you know it,
But there were two antennae and so it,
Seemed he had already heard everything that Mrs. Williams had said.

The monster said, “I hope you won’t fret,
If I’m not ready to leave just quite yet,
Because the reason I’ve come,
Is to feast upon some
Of the guests whom I have just met!”

Then the monster flexed his great chest,
And the muscles burst out of his vest
Revealing skin that was like a dinosaur’s!
There was screaming and wailing amidst his terrible roar,
As the monster broke from his formal wear,
He commenced to rip and to tear
The doors from the walls
The ceilings and halls,
And to destroy everything that was in sight
He ate up Mrs. Williams,
And her diamonds worth millions,
And then he disappeared into the night.

When the dust cleared from the raid
And all the guests stood afraid
One man stood up and began to proclaim,
“Well, Mrs. Williams she was a fine host,
And so I propose a fine toast,
Of her finest and Frenchest champagne!”

And so the glasses were raised
And the revelers continued on in their ways,
Drinking and dancing that night.
For it’s better to stay up,
Through the small hours and sup,
Than to try to sleep while you’re frozen with fright!

I’m Sick Today
I’m sick today, my throat is red;
I’m sick today, I’ll stay in bed.
My body’s sore, I don’t feel right
I sweated through the endless night.
I’m sick today, I think I’ll die.
I’m sick today, this is goodbye.
I feel all achey, my head’s not straight.
My body’s stopped, my brain is late.
Thanks for the Get Wells and your smiling face;
I need no soup; I’m a hopeless case.
Thank heaven for my pillow, and thank heaven for bed,
I’ll lay in mine until I am dead.
Then you can put me in the coffin,
And lower me down,
My friends will weep,
When I’m in the ground
Where I’ll be amongst the spiders and ticks,
The worms and beetles and… Oh! I am sick.
Bleh.

The Pied Piper of Hamlin
There once was a man with a pipe
With pants of a kaleidoscope type
When the mayor reneged
He played a cruel gigue
And left the townsfolk to gripe.

Two Adventurous Friends
There once were two young friends
To whom adventure did always attend,
They lived a wild life,
Walked the edge of a knife,
And hoped the days would never end.

War
Shine, shine oh bitter light
Upon the soldier battle-bright
Through rocket’s array
And ghastly fray
Thy light the tracery of our night.

The Disappearance of a Cat
Red curtains billowed open for that cat;
he waltzed onto the hardwood, so loaded,
his mouth slightly ajar, green eyes sparkling,
luring us into his act—a spider
deftly beckoning, weaving to music
of his own creation, dreamy and gold.

A costume hallucinogenic and gold,
he broke out with a well hung air, that cat
mortified the wild crowds, overloaded
as we were with his glitter and sparkling
hair. He played implications of Spider
and Cherry Wolves, lost in his own music…

*****

Is it madness? the press asked, Your music?
Tell us, how do the things you touch turn gold?
He shrugged, slunk away like a peevish cat,
but turned, It’s all in how you get loaded—
swig the right juice, you’ll be loved, sparkling;
if not, you’ll be trite, clichéd, a spider.

And there’s nothing so lethal as spiders,
save snakes, executives, and flat music-
but every new enigma is choice gold.
We all dug his edgy airs, his cool-cat
Oscar Wilde imitations, stacked and loaded
as they were in packages, all sparkling

and convenient, quickly shipped to sparkling
masses and to the corporate spiders.
And everyone bought his life, his music,
his t-shirt. His album went silver, gold,
platinum; Rolling Stone begged for that cat
to pose, provocative and well loaded.

Vulgar, he said.  Not a chance.  But, loaded
and stoned, his agent dragged him in, sparkling
as wine, and spread him out on a spider
divan with eight purple arms, swank music
regaling him throughout. And royal gold
sashes were draped across the kingly cat.

*****

One day he found nothing more in music-
each grain of gold vanished, nothing sparkling
left. And he disappeared with it, that cat.

A Black Poem
There are many things that go bump in the night:
Monsters and coal stoves can cause us some fright.
There are creaky old floors and loose attic fans,
Leaves in the wind, and tumbling garbage cans.
But sometimes you’re sleeping and a missile will roar,
Like those over England in the Second World War.
And that, my darling, is when I’ll come for you,
When the night is stygian, colored deep black and dark blue,
You’ll see, my friend, by the light of a bomb,
My grin broad and lethal, my eyes full of calm,
And I’ll crook a green finger for you to come here,
And when you reach my side, then it’s Death for you, dear.
For that is my name, my ancient job, my old trade,
I’m the one who waits by the road in the glade,
I’m the one who whispers your one and true name,
The one who ignores both your money and fame,
I’m the one to watch out for, by town or by cave,
I’m the one to spirit you along to your grave.

The Cigarettes Play Farmington
The Cigarettes were a hard core band full of righteous punks and rage,
The singer supported anarchy and sang it out on stage;
Lily was the drummer girl, a saucy lass in black,
She wore a fishnet pair of slacks, her thong rose out the back.
Jimmy was the trumpeter, always barefoot when he played,
Smoking reefers in the club and forever getting laid.
Molly was the bassist, she was a poet in her soul,
Writing chords and lyrics about Hell and money and control.

The city board of Farmington, a town conservative and straight
Booked The Cigarettes unwittingly for their Annual Harvest Fête,
When October came around the leaves turned orange and black,
The pumpkins ripened on their vines, the hay was heaped in stacks
Mrs. Trot put on a dress, her corset, stockings, and her hat,
And toodled out with Mr. Trot who was wearing his cravat.
On the way they met the Smiths who ran the local mill,
They were dressed in modest best, as humble as a hill.

The evening started very fair, with meats and fruits and pie,
There was cider in the goblets and a pretty autumn sky,
And then the band began to play, you could hear them from a mile:
A pounding drum, an ominous hum, the locals lost their smiles,
Then on the stage a screaming rage, as the singer yowled and croaked,
The sun went down, the lights came on, the fires flared and smoked!
The locals of Farmington were first transformed by fear,
And then they caught the wind of it and began to lend an ear!
“This band is fuckin rockin!” shrieked Mrs. Trot and threw the horns,
“Yeah, this is how we celebrate the reaper and the corn!”
And soon enough the town of Farmington said to Hell with our respect!
And threw themselves into a night of drink and dance and sex!
And every year thereafter… the townsfolk booked The Cigarettes!

Two Scornful Armies
Two scornful armies embrace in cataclysm
With death to grace their nihilism,
Like frosted roses on a cake
Like two hearts coupled just to break:
War’s inferno blurs in disinterest’s dulling prism.

The Architects of Espionage
The dour architects of espionage
With greedy eyes doth sabotage
Their own lightless souls
Their own kingdoms of coal
And raise in their place a palatial mirage.

A Spy
What qualities are inborn in a spy?
A treacherous hand, a furtive eye.
Men of gnomic aspirations,
Fertile libidos, splashy libations,
But most: a fool’s insistence to die.

Ray’s Home is Overgrown with Flowers
One day Ray woke to discover that plants had overgrown his home.
A tree rose through the chimney, the carpet was covered with brome,
Ivy crawled up the bricks and wound over grout,
And when Ray squeezed his toothpaste tube, roses came out!
He had to brush his teeth with a paste made of petals,
So his evergreen breath smelled of needles and nettles.
While on the bookcase, where the photographs of his parents had lain,
Were garlands of daisies, tied in tender knots in a bright daisy chain,
And in the picture frame which’d featured a Eurasian magpie,
There was now a photograph of a desert landscape full of succulents and cacti.
In the kitchen bowl where there’d been garlic and chilies,
There was now water, and, in it, red and white Santa Cruz lilies!
When Ray opened the refrigerator door,
He discovered its chamber was abundant with bright slipperwort.
And when Ray walked into his once plainly furnished living room,
He found it overflowing with fungi, a forest of mushrooms!
All throughout his home, wherever he went, wherever he stood,
Ray was surrounded by orchids, azaleas, wisteria and wormwood!
But the most peculiar thing of all, was that Ray felt something in his foot,
And, looking down, he noticed that it had grown a root!
And from his fingers, there were growths of shoots and leaves
And the woody drapes that a liana weaves…
Ray suddenly felt thirsty for water, though his urge to pursue it was scant,
And with a final green look at the verdurous world, Ray turned into a plant!

February 29th, the Leap Year Poem
Here it comes, there it goes, then sleeps for four years: the leap year doze!
That’s the spirit, that’s the way, it’s February twenty-ninth today!
Hidden and swaddled between the twenty-eighth and first,
Seen at once as blessing at times as a curse, as the best birthday and also the worst.

Seasons come and seasons go, and every year brings spring,
But careless of what the groundhog sees (and deaf to notes the robin sings)
Is that uncommon leap year, whose date is uncommon and quite rare,
But also necessary to keep our calendars out of error!

Now to think of strange consequences of this very fleeting day,
I’ll give a quaint example of two twin girls, Cher and May.
Now Cher was born just minutes before midnight on the 28th,
While May was born the 29th, that transient day, that wraith.
It was a mere ten minutes between the times that they were alive,
But because of February 29th, Cher was turning twenty, while May was turning five!

The Captain’s Company
Mountains scarred the dusk sky as the wain creaked along the ridges, grit and dust billowing beneath, while a man in a cotton jerkin sat upon a thwart leading a train of horses with loose reins through scores of leagues, through the grey and brown livery of the land.

Atop his wooden cart burned a lit brazier expectorating malodorous white smoke, and the brazier burned as its fuel the litter and leavings of the dross of humanity. Lying acrossways upon that brazier skewered through with a stick was the head of a blackened doe, the sharp stick having been passed through its ears, and the head all cooked until the flesh was carbonized and the driver, that partisan of violence and ciphers, dragged behind his wagon by a hawser a monstrous burin which graved upon the land a deep trail so that his track could be traced. And when the burin became stuck upon stones buried in the sediment, he only beat the horses carelessly, as thoughtlessly as if he’d learnt abuse by rote.

And there came after him a ragged lieutenant whose good eye was rimed by cataracts, and whose poor one was covered by a patch encrusted by mucus and blood, and there was behind them their crew slogging with horses through that calyx, that whorl of a valley surrounded upon by all sides mountains and the dust. There existed no liquid agent to slake any thirst, so the horses had foamed, and the limping animals had all dried of their lather some long time past. Yet the men continued to beat them, until one animal fell, and the men not even considering the future or perhaps making incongruous concessions to ritual or fortune or deity did not pause to butcher the bony beast, only left it exposed. When the men were some leagues further on, the moon lay in a crescent like the cushion of a lackadaisical, bohemian artist, and the horse was lost from sight. The men pitched their tents at the foot of the mountain, and they pulled from their pockets specie of gold and silver and muttering passed them about to study the faces and obscure origins of their dead makers.

When the sun rose in the morning, the lieutenant set down a dense sun dial carved of jasper, and aligning the gnomon with true north calculated the time, while the leader of that crew, having apathetically discarded both spit and the head during times previous, measured the altitude of the mountain with an iron sextant which he wore around his neck upon a lanyard. There was on that morning a man who would not rise, for he was sick with dehydration, and the lieutenant saying, So see this man’s true color amid this desiccant! did in fact remove from that man both his hands as an attainder, and burning the flesh from them, scraped passively the cartilage and muscle while he rode as a man is wont to whittle a stick, and the blind lieutenant was left with the bony remains of two hands that afternoon as the company passed up the mountains. When the men passed near a steep ravine, the lieutenant cast the bony hands into the gorge, and the men continued traveling. They turned a hairpin corner, found a spring of water was issuing forth from the granite, and the leader of them all put his lips and tongue to the wet wall in a kiss, and he sucked. When it was the last man’s turn to drink, he made haste despite his thirst, for the men were already riding further along the steep path, and in such circumstance he pressed his lips to the vadose wall which smacked of calcite and stone, and he drank.

At last the company reached the mountain’s peak, and they bivouacked in a fissure in the rock, without a fire that night, for their strength lay in their secrecy, and they woke before dawn, and by the time the sun rose they had descended down the mountain a quarter of its height.

The town below lay in a bed of silica, agate, yuccas, and aloe, and there was in it only one street and the leader of that company spit forward upon his horses, and he beat their flanks with a tawse riddled with glass shards. There were upon the horses’ flanks the scars of many beatings, and the animals screamed beneath that taxing thong. The burin acted now as an anchor by which to keep the animals from stumbling down the hill, for the heavy cart that the captain sat upon threatened at all times to overtake the animals from behind and to run them down, and so it would have if that great implement were not being dragged behind. The cart was loaded with the tools of miners: dynamite, powder, torches, picks, mattocks; and the weapons of fell armies: rifles, revolvers, grenades, machetes, bullets, shells, and even a chipped scimitar from God knows where. The town which lay at the foot of the mountain had by now onlookers filtering into the streets, and upon seeing the company in the mountains descending appointed a manciple to coordinate weapons and to revet the bank. A townsman glassed the party with binoculars, observing in that gruesome congress its cynosure and the wagon that he sat upon, and drawing his hand upon whiskers more salt than pepper, remarked, If that ain’t Dylan’s gang, I’m hanged from a honey locust.  And indeed as Dylan’s gang approached, the desert town assumed a sepulchral air, as the men in the town barricaded themselves inside the hastily fortified bank: a bolus of eyes peering around pillars and single shot barrels steadied upon countertops, muzzles aimed toward the bank’s locked door.

At the edge of the town, Dylan halted the men with a raised hand, and a company man unhitched the burin from the wain. He spoke to his men in a voice rasping with effort, as if he’d lost his voice in a sickness and would never regain it, No one here is getting out alive. I am the last dynast of the devil’s family, the armature of the dynamo of chaos machines, and the cholera of men. We will hang the tellers and the bankers naked and dead by their wrists to a rafter, for it is only through displays of hegemony that we can grasp dolor and sublimate it, for in violence we express our sorrow and in violence we celebrate our sorrow! At the conclusion of such rasping, the men let out a muted, ragged cheer, and Captain Dylan opened the chest upon the wagon and the men distributed among themselves weapons of war, while the captain hung grenades from rings gusseted into his jerkin and slung rifles by their straps over his shoulders and with a cocked revolver in each hand at waist level strode into town without looking back even to see if his men followed behind him or fled, and the lieutenant grasping at sticks of dynamite, for he was an admitted poor shot what with his eyes, stuffed the dynamite into the pockets of his jacket and hefted a half full keg of powder from the trove and, stowing the barrel upon his shoulder and thus armed with the explosives and feeling inside him a desiderate for wanton cruelty, he began the walk into town

Dylan’s company walked right up the main and only street.

The wind blew a hot breeze, and there were the sounds of scuffling about, of final preparations from within the bank, and a few mutterings from Dylan’s company. Dylan himself fired the first shot when the men were still some ways off from the bank, and he shot straight through the bank’s door, then ejected the spent smoking casing, and reloaded. With a whoop, the men stormed the bank, loping and shooting, and when they drew near the entrance the snipers on the rooftops began to pick them off, but Dylan’s men howled and were indomitable, and the flimsy lock upon the bank door gave way at the second shoulder thrown into it, while from inside the rifles were fired, and more of Dylan’s men were shot down like dogs.

There was a score of men inside the bank, and all were in the end beheaded and hung from their wrists naked as the captain ordered, and the vault of the bank was blasted open, and from that trove more gold and silver bars were thrown into the coffer, and a man who had lain in hiding rose above the counter suddenly, and with a single shot he terminated the life of the lieutenant and for his efforts, the townsman was hung upside-down and naked from a rafter while a company man slit his throat with a bowie knife so that the townsman’s death, among the many others, might serve as a terrible example and cautionary tale.

There were folk screaming from rooftops, and all were ignored.

Captain Dylan shut the trunk of the chest and locking it with an iron padlock bade his men to saddle up, and they did, a new man riding to the fore in replacement of the late lieutenant, this new man with a jacket whose mantle was of fox fur and he was without teeth and in such raiment he stank of something foul and wicked, and saying only very little the men beat their horses into activity and began the journey towards a distant town, their faces to the setting sun, their shadows lying long behind.

The Funky Pizza
Two skateboarders ate a pizza pie
While switch smithing at Hollywood High.
They got switch feebles; they got nollie tres;
They got onions and tomatoes and peppers for days…

Chris was wearing black, and Lux was wearing pink,
Chris he had the piercings, and Lux he had the ink…
Chris he frontside flipped it, laid down a Muska hammer,
The cops showed up, and they hauled them to the slammer.

Well, the pizza it got lonely, it was chillin in the box,
It stood up on its crust, said, “I feel as burly as an ox!”
The pizza looked around through its pepperoni eyes,
And the folks who saw it standing up were taken by surprise!

The pizza took a handful of melted mozzarella
And styled it like the haircut of one very sick fella—
At the tip of its slice was a cheese mohawk,
And the pizza swaggered and it staggered down the L.A. block.!

The pizza gave a knuckle bump of crushed red pepper
To the homeys and the players, the pimps and high steppers!
The girls smelled its fine aroma on the September breeze,
Said, “I want all of that, without the calories!”

Well the slice kept on walkin Highland Avenue
Said, “I’ll stop and Dave and Buster’s, and there I’ll grab a brew.”
So he waltzed on in to the restaurant,
And a fellow looking down said, “This is what I want!”

Then he picked up and ate the slice of funky pizza.

Categories
Poems

February 29th, the Leap Year Poem

PostcardLeapYearBeCarefulClara1908

Here it comes, there it goes, then sleeps for four years: the leap year doze!
That’s the spirit, that’s the way, it’s February twenty-ninth today!
Hidden and swaddled between the twenty-eighth and first,
Seen at once as blessing at times as a curse, as the best birthday and also the worst.

Seasons come and seasons go, and every year brings spring,
But careless of what the groundhog sees (and deaf to notes the robin sings)
Is that uncommon leap year, whose date is uncommon and quite rare,
But also necessary to keep our calendars out of error!

Now to think of strange consequences of this very fleeting day,
I’ll give a quaint example of two twin girls, Cher and May.
Now Cher was born just minutes before midnight on the 28th,
While May was born the 29th, that transient day, that wraith.
It was a mere ten minutes between the times that they were alive,
But because of February 29th, Cher was turning twenty, while May was turning five!

Categories
Poems

Ray’s Home is Overgrown with Flowers

Diego_Garcia_Mixed_Species_Marsh
Diego Garcia – Mixed Species Marsh, Wikipedia Commons

One day Ray woke to discover that plants had overgrown his home.
A tree rose through the chimney, the carpet was covered with brome,
Ivy crawled up the bricks and wound over grout,
And when Ray squeezed his toothpaste tube, roses came out!
He had to brush his teeth with a paste made of petals,
So his evergreen breath smelled of needles and nettles.
While on the bookcase, where the photographs of his parents had lain,
Were garlands of daisies, tied in tender knots in a bright daisy chain,
And in the picture frame which’d featured a Eurasian magpie,
There was now a photograph of a desert landscape full of succulents and cacti.
In the kitchen bowl where there’d been garlic and chilies,
There was now water, and, in it, red and white Santa Cruz lilies!
When Ray opened the refrigerator door,
He discovered its chamber was abundant with bright slipperwort.
And when Ray walked into his once plainly furnished living room,
He found it overflowing with fungi, a forest of mushrooms!
All throughout his home, wherever he went, wherever he stood,
Ray was surrounded by orchids, azaleas, wisteria and wormwood!
But the most peculiar thing of all, was that Ray felt something in his foot,
And, looking down, he noticed that it had grown a root!
And from his fingers, there were growths of shoots and leaves
And the woody drapes that a liana weaves…
Ray suddenly felt thirsty for water, though his urge to pursue it was scant,
And with a final green look at the verdurous world, Ray turned into a plant!

Categories
Limericks Poems

Three Sunday Limericks

I’ve begun work on a murder mystery and industrial espionage novel. Accordingly, the old cerebrum is tracking toward the cloak-and-dagger.

Dead Drop Spike

Two Scornful Armies
Two scornful armies embrace in cataclysm
With death to grace their nihilism,
Like frosted roses on a cake
Like two hearts coupled just to break:
War’s inferno blurs in disinterest’s dulling prism.

The Architects of Espionage
The dour architects of espionage
With greedy eyes doth sabotage
Their own lightless souls
Their own kingdoms of coal
And raise in their place a palatial mirage.

A Spy
What qualities are inborn in a spy?
A treacherous hand, a furtive eye.
Men of gnomic aspirations,
Fertile libidos, splashy libations,
But most: a fool’s insistence to die.

Categories
Poems

The Disappearance of a Cat

The Disappearance of a Cat is a sestina.  My dictionary defines a sestina as “a poem with six stanzas of six lines and a final triplet, all stanzas having the same six words at the line-ends in six different sequences that follow a fixed pattern, and with all six words appearing in the closing three-line envoi.”

The Disappearance of a Cat was written at a time when I was listening to a lot of David Bowie, and it was written with him (especially Ziggy Stardust) in mind.  It’s about a rock star, a cat, who chooses to disappear from fame.

IMG_6552

Red curtains billowed open for that cat;
he waltzed onto the hardwood, so loaded,
his mouth slightly ajar, green eyes sparkling,
luring us into his act—a spider
deftly beckoning, weaving to music
of his own creation, dreamy and gold.

A costume hallucinogenic and gold,
he broke out with a well hung air, that cat
mortified the wild crowds, overloaded
as we were with his glitter and sparkling
hair. He played implications of Spider
and Cherry Wolves, lost in his own music…

*****

Is it madness? the press asked, Your music?
Tell us, how do the things you touch turn gold?
He shrugged, slunk away like a peevish cat,
but turned, It’s all in how you get loaded—
swig the right juice, you’ll be loved, sparkling;
if not, you’ll be trite, clichéd, a spider.

And there’s nothing so lethal as spiders,
save snakes, executives, and flat music-
but every new enigma is choice gold.
We all dug his edgy airs, his cool-cat
Oscar Wilde imitations, stacked and loaded
as they were in packages, all sparkling

and convenient, quickly shipped to sparkling
masses and to the corporate spiders.
And everyone bought his life, his music,
his t-shirt. His album went silver, gold,
platinum; Rolling Stone begged for that cat
to pose, provocative and well loaded.

Vulgar, he said.  Not a chance.  But, loaded
and stoned, his agent dragged him in, sparkling
as wine, and spread him out on a spider
divan with eight purple arms, swank music
regaling him throughout. And royal gold
sashes were draped across the kingly cat.

*****

One day he found nothing more in music-
each grain of gold vanished, nothing sparkling
left. And he disappeared with it, that cat.

 

Categories
Limericks Poems

Three Sunday Limericks

Three Sunday limericks for your enjoyment.

IMG_8621

The Pied Piper of Hamlin
There once was a man with a pipe
With pants of a kaleidoscope type
When the mayor reneged
He played a cruel gigue
And left the townsfolk to gripe.

Two Adventurous Friends
There once were two young friends
To whom adventure did always attend,
They lived a wild life,
Walked the edge of a knife,
And hoped the days would never end.

War
Shine, shine oh bitter light
Upon the soldier battle-bright
Through rocket’s array
And ghastly fray
Thy light the tracery of our night.

Categories
Poems

The Funky Pizza

IMG_8062

Two skateboarders ate a pizza pie
While switch smithing at Hollywood High.
They got switch feebles; they got nollie tres;
They got onions and tomatoes and peppers for days…

Chris was wearing black, and Lux was wearing pink,
Chris he had the piercings, and Lux he had the ink…
Chris he frontside flipped it, laid down a Muska hammer,
The cops showed up, and they hauled them to the slammer.

Well, the pizza it got lonely, it was chillin in the box,
It stood up on its crust, said, “I feel as burly as an ox!”
The pizza looked around through its pepperoni eyes,
And the folks who saw it standing up were taken by surprise!

The pizza took a handful of melted mozzarella
And styled it like the haircut of one very sick fella—
At the tip of its slice was a cheese mohawk,
And the pizza swaggered and it staggered down the L.A. block.!

The pizza gave a knuckle bump of crushed red pepper
To the homeys and the players, the pimps and high steppers!
The girls smelled its fine aroma on the September breeze,
Said, “I want all of that, without the calories!”

Well the slice kept on walkin Highland Avenue
Said, “I’ll stop and Dave and Buster’s, and there I’ll grab a brew.”
So he waltzed on in to the restaurant,
And a fellow looking down said, “This is what I want!”

Then he picked up and ate the slice of funky pizza.

Categories
Limericks Poems

Sunday Limericks

Here are three limericks–dark, grim, and surprising–to enrich your Sunday.

IMG_8690 (1)

The Bright Butterfly
There once was a bright butterfly,
Who made cheerful the air of the sky,
Three wicked children of kings,
Tore off its fair wings,
Though not even they could ever say why.

The Pennsylvanian-Era Pig
There once was an archaeological dig
On which they found a Pennsylvanian pig
They said How bizarre!
This pig is too early by far!
So they baked it and ate it with figs!

The Violent Boy

There once was a violent boy
Who thought the world was only his toy
He began every fight,
And made girls weep from his spite,
And he grew into an old man with no joy.

Categories
Poems

The Ghastly but True Secret of Madame Tussauds Wax Museum

This poem tells of the repellent (but true) origins of the wax that Madame Tussauds uses in its wax museum’s sculptures.

IMG_9577

Madame Tussauds has kept a revolting secret for years—
They harvest their wax from children’s ears!
Now, I’m sorry if the truth has jellied your knees.
It’s disgusting, I know.
But that is why Madame Tussaud’s must go
To such lengths to say their wax comes from bees!

Now, the waxman will sneak into a child’s room,
With a silver speculum and a small spoon,
While the child lies deep in sweet dreams.
This waxman will creep very near,
Insert the instrument deep in the ear,
Then spoon the wax out as if it were cream!

When Tussauds first get the wax,
It is as gold-brown as flax,
And they must store it well out of the light.
So they hide it deep in dark caves,
And far underground in fake graves,
So the wax stays in endless night!

And by the time Tussauds brings the wax out,
It has become as treacly as grout,
And they must pour it into enormous glass jars.
Here the stuff sits,
As wax sculptors spoon out small bits
To make their models of stars!

Categories
Poems

And Death Walked a Few Steps Behind

Here is a blank verse poem about a man walking down the path of life, with Death always trundling along a few steps behind.

Puerto Vallarta Catrina - Death - Katrina

Well, I walk hand-in-hand with Life,
And Death walks a few steps behind,
And wherever I go, and wherever I lead,
Death is sure to follow.
So I had a few words a few years ago,
With that reaper known as Death.
I said, “So long as you’re coming wherever I go,
I’ll go wherever I want.”
He said in reply, “That’s a very fine view,
Just keep in mind, my friend:
When your time comes,
I’ll take you away,
You cannot run too far or too fast.”
So I nodded and considered,
And I went on my way.
And Death walked a few steps behind.

Categories
Poems

The Color Yellow Hosts a Picnic

IMG_8211

Yellow was feeling sunny,
Blue was feeling blue,
And although Red was being quarrelsome,
Yellow told him to come too,
To a midday picnic party
In a field beside a wood,
One day when the sun was shining
And the temperature felt good.

Well, Blue asked his two neighbors,
The colors Purple and Green,
If they would like to come too,
To the pleasant picnic on the green.
Although Purple felt too aristocratic
To make an appearance there,
Green accepted quickly,
Because she loves the clean, fresh air.

Orange was feeling warm,
Toasting his feet before the fire,
When the invitation came to him,
To join the other colors on the shire.
But he was feeling too contented
In his old, ancestral home,
Wearing his pumpkin-colored robe,
And reading from a pleasant tome.

So Orange and Purple, they stayed in,
But the others joined Yellow that day,
On an afternoon when the warm wind
Carried the fragrances of dirt and hay.
They spread out a checkered blanket,
Which was checked with red and white,
And Yellow said the blanket made her think
Of her friend who reflected beams of light.

At that, impetuous Red nodded and said,
How he and White had once had a drink,
And Red said that his passion had led
Them to produce the color known as Pink!
Well, the other colors blushed to hear this,
But Red was well known for his lack of tact,
So they each continued in their way on that sunny day,
And let every color be as is their nature to act.

Categories
Poems

In My World

IMG_8229

In my world,
Anything can be.
In my world,
I’ll be loud and be free.
Or I’ll be quiet and silent,
As soft as a thrush.
I’ll be a man painting nature,
With a soft bristle brush.
Or I’ll be as stealthy and lethal
As a Navy Marine,
Stalking enemies in jungles,
Always moving unseen.
In my world.

In my world,
Anything can be.
I’ll grow and I’ll grow,
Until I’m as big as a tree.
I’ll drive fine cars down the main drag,
And all the people will stare,
Saying, “There goes the one man,
Who has not a care.”
I’ll be Mr. Philanthropic,
I’ll be rich and drink wine.
I’ll help the poor and the needy,
The deaf and the blind.
I’ll cure AIDS and cure cancer
Without breaking a sweat.
I’ll teach the illiterate to read
More than one alphabet.
In my world.

In my world,
Anything can be.
In my world,
I’ll be happy and free.
In my world,
I’ll always be me.

They say, Dreams are for children,
They say, You won’t make it, why try?
They say, The world’s looking hopeless,
Just shut your mouth and get by.
But that’s not how good minds work,
And there many who care;
They’re out there, these good folk,
In fact, they are everywhere!
They’re hiding in plain sight,
In all kinds of clothes,
Some wearing stone jewelry,
Others in high heels and hose!

In our world,
I’ll see them around.
In our world,
No one can trample them down.

It’s a wide world out there,
With room for more views than two.
It’s a wild world, my friend,
And it’s as strange as a zoo!

It’s your world,
My world,
And others’ too.
And in my world, my friend,
there’s always a home for you too.

Categories
Poems

Jake Attempts to Put a Santa Claus Hat on a Nineteen Hundred Pound Bucking Bull

IMG_6070

It was the night before Christmas
And way out in the field
Jake had an idea
Which held marvelous appeal!

Jake said, “Come to the next pasture—
I’ve got an idea for a dare!
We’ll visit Farmer Bixby’s old stable;
He keeps his bucking bull there!”

So the four friends marched over,
Through the snow and the fog,
Past barbed wire fences
And over iced logs.

With each step they crunched
The cold, glittering snow
And steam rose from their mouths
With each breath they did blow.

There in the distance
With not a light from within
Stood the old battered structure
Which kept the bucking bull penned.

At first there was no sign
Of the great bucking bull
Then they smelled on the clear air
The scent of that huge animal.

Then at last they saw it!
It lay curled in deep sleep,
Like a monstrous black boulder
On the far side of the keep.

Jake rubbed his hands happily
And said, “This will be a neat trick—
I’ll put my Santa Claus hat on the bull,
And he’ll be a bovine Saint Nick!”

His friend Chris was the calm one,
And he said, “Well, for my part,
I think that bull is a mean one—
He gored my old dog through her heart!”

But Jake’s other friends shushed Chris,
And they cheered for Jake’s plan,
Saying that this Christmas spirit,
Was the best one for a man!

You needed no bells or whistles
Nor flouncy decorative halls!
You just needed good buddies,
And a big pair of balls!

So Jake slipped over the railing
And into the pen,
As his friends they grew quiet
And looked on with great grins.

Jake slowly crossed over
The ground of the sty,
And he was quite near the bull
When it opened one eye!

Jake froze on his tiptoes,
With the Santa hat in his hand
And he murmured some calm words
That the bull did not understand.

The bull sprang to its feet,
And it started to run—
Moving quite quickly
For something weighing a ton!

Now Jake started to run
Like a sprinter, world class,
When the bull lowered his head
And put his horns up Jake’s ass!

Jake’s friends looked on in horror
And they grimaced in fright
When, with a flick of its head,
The bull made Jake take flight!

Jake went sailing and screaming
Through the dark sky
And landed in cow pies
On the far side of the sty.

His friends they raced to him,
For he moved not at all.
They were sick to their stomachs
From witnessing his fall.

The bucking bull watched them,
Snorted, and pawed the cold ground,
Then it turned in a circle,
And plopped right back down.

It lay on its haunches,
Relaxed in its pen,
Nearly completely assured
That he wouldn’t be bothered again.

Jake’s four friends they reached him,
And found him hurt but not dead,
He grinned up at them weakly, saying,
“The best place for that hat is my head!”

Categories
Poems

A Whale with a Handlebar Mustache

IMG_6459

Wilbur the whale had a distinguishing feature
That made seem nobler than his fellow sea creatures:
For on his grey face, the good Lord elected to place
A handlebar mustache that made Wilbur look ace!

In all other respects,
Wilbur met the strict specs
That govern how a baleen whale should be built…
But in this one critical facet
He’d been given an asset
Claimed by no other whale of his ilk!

Wilbur became the pod’s greatest star
And lady whales swam in from quite far
To view and admire his whale whiskers.
For it must be admitted,
Amongst even the most jaded of blisters,
That big blonde mustaches don’t often grow on a whale!
Yet Wilbur he had one, and it was a gem,
Bushy in the middle and curled at both ends!
It required no maintenance,
Nor had it ever.
All that it did was make its wearer look clever!

So Wilbur he swam on through the deep seas,
Year after year, as fine as you please.
He grew old, and he wrinkled,
But that mustache never crinkled,
And he stole a thousand lady-whale hearts.
They just couldn’t resist
The chance to be kissed
By a debonair whale with a mustache so fine!
He’d lift up his eyebrows, and he’d kiss their whale cheeks,
And they’d coo, “Oh, that Wilbur’s divine!”

Categories
Poems

Scotland Vs. Ireland in the Finals of the World’s Sunburning Championship

IMG_8312

It was noon in the tropics when Lily and Mary squared off
Each on the beach with all their clothes off!
Mary from Dublin, Lily from Perth,
To see who could be the most burnt person on Earth!
The winner would be the one who turned brightest red
From the tips of her toes to the top of her head!
They were the two whitest people that the Isles could find
They’d advanced to The Finals ahead of their kind—
They’d beaten out raven-haired girls with melanin-tinged skin,
And broad shouldered blond men with too much chest hair to win.
Mary had beat out a Russian who was as white as the moon,
But who forfeited as soon as her feet turned maroon!
While Lily had won a very close race,
With a Norweigan who lost due to her freckled face.

Now the Sunburning Championship is followed worldwide
With a million dollar prize purse and the accompanying pride.
The Sunburning Championship has been vied for for years
And its motto for the past hundred has been, “Sun, sweat, and sears.”
The two contestants, Lily and Mary, were not entirely unique
With light hair and blue eyes upon each pasty physique.
Both peeled and both blistered, neither’d ever browned.
But what set them apart was how UV treated them like a ground.
Sunlight seemed to channel right to them, like power through wire,
Then heat their skins inordinately, till you’d swear they’d catch fire.
While Lily was as white as her pretty namesake,
Mary was born like a girl bred to be baked:
She had albinos on each limb of her family tree:
So oddsmakers disfavored Lily at one to three.

Their corners each oiled the girls head to toe,
Slathered them with palm oil and pounds of Crisco.
Now the sun looked down like an unblinking eye
As the girls lay on the Saint Lucian sand and started to fry!
Within the first hour they turned as pink as a shell
Then started to heat up till they became hot as hell.
Soon Mary and Lily each turned vermillion
As they sweated and fried and dreamt of that million.
The fans of the Irish were waving their flags,
Till the Scottish supporters called the Irish, “Scumbags!”
Fights broke out and pints of beer they were spilled
And word spread that a Scotsman had been inadvertently killed.

Yet still the girls sweated and still the girls fried
Burning in misery till they wished they had died.
The sun burnt their foreheads; the sun burnt their eyes;
It burnt up their armpits, and it burnt up their thighs!
The girls started screaming and writhing in pain
While their coaches all shouted, “Don’t give up, or give in to the strain!”
An hour then passed, and then did another.
And in her sunstroke, Mary began to plead for her mother.
The judges looked closely and called a doctor in,
He said, “Can you finish?” Mary murmured, “I think I can win.”
So the doc nodded at the judges for the match to go on
While the girls kept on burning like badly barbequed prawns.
Time kept on passing, and the girls dreamed of the shade
While their skin slowly turned to raspberry marmalade.
When at last the sun set, both girls were burnt raw,
So the judges who checked them declared the contest a draw!
The Scottish fans rioted; the Irish threw stones;
While the girls they just lay there, burnt to the bone.

Categories
Poems

There Needs to be a Word for Laughing at Horror

IMG_8276

There needs to be a word for laughing at horror
When something’s so awful that you laugh in surprise
And you say, “I know it’s not funny…”
But there’s still a laughing look in your eyes.
Like when you hear of the man who was a quadriplegic for life
Falling down in the kitchen to land on a knife.
He would scream out in pain, but he can’t move his lips!
He’d get off the knife, but he can’t move his hips!
Still he’s not quite dead yet, the very poor dear—
Though he may wish he were, as he’s overtaken with fear—
For in the thin walls of his house, a bad electrical wire
Has found inflammable ground and started a fire!
And as the flames rise up, our victim’s consumed
By smoke and fire that blaze him to his doom.
Whoever it was that said Nature’s so sweet
Has never been chaff, has been only wheat.
But for a man like me who is often the chaff
When cruel tragedy happens, I have to weep as I laugh!
And I know it’s not funny to laugh at these things,
When the blades of life are cutting one’s wings,
And the depths of horror are so profound that you cry
Yet an inapt smile appears near the tear from your eye!
So what can you call it when you are laughing at horror?
It’s not quite “schadenfreude,” and not quite “sadistic;”
It’s certainly not “tasteless,” because that’s too simplistic.
I really believe that we must make a word
For a feeling that each of us has sometimes incurred.
I have no proposals, nor have I quaint dictum,
So, like all of you, I’ll just try to not be a victim.

Categories
Poems

Clean Dean the Mighty Marine

IMG_8298

“Clean” Dean the mighty Marine
Couldn’t tell whom
He’d killed or he’d seen.
He was classified to be in many Black Ops
And his superiors referred to him as one of their “mops,”
Because Dean Ian the Cleaning Machine
Was able to leave no trace at a scene.
A contractor is working?
Now he’s working no more.
Disappeared forever to even a score.
Clean Dean the Careful Marine
Left the place looking like
His hit had never been.
One day Clean Dean left the Marines.
He stopped lifting weights;
He became long and lean.
He got into the horses;
He got into the tracks;
He read books about gardening
And espionage paperbacks.
Clean Dean the mighty Marine
Met a lady one day whose name was Colleen.
They got along smoothly,
And he bought her a ring.
He proposed in the fall,
And they were married in spring.
Clean Dean bought a car for the baby
A safe car with four doors
Because Collen was expecting.
The years passed by,
These Dean could not sweep away.
He lived through the seasons;
He lived through the days.
Clean Dean grew old and found God.
His babies had babies,
And he once thought how odd
It was to grow old,
When he’d been convinced he’d die young.
Clean Dean, however, lived till he was ninety-one,
And before he died, his doctor marveled at him
Said, “It must be good living that has kept you so trim.”
And Clean Dean the Ruthless Marine
Gave not a thought to the horrors that he had seen
To the corpses he’d made or the dark places he’d been,
But said with a smile,
“Doc, what’s fascinating,
Is how the world keeps on turning,
Without taking notice of you
It’s a sphere of green and of white and of blue,
And taken at a distance, like from the nearest star,
We folk are so very tiny, that no one knows who we are.”
And so Clean Dean the Mighty Marine
Died one day and Earth kept revolving,
Persisting in its course as it does for all men,
Going and going as if we’d never been.

Categories
Poems

Shooting Beer Bottles Off the Tops of People’s Heads

IMG_8303

I met a fellow in the bar last night
Who thought he was William Tell
Wanted to shoot a beer can off my head
I told him to go to Hell.
But he gave me a look like the last buffalo
Dying out on the plains
So sad and lonely it made me act
Like I had forgotten all of my brains…
The barman told us to take it outside
But I told him that I liked where I was
Sitting in front of that big saloon mirror,
Listening to the neon lights buzz.
I took up a bottle of cold Miller Lite
And I set it on top of my head
But when the fellow stumbled ten paces off
I figured I’d soon end up dead.
He cocked back the hammer on his Colt three fifty-seven
And as I watched the cylinder turn
I froze up with my brain full of spiders,
And my stomach crawling with worms.
He closed one eye, and I saw the gun waving
Not a few inches upwards and down
And I cautiously asked him whether he meant
to shoot up the ceiling or into the ground?
The fellow slurred, “I used to do this when I’d hunt antelope
I’d calculate the angle, the distance, and slope.
I’d never miss then,
I’d put bullets through hearts,
For gunmanship is nothing but poise and practice and smarts,
And I possess each in equal parts!”
He stuck his tongue between his lips
And told me to stand very still
And as the barrel waved before my face
I turned a snake green, and I felt very ill.
The fellow slurred, “Whatcher eyes wide for?
I won’t do you no harm!”
Then he licked his lips and drooled a little spittle,
And then the fucker shot me—right in the arm!
The bullet knocked me back against the bar
And the patrons all screamed and ran
A tequila bottle shattered, my stool fell and clattered,
And I heard a shout of “Goddamn!”
Well I clutched my arm, and I started to stand
When I saw the fellow aiming again
I started a prayer, and I leapt out of there,
Talking fast on my way to, “Amen!”
He fired the gun, and the mirror blew out,
Shards of glass flew all over the place.
I poked my head up over a table
And found him aiming the gun at my face.
So I made myself scarce as the gun fired again
And destroyed a bottle of gin.
“Ceasefire, truce!” I shouted to him,
“The bottle’s broken—you win!
If you want me to tell folks you shot it first try,
By heaven, I’ll put it in song!”
“Can I count on you?” he slurred in a shout,
“I want ’em to know I don’t shoot wrong!”
“You can count on me till the end of your days,
From now until the end of all this!
By the time I’m done talking
The people will say, There goes the man who never once missed!”
“Well, I suppose that’s allright,” the drunk fellow said,
“My friend I’ll take up your word.”
Then he looked all around and he put the gun down,
And he said, “I’m sorry I shot up the bar.
But to see the mirror blow out
And hear folks scream and shout
Well that’s enough to make a man’s day.
And after all no one got hurt, just men being men,
Let me buy you a drink, my new friend.
This’ll all turn out right, the world’ll keep turning,
And we’ll all end the same in the end.”
I said I could use a beer and cigarette,
As I picked myself up off the floor.
“A cig?” he said, “I could shoot the cherry off it, I bet.”
And I took off running—right out the door!

Categories
Poems

Dr. Proctor

IMG_8305

Bill “The Butcher” Proctor was the town’s local doctor
And he had had much more than a nip.
When a woman came in with a broken hand,
He took off her leg at the hip.
When the woman woke up she just looked down and sobbed.
“Why, oh why, do you cry?” asked Doctor Proctor,
“It may be true that you’re left with one thigh,
But you’ll get used to that by and by.”
“You fool, you bastard!” the woman screamed at the man,
“I came in to your clinic with a pain in my hand!”
“Hm,” said the doctor, looking down at her leg.
“Well. Yes. Hm. I see.
“In my condition I thought I saw something wrong with the knee.”
And he thought, “Left uncorrected, this could spell serious trouble for me!”
“I’ll sue your quack practice for all that it’s worth!”
Screamed his patient in fury as she wept and she cursed.
Dr. Proctor scratched at his chin, then he put her under again.
He murmured, “I’ll fix this wreck right up in a sec!”
And with the sound of a snick and the sound of a sneck
He cut off his patient’s head at the neck!
“There,” he said, holding her head up by the hair,
“There, there, there! Now, now, she can’t complain to anyone anywhere!”

Categories
Poems

Good Morning, Bella, How Did You Sleep?

IMG_7278

Good Morning, Bella, How Did You Sleep?

Hey bella how did you sleep?
Did you have dreams or nightmares?
Did the night give you a thought to keep
Or something soothing for your cares?

Hello my beauty how was your day?
I thought about you often beautiful girl
I hope your day went well or at least ok
I know sometimes it’s a very hard world.

Come here my angel come into my arms
I want to hold you and kiss your face
To keep you safe from all the world’s harms
And feel the warmth of your heavenly grace.

Categories
Poems

The Drive

fullsizeoutput_a59

She heard the click of the ratchet,
and saw the oil pan, sweat, and the grease.
Heat waves shimmered out over the prairie,
while wind stroked the wheat.
From his back beneath his black ’70 Camaro,
he saw her bronzed, crossed legs swinging.
He tightened the oil plug, came out from under the car,
and filled the reservoir with oil.
He wiped his hands with a red rag, and he felt
her eyes on him.
She was sitting on a lawn chair sipping lemonade,
with the prairie stretched out behind.
She didn’t smile when he looked at her,
but she met his eyes.
He checked the oil level, shut the hood,
and ran the car while he put his tools away.

Want to go for a ride, he said.
Yeah. Where to?
It’s the road that matters, he said,
And what you do while you’re on it.
So you don’t know where you’re going?
I know exactly where I’m going, he said.
I’m going where my heart leads.
She smiled at that, and she got in.

They drove out past the steel pump jacks
into a fairy land of wind farms, where the towers
stood like giants and cast shadows
that bent northeast.
As the stars wheeled up, they stopped roadside
to pick buffalo grass and daisies, then they drove on again.
The moon was a quarter full, and as they swept
through the panhandle, she put her bare feet
up on the dash, and she knotted a daisy necklace.
She put it around her neck, and when he looked over
she was wearing the flower necklace,
and hanging in her ears were silver earrings
shaped like crescent moons.
Although he knew already that he was in love,
He felt it again, and he told her so.

When the night was deep and black, they stopped again,
out there on the pavement, and he put his hand around her waist.
Together they looked up to the stars,
and they made up stories for constellations,
listening to one another, to the cicadas,
and their hearts.

Categories
Limericks Poems

Limericks

Limericks were popularized by the artist Edward Lear (1812 – 1888).  Most of mine are grim and funny.

IMG_8659
Rome, Italy, September 17th, 2015

An Ant in a Shoe
There once was an ant in a shoe
Who said I’ve got nothing to do
Then a man came along
And he put his shoes on
Now that ant’s nothing more than a goo.

Assange
A man lived in Ecuador’s Embassy
In London by the Thames and the sea
Now no one’s sure where he’ll go
But there’s one thing we all know
Where ever he’s next is rent free.
April 11th, 2019 Julian Assange is arrested.

The Beaver
There once was a beaver named Weaver
Who met a young furrier named Cheever
He said your tail’s like a paddle
But it would make a nice saddle
So he chopped off his tail with a cleaver.

The Big Crocodile
There once was a big crocodile
Who lived on the banks of the Nile
He said I love to munch and to crunch
And eat children for lunch
It’s the youth that make living worthwhile.

The Black Hole, Messier 87
There once were supermassive black holes
Whose hearts were darker than coal
Some folk found them odd
And tied them to God
Hoping they’d shine light on the soul.
April 10th, 2019 The first image of a black hole is published.

The Boll Weevil
There once was a cotton boll weevil
Whom all the farmers called evil
When it ate all their cotton
They called the bug rotten
And sprayed Aldrin until it weren’t legal.

Bordeaux
There once was a place called Bordeaux
With lamplighters who set streets aglow
Every dark night
They’d bring on the light
And in so doing they’d cast a shadow.

Boxing and Dance
There once was a very fine marriage
Made from man’s footwork and carriage
The marriage wed boxing and dance
In a beauty-and-beast type romance
And spanned the two fields with its fair bridge.
May 4th, 2019 (Cinco de Mayo weekend) Canelo fights Jacobs

Caster Semenya
There once was a woman who ran
Til a board implied she was half a man
They told her to decrease her hormone
By limiting testosterone
Or she would get permanently banned.
May 1st, 2019 The IAAF rules that South African runner Caster Semenya must medically decrease her natural levels of testosterone to run the 800 and 1500 meter races.  Semenya subsequently refuses.

The Children
There once were a sister and brother
Whose antics annoyed their poor mother
She said Now you had better behave
Or I’ll send you both to your grave
A phrase she recalled from her mother.

The Chilean
There once was a Chilean named Bean
Whom a cook tried to force through a screen
She said You’ll make a fine hash
Once you’re smashed and you’re mashed
But her words were drowned out by his scream.

The Covetous Queen
There once was a covetous queen
Who wanted everything that she’d seen
She hounded the court
Until they gave their support
To render her blind as a bean.

The Dead Shot
There once was a corpse on a cot
Whose body did nothing but rot
One day a distiller moved in
He added yeast like for gin
And said I’ll name my new drink the Dead Shot.

A Doctor Named Chris
There once was a doctor named Chris
Whose surgeries went always amiss.
He said with a shake of his head
I’ve left another one dead
The families will have to get used to this.

An Enormous Snake
There once was an enormous snake
Who ate children who passed by the lake
He said if they weren’t so good raw
I’d still fill my craw
I’d just have to learn how to bake!

The Fisherman’s Wife
There once was a fisherman’s wife
Who caught a fish in the prime of its life
She said with a grin
I’ll not see you again
And she cut off its head with a knife.

The Germ
There once was a deadly disease
Who traveled far and wide on a sneeze
It said Don’t wash your hands
For there are many fine lands
That I am still very anxious to see.

A Grim Slaughterhouse
There was once a grim slaughterhouse
That would kill anything from a cow to a mouse
One day a woman went there and said,
I’m very miserably wed,
Do you think you could butcher my spouse?

The Incredible Prude
There once was an incredible prude
Who was too shy to even bathe nude
She’d bathe in her clothes,
And she’d cover her nose,
For she thought that her nostrils were lewd.

The Lumberjack and the Trees
There once was a grove of old trees
Who grew tall living life by the seas
Along came a strong lumberjack
Who took them down with a whack
And left stumps as tall as your knees.

The Mad Man
There once was a mad man named Jim
Who hurt everyone close to him
After he found a wife
He took her life
You can’t trust a mad man my friend.

A Man Named Ajmal
There once was a man named Ajmal
Who couldn’t be trusted at all
He said to a girl who was near
Won’t you come here my dear?
Then he bashed in her head with a maul.

A Man With No Legs
There once was a man with no legs
Who dearly loved to eat eggs
He said Give me ten hens
And I’ll never be hungry again
But they gave him no hens now he begs.

The Maniacal Maid
There once was a maniacal maid
Who prepared a cyanide marmalade
She spread it on toast,
On the ham, and the roast,
Then set them on the table she’d laid.

Notre-Dame de Paris
There once was a cathedral in France
Recognized by all at a glance
One day it was consumed by a fire
And down fell its spire
It shall be rebuilt and elegantly enhanced.
April 15th, 2019 The Cathedral of Notre Dame Catches Fire

The Orange Cantaloupe
There once was an orange cantaloupe
Who said in a voice full of hope
Oh please do not pare me
Oh please will you spare me?
To which the fine family said Nope.

Planet Earth
There once was a planet called Earth
The only on which there’d been birth
Its residents there
Breathed water and air
And never understood what life’s worth.

Prince Charming
There once was a king’s wicked son
Who thought cruelty was nothing but fun
One day a thing made him sad,
And he felt so confused and so mad,
That he torched a convent of nuns.

Princess Mary
There once was a princess named Mary
Who was frightened of anything scary
One day a lion came by
And he made the girl cry
And then he left nothing to bury.

Royalty
There once was a cruel queen and king
Who forced a man to dance and to sing
Once the man was too sick to leave bed
So the royalty cut off his head
There’s always a reason to sing.

A Sarcastic Girl
There once was a sarcastic girl
Who refused to give sincerity a whirl
She said, I’m sure sincerity’s great,
Just so clear, open, and straight
For it I’d trade diamonds and pearls.

The Scorpion in the Shower
A scorpion once lived in a shower
Lying still there for many an hour
When along came a bare-ankled girl
Who turned the tap with a twirl
Now she beds in a grave with white flowers.

The Sheep Herder’s Daughter
There once was a sheep herder’s daughter
Who hated to see the sheep slaughtered
She said Oh please spare the ewe
But her father sliced it in two
So she drowned herself deep in dark water.

A Sleepless Night
One night a girl couldn’t sleep
She tossed and she turned in her sheets
She lay awake in her bed
Her hands by her head
And heard her ancient house creak.

The Teacher
There once was a bad educator
Whose style made the students all hate her
She was vulgar and mean
And very often obscene
She thought her harsh words made her greater.

The Termagant Wife
There once was a termagant wife
Who jabbed her husband with a dull knife
She said I must have been crazy
To have married someone so lazy
To which he agreed, You have been all of your life.

Tiger
A golfer once won at the Masters
Then met with private disasters
He hurt his wife and his spine
He lost his luster and shine
Then returned to please the forecasters.
April 14th, 2019 Tiger Woods wins the Masters after not winning a major for 11 years.

Trump
There once was a blonde president
Who always seemed unsoundly bent
His comments on Twitter
Felt sniveling and bitter
And his words too vulgar for print.

An Unusual Fellow
A man with two hearts and two heads
Said to the other If I die are you dead?
The other said Well probably
But maybe just wobbly
Though I’d rather you live longer instead.

The Violinist
There once was a violinist named May
Who practiced her songs night and day
One day a thief stole her violin
And she said, Lord above that’s a sin,
Why is it that You’re hindering my way?

The Voiceless Owl
There once was a voiceless owl
Who thought it made him less of a fowl
He said Oh if I were not mute
Then I would do nothing but hoot
I’d give my wings to utter a vowel.

The Young Mallard
There once was a young mallard duck
Who couldn’t say quack so said cluck
The chickens just loved him
The ducks all just snubbed him
And the woodsman took him home to be plucked.