An Ekphrastic Fool's Hat
No feathers in the houndstooth hat,
no feathers for you my friend.
I'll daub drenched russet leaves
upon the pale tissuegrain onion skin,
and mourn the lack of colour this dull day.
April wears a fool red nose
and rails against the ice.
The hat sprawls there yawning bashful.
No head needs it.
Faintly it recalls the fall.
But the thoughts that filled the head that filled that hat
What sense to think of burnished ardor
on this dead first day of spring?
keeps the brood eggs safe from wasps
triplines that vibrate
A layer peeled off in every
new foothold, each track
a bone-scratched scrabble that
left some powdered dust I
kept in the memory I lose
now: its clawed whorl leaves
red pepper-prints on me
like in an ancient cave with
fading pigment no one
understands now: fewer
and fewer left.
Purple-black membrane against the light,
Spreadeagled as if in flight.
Both things you’d never do;
You were just an ostrich, true.
Now there’s nowhere left to hide your head.
Gorgeous mesenteries: so very, very red!
Was that an akkorokamui in your gut?
Honest, I can see it, just...
Still, why did you die?
I need the answer. I won’t cry.
Dissection of an Ostrich
Thorny tree frog
in resplendent pink and yellow,
hale evergreen monarch.
I peer out through the window;
at least there's no more snow.
Raw umber flagstone hues,
tall, still trees, bleached blues.
A lone icicle blinks bright
next to the empty grey wasp's nest.
I don't think my reflection is looking
quite its best.
Could I describe an inanimate love to you?
Impossible, through and through!
I don't do that love thingie anymore,
when I want something I don't implore.
I used to invest fond havingnesses in all kinds of things,
but births and deaths and farces…. life other priorities brings.
I've wracked my brain to come up with something now, in a rush;
all I can think of is my ink brush.
It travels with me, wherever I go, and keeps me company even when I'm low.
That, and black, black ink
A Wasp To Her Roach
I sting you with exquisite care
the bug with two venemous jabs
now the lame beast’s the pale egg’s lair
in a tale as true as are most
that are culled from the grim facts of state
tan cockroach with venomous jabs
I bring you an emerald fate.
Meat Loaf and White Wine
Those were our birds of paradise-days,
when light and poetasters brimmed in myriad ways.
Meat loaf and cheap white wine,
limping cars and full-sweat sunshine!
The bats in our belfries flew only at night,
and hell was a real place, put out of sight.
Twice, even thrice, we called ourselves crazy mad,
but not even once was that real thing sad.
Ain't it weird how the words all went south;
then, right or wrong, they took off from my mouth.
Possibilities greenly blinked right off the dashboard lamp,
effusive, illuminated, ineffably camp.
(Be glad I did not say damp!)
Guess the five songs, if you will, for NaPoWriMo2014, day 9.
For FlyDay we smithy a midge of an anacreontic:
Single, solitary midge of dung
Share my cup of Syrah fun
Mountain made of redwine skin?
Phantom plumose in my gin!
Gally gnat, sip from my glass,
Ah, it galls me you to pass...
Just a net-winged little punk
Grenache sips my heart have sunk.
Zipperless Obsessions will Boil your Bunny
(NaPoWriMo2014, day 12)
As she glanced out of the corner of her eye
on her shoulder, in his beak a vowel boulder, wry,
Well, an obese black crow!
A portmanteau of gallic velvet and crafty hook
was all it took to form a strong, but temporary bond-
easy to manipulate, but from it not so easy to abscond…
He cawed hoarsely in a whisper:
for god's sake, make those words a little crisper:
dropping verbal stones to fill your cranial bowl
is surely a most honourable goal.
In the burr of the moment, inspiration is like nature's biomimicry;
it will grab you loving tight, and then
it will set you cruelly free.
With George de Mestral nowhere to be found,
with a distinctive ripping sound,
this very silly poem, umbilical cord still bound,
wriggling on the ground.
Ken jy die roossnuiwer?
Hy is 'n man sonder stuiwer
Sy beursie is lig
Inkennig sy grinnikgesig!
The Rose Sniffler
Do we choke on our vowels of almond butter?
See the demiurge expire in a stutter?
Oh mother, wherefore art we?
Running over holy cows now not funny?
In short: abort if the words are stale;
Don't mess up a good oxtail.
(The End of the Road: what a barrel of laughs that sounds to be.)
Sun and earth and moon align
rays refract, spotlight is the moon
our atmosphere serves scattering shine
Greens and blues all dissipate soon
leaving only red and orange hues
I bask in the light of this night balloon*
Missed the spectacle? Just wait
Six more months will set you straight!
(*no bad omen, only to a loon)
H/T to the Terza rima, NaPoWriMo2014, this fifteenth day of April, 2014.
I smithed a poe today,
it was only ten lines long.
In a scrumptious and deeply nuanced way,
the accent égo was placed not even wrong.
It was perfectly designed,
just like the potoo and the squid;
it shows how global warming is verily divined,
I'm positive it will sell for many quid!
-sort of like the Easter Bunny,
(Santa Clause and science-based homeopathy)
'cept it has existential depth and is desperately funny.
(H/T to NaPoWriMo2014, prompt 1)
I so like fire-engine-red.
Look! There's the Museum of Contemporary Art;
Well, this is where we start!
(Oh, Mom) I said:
Can't we see the aquarium instead?
Your striped shield has failed you at last;
Your topknot has been shorn without care.
Forgotten are the filter-days of clarity,
The slap and foam of fresh water passed.
No more mellow morsels of food to share,
Your other hinged half missing- at this age not a rarity
Still, it's fun to recall the highest points of mumbo-jumbo
That sprouted so bysally from your carbuncled umbo.
Here's the dope this 21st day of April 2014!
Well Al Capone was born in New York at least
though Chicago claimed him
he's now sleeping with the jellyfish
aren't they to die for?
this day started with a bang
I have to say
they should call it
contemptorary art maybe
because the koi were the best
were those owls offing to hogwarts
try the boon of digital you say
when you're good to mama she's good to you
I just see the old-fashioned diving helmet
that's so heavy and
obstructive to one's view also
so really really hard
to swim with
you know we're immiscible
and all that in and out and in and out
of traffic like a leveret
on the way to O'Hare
just wore me out
Sad blue lobster
Wave your claw at me
Sad blue lobster
You're far from the deep blue sea
Sad blue lobster on this Easter holiday
Sad blue lobster, what do you say?
I dream of my family underneath the waves
I blow my sad bubbles in my man-made cave
Sonny ended up in a copper pot
Hubby complained it was way too hot
Daughter and I also got caught
Our little family has come to naught.
Sad blue lobster now you're alone
Sad blue lobster, look at my blue ice cream cone!
My likes: one vague lull,
my kissing, my licks,
in case you’ll lap it up.
My laconic vanity-
I lust the jewel cuckoo.
Nigh, nay, nags you see. A lot on land.
Nay, you see: I am one of a kind.
Lie! No, all you pick is peace.
Catachresis of Anagnorisis is a Crisis
There's a beauty in the buttresses
that soar so splendidly,
preventing stress fractures in
the ancient walls of the power
that tower above the Parisian sky.
Our lady has lived a long and colourful life,
greying with burning and with strife.
Now she suffers from dementia
and too many a tourist.
The spandrels of her graces still
wear gargoyles' cruel faces
and feed imagination's grist--
no perceptronium will settle these races.
The pteron and the cella run in parallel.
Why should the grey matter
of the lady need protection? This shell
skull promises as well:
At the small café with the nutella crêpes,
half-napping, eyes like grapes,
Sits a lapping alley-cat.
It wakes to nibble off
a stranger's plate.
Look up, look even higher!
With languid lids and
curling coral yawn
the cat cares not a wit
about the cockerel's fate at dawn.
The writing's on the wall
the knitting's come undone
too many stitches dropped
to ignore the pattern
of the break
knit me an ocean
knit me survival
knit me a place
in your sun
Last night's telly was about dating and hair lice
My thoughts are disjointed as I stroll through Hyde Park
past bursts of spring flowers and tall pin oaks
I pass a gentleman with eyebrows like field mice
ladies with toddlers in strollers, leashes on mutts that bark
I'm out of breath and out of shape, with no brollie I'm in for a soak
My God, it's so green here and lively with bird song
I'll ignore that the sky is ominous-dark...
I'm in London, capital of the UK
jet-lagged, my rhyme is all wrong
(Apologies to Hopkins for the lack of pied beauty.)
Between a Gourd and her Skeleton
In the balmy evening air they sat
he, on the bones of his arse
she in her tumescent russet glory
Lots of whispering about that
their pageant an effervescent farce
(Everyone believes his own story)
It is an indisputable fact
that gossip gives buzz to passing cars
and not everything is only hunky-dory
But between her (the gourd) and her cat
the black sky, the moon and the stars
truth was kind of compulsory
You see, she was not just fat
with alien seed from Mars
and he was not just sorry
The Antioxidant Powers of Grapes
It was not exactly a bespoke meal
and for the price, hardly a steal
In the spirit of the pink-pepper champagne
and this at-least-five-pound-gain
it needs to be delicately stated
that I was more than adequately sated
by the invigorating liquid gold grapes
and stuffed with grapefruit-flavored chanterelle crêpes
But what will stay with me:
The noticeable glinting gnashers of the maître'd,
the acid reflux of a slumbering intestinal lizard,
a monstrous migraine ignited by that culinary wizard;
the breath of a fire-burping dragon-
the gift of having been too long on the wagon.
Not, Sturm und Drang
Don't tell me you've NOT seen
a fat person die from starvation yet
even the rotund can die
When you go all higher case
It turns one pusillaniMouse
Maybe four is the limit
BUT MORE THAN FOUR
Makes for perturbation
Though I have known
but little violence personally
it is NOT true that
what does NOT put me down
makes you stronger
We're NOT talking evolution here
It's more like epi(c)genetics
Sometimes it does NOT kill you, yes
It does cripple and maim
Even lab rats can carry baggage
You don't care for gossypium?
Who made you
the one to tell me
NOT to get my 'nicker' in a twist?
There is no need to slay a
lioness every time you want honey
for your porridge
Not, Sturm und Drang
back in Toronto
he said hi she said goodbye
red red cardinal