DEATH CAME ON TUESDAY

Reading Saturdays WSJ, there's an article on a new bio of Martin Gardner, a mathematician, logician and weekly columnist whose hobby was debunking fraudsters.
It also mentions this logical fallacy, which I have shamelessly stolen and dressed up for my Episcopal Church friends.

But I would ask you, is this really a poem? If so where's the dif btw poetry and sparse chopped up prose? (In defense, I might mention last Thursday I heard readings from Richard Blanco, last January's Inaugural poet. He read for an hour and 20 min, and there was not a rhyme or an iamb to be heard.)
Anyway;


DEATH CAME ON TUESDAY


While about his Crusade, the Immortal I, the Knight of Lore, met his Lord’s man upon the way

"Has my Lord called for me, servant of the doomed?"

"Sir, He has not. Tho He sent me. He bid me hear your Peace."

"Why speak I my Peace when my Lord has not called for me?"

"Of that, He bid me say He will upon call upon thee, on a day by the end of next week."

"Which day?"

"He will not say. Like a thief in the night, my Master’s word is he shall come upon a day, but a day of which you shall not know."

"Why so?"

"He has not told me, Sir. I believe he enjoys a mans folly."

"Is it folly to avoid one’s doom?"

"All men surely think not, Sir."

The Knight of Lore, the Immortal I, thought so;

"I believe, by reason, he cannot come on Saturday, for Saturday is the end of next week, and if he has not come by Friday then I will know he comes on Saturday, which defies his word."

"Would seem certainly so Sir."

"And further by reason, he cannot come on Friday, for as we know he will not come on Saturday, and if yet I live on Thursday I shall know he comes Friday, which again defies his word."

"Would seem certainly so Sir."

"And by greater reason, by logic, such holds true for every day of next week. It is proved he cannot come a Saturday, nor can he a Friday. On Wednesday I shall know he cannot  come a Thursday, by Tuesday so of Wednesday, by Monday of Tuesday, Sunday of Monday and by today not tomorrow."
 
"Would seem certainly so Sir."

"So it is proved, by reason, by thought, by logic, my Lord will not come. I have nothing to fear, and for no reason I shall not say my Peace.
And as for you, nuisance servant… I bid you leave me on my way."

"As most men do, Sir."

MOTHER NATURE'S KID

I've been re-writing this for more than a week and it's good enough. A bit Suessical, a bit pompous, but enough.
In a meditation on learning poetics (meter, rhyme, poetic forms) it occurs to me it seems like learning to tie sailors knots. Boy Scouts all learn to tie knots.
Yet, instead, like amateurs, who can manage OK with jute, hemp, or clothesline, accomplished poets can do the same with strands of thin gossamer spider web, or thick wound base harp strings.
They don't klunk, they sing easy.
A distinction I've yet to claim.

MOTHER NATURE'S KID
           (inspired by Micheal J Bugeja)

Climbing uphill to blueberry fields
My son takes two steps to catch up with my one
From lifes trials and horrors I have tried to shield him,
Yet what harm can a day picking blueberries weild?

"I have heard that some bears often come to this patch."
"Bears?" asked my son, tipping his head to scratch
His young mind dreaming awe, like he wanted to greet’em
I said,
"There’ve been tracks seen ‘round some of the bushes they’ve eaten."

"Not to worry," I added, "For while Nature seems close,
Yet she’ll stay far away, out of reach, not to fear,
I doubt there’s a chance there are real bears near."

"Real bears!"

We ascended the hill to a lush boundless field
When our path split to arms boasting Nature’s great yield
Where backdropped by views of blue mountains off south,
I can already taste Nature’s gifts in my mouth

"This bush looks picked over," so we walk on some more.
Then in jest with a start I quick stop and I point

"Look here, bear tracks!"
  Kid looks "?"
"Oh, no, just a dog. Thery’re a dogs, just my joke."

Then when we arrive at the rise of a knoll
I give my son all we had brought, just a bowl
For blueberries

And we reach out,
We reach out and pick berries, blue berries
Plump berrys, purple berries, blueberries
Toasted sweet by sunbeams sent by late summer’s sun

Some we eat, some yeah!
Some we put in the bowl, yeah yeah!
Some go straight in our mouths. "Mum h’eah!" he says
"Mum-yah!"

Soon my fingers are purple, and so are my son’s
And a lot seemed to have ended up on his hands
And a lot seemed to have ended up on his shirt,
And a lot seemed to have ended up on his face
Like a purple blue minstrel
"Yeah, blueberries!"
"Blueberries yeah!"

While gathering I began to explain things to him

"You know, it’s such a pleasure to pick fresh fruit, fresh food.
Sometimes we forget how important it is to find local fresh food
So much of what we eat is packaged, transported thousands of miles
Preserved, salted or frozen without nutrition or flavor

Sugar added, chemicals added, preserved with BHA
And pesticides, pesticides! Pesticides will make you sick
You’ll get cancer from pesticides!

"In third world countries," I continue, "So called third world countries,
Actually the two-thirds world countries if you really know what you’re talking about
People eat incects all the time. ‘Good source of pro-teanne!’
That’s what an old woman I used to rake leaves for to used to say
Sometimes, when I accidentally inhaled a gnat
"‘Good source of pro-teanne!’"

But he’d stopped picking berries and stared agog on his arm
Where a lady bug crawled, slowly crawled, without harm
Just above his elbow.

"Look, Daddy, buggy!"

She was small, a red dot, like a candy you see on paper in dime stores
Or a strawberry truffle too royal to be dipt in chocolate
Sweet red delicious black spots
Made full, bursting full, from the harvest of aphids on blueberry leaves
Just as we have become from the fruit

My eyes rose skyward, and I gathered in awe for the flavored rainbow of our land
The spinach and kale vistas of our majestic forests virgin
Candied by the early lemon yellow leaves of Fall
By mountain Autumn’s tart raspberry stripes
By spooned over clouds of white cream
Floating on a blueberry yogurt sky

O wondrous Mother, your suckling bare breasts are ever so close
Yet tauntingly, ever, just ever that far out of reach
That the unnatural store shelf is just always the closer

Mother, will you not feed us?
Mother, why Mother, Mother, must you taunt us like so many weaning babes?

Then my dream was disturbed by my giggling son,
So I turned back to hug him, at first finding him gone
Till I noticed him deep in blue bushes care
Where he held up his arm, his pink arm now was - bare

"Look Daddy, I ate the bug!"

"Alright. But don’t tell your Mother."

THE 3 LIMERICKS OF FLUFFY AND THE FRIDGE

Of course a poem like this deserves a picture of Fluffy in situ, but she doesn't (or perhaps refuses to) understand posing, and these were the best she'd consent to.

THE 3 LIMERICKS OF FLUFFY AND THE FRIDGE

Whenever I open our ‘fridge door,
She runs up meowing loudly for more
Her old owner, long passed,
Treated her to repasts,
That our Fluffy once did so adore. 

Once again she pleads “Meow?” without telling.
My dear Fluff, there is no need for yelling,
I’d be bug in your ear
If you’d just tell me dear
What memory could it be that you’re smelling?

Is it fish or some milk, or some stinky old cheese?
Time and time and again you’ve had these,
Yet each time you turn nose
Thinking what no one knows,
My dear Fluff, could you just tell me please?

NONSENSE WITH PANTS.

Yesterday I went to the library and found a big fat green collection of Edward Lear.
This was the result.

NONSENSE WITH PANTS

There once was a man who never went out.
“If you keep sitting there,” said his friend, “they’ll wear out,
Those pants are not made for just sitting around in.
Fine fabric needs air, Sir, not a constant bum groundin’.”

Yet the man did not move until late afternoon,
Then the words of his friend filled him dreading with gloom.

“How do I know what state these old drawers just might be in,
With my ass underneath, there is no way of seein’.
What I need’s a hand mirror, then I can rightly see 'em,
Then I’ll know if they need patchin', sewin', or mendin.’”

So he looked all about for his private hand mirror,
Yet as he could not find it, he got worked up in a fear, or….

He thought to ask his friend.
“Have you seen my hand mirror?”
“Yes, I put it on the lawn, at the end of the steps.”
"?”

Without pondering more he walked out to the door,
Then he walked down the steps, grabbed the mirror and saw…

“They look fine,” he said.
His friend stood in the door.
“You’ll admit you’re outside now, you’re wearing your pants.
There to fore, as I said, and I state, ‘they’re worn out.’”

 

BIG POPPY

This is a poem, called "Big Poppy."
Likely it needs more work, as it's very free verse, but I like it as is.

BIG POPPY

For those who don't know, our celebrated Red Sox former first baseman,
Now designated hitter,
Is David Ortiz.
He's also known as Big Papi.

I was at an art opening,
Many celebrated water colors and oils by a middle aged woman whom we were soon to meet.
In the second exhibition room, on the far wall, was a large flower on a black background.
A card below stated simply "Big Poppy."

Then I heard the artist come in and I met her in the hall.
"I like your 'Big Poppy'" I said, "But it doesn;'t look anything like David Ortiz."
"Ha ha ha," she said, and she put up her hand and walked into the other room.

And I never saw her again.

I have that effect on people sometimes.

 

 

PS - I noticed someone actually checked my Blog on July 22!

Yay, a fan! Please leave a comment next time, unless you're Earl Z-.
Don't need no Earl Z- but otherwise yer welcome!

PALINODE-

Messege from Julianne Heckert:

Shared this before, but don't know if you got it. j -

pal·i·node

/ˈpæləˌnoʊd/ Show Spelled [pal-uh-nohd] 

noun

1. a poem in which the poet retracts something said in an earlier poem.

2. a recantation

 

 

Ken Johnson Inspiration strikes - just for you;
She wrote me a poem
A long loving ode
But now she's recanted,
I'm wounded and lowed.
Will this be the last I
See that Pal I Know'd?*

8^P

* This is what we poets refer to as a 'horrendous groaner'. 

THE PLOY OF THE SWEATER DEBS

Two weekends ago was my 30th college reunion.
Latent dormant memories and experiences were remembered, refreshed and resurfaced.
Sometime the truth is even funnier than a well writ joke.

THE PLOY OF THE SWEATER DEBS

A sunny Saturday, and I’m walking out with a friend.
Across the college green there were coeds end to end.
Boys sitting under trees with books, girls sunning on the grass,
A pastoral late autumn day that shall too quickly pass.
“There’s talent on the quad today,” my friend then warmly said,
“And everywhere is tail in play, a good day to come out.”

As we passed by the all girls dorm, he stopped and gazed above,
And smiled almost pruriently as he peered up in love.
“Now I have heard,” he said to me, “Though maybe not first hand,
Of secret goings on in there, the tales I’ve heard are grand!
Some Senior girls, some Juniors too, will befriend Freshman girls,
Who naively, or knowingly, will fall for tricks they play.
And when the Senior girls have worked to gain a freshman’s trust,
They’ll make a move to reel her in, say,
‘Hey, come to my room.
My Freshman old School sweater’s shrunk,
But it should fit you well.
You look so thin, you’re so petite,
And no you’re not too drunk.’
It’s a game that they all play up there, to catch new girls undressing!
She’ll watch her change her sweater then, from one into the other,
And if she likes what she has seen, she’ll move in then to get her.
She’ll say like;
‘By the way, you’re cute, 
And I like what I saw.
I’m lesbian and proud of it, and there’s no shame at all.’”

I interrupted “No!”
“Yes! I’m telling you. And then they totally put the moves on them.”
“Oh, no way, come on! You’re making that up!”
“You’re a freshman!”
“Yeah but really. No one, not even the dumbest freshman, would fall for a lame move like that!”

Then he said;
“There’s something in my room I need, come with me for a minute.”

We walked back to his dorm room just like guys will often do.
We smoked some righteous weed he had, and heard some Grateful Dead.
And when the joint was just a roach, all that was in my head was;
Girls!
Dorms! Filled with girls. And girls!
To tease, to please,
In need.

“I’ll go back there,” I dreamt.

My friend stood up and walked to where his closet had no door,
And held before me bespoke pants like I’d not seen before.
“I bought these at a charity thrift, but they’re too long for me,
But you’re a little taller, dude, I think they might fit you.”

“What, you want me to try on these pants?
“Don’t worry, it’s not like I’ve never seen tightey-whiteys before,

And then he turned around and said, “I will not look at you.”
So I stood up and I dropped trou, and stepped into his pants.
Unknowingly, yet trustingly, an innocent on view.
They seemed to fit.
I turned around.

“Now those look good on you.”
“Really,” I said, “They seem a little tight in the front.”
“I don’t mind. ”
Then he said, “Listen, I’m Gay, and I like what I saw.”

“Wait, what just happened?”
 

(June 2013)

THE SHOP MANAGER

Two weekends ago, I attended my 30th college reunion, my first college reunion EVER!. It was fun, except I tore my back earlier in the week and was virtually a constant cripple. But that by-the-way.
Regrettably, a friend of mine from my college days, a faculty member who was a character non-pariel, died last December.
30 years, and tragically I never connected with him again after graduation. I'm not always reall smart.
Also, I regret, I did not get the chance to memorialize while I was there. So instead I wrote this remembrance. I've since forwarded it to the Skidmore Theater Department Heads (Still the same ones 30 years later! Even Rip Van Winkle couldn't ask for better!) t in hopes it can be included in their next newsletter as a memoriam. 
We shall see.


THE SHOP MANAGER(for Owen McGehee, in memoriam)

When I was at Skidmore I worked in the shop
Not the coffee or book shop, the Theater shop.
While others hung bright lights, with colors all ‘round,
We’d build all the sets, or we'd strike them all down.
On tuition assistance I needed the pay
Of 5 hours at minimum wage, on Friday.

On one certain workday we were between shows,
With no work to do, he just told me to go!
I said "I need money, I can stay until five."
He said "I’m the Shop Foreman, I’ll sign off your card."
"But Owen, I'm honest, and what if we’re caught?"

"Convenient! There’s one project "special" I’ve got."

"There's buckets of bolts here we have to sort through.
You reach in and take one, now here's what you do;
The bent up or bunged up with threads all stripped bare,
You put in this bucket, that's this one, right here.
But if they are clean, and all nice and pristine,
Then they go in this one, you see what I mean?"

"!"
"Ok, I’ll be back to check up on you later."
"Ok."

But for rioting tinnitus, the Shop sang no notes,
The deafening was quiet as I sorted bolts.
My wish was that he would be proud of my doing,
So next show I’d learn more, perhaps stapling or gluing.

I imagined Department Heads would compliment me
For my effort, my diligence, my thrift and economy.
The second hand swept while no others moved time.
I twice checked the good bolts I’d chose –
They’re still fine!

At a quarter to five I heard him re-arrive,
(And obviously not in condition to drive).
I think he'd been drinking some whiskey or beer,
He did not seem happy to have come back here.
He said "Wow! That’s good work there, look what you have done!
I bet you were just having a great loud of fun!"

Then he poured the good bolts in the bucket they’d come from
And did the same thing with the bent up old bunged ones.
He shook up that bucket and mixed all with glee,
Tossed it back on the shelf, then he turned round to me
And said;
"It's now five o'clock, will you ---king get out?!"

      - Ken Johnson ’83, (June 2013)



http://www.legacy.com/obituaries/saratogian/obituary.aspx?pid=161623080#fbLoggedOut

　

FOR SARA - During the past week our Church Rector Sara wrote an impromptu and posted it on FB from her mobile phone.  I've since learned that she may have been in Denver when she wrote it.
I do confess that "re-writing" another's poem certainly is height of callous conceit.
Temptation. Guilty. Sorry.

I wonder, will she ever read this?

FOR SARA

New England Spring Rain
Just does not feel the same
To one who can just stand and listen

Of all these commuters
With Iphone computers
Just who's a young Rector to christen?

All await the same bus
and now most make a fuss
as into dry doorways they hasten

But you in the rain
are the only one sane
and baptized into Spring you do glisten

THE ANGLICAN ANGLER - the problem with Sundays is after church I have to clear out the echoes before I can write anything secular.
So today in addition to earworms of Proverb s and Hymn's in my head, in the WSJ (yesterday's) I read a review of a book called "The Compleat Angler", a sort of 17th century combination of poetry and fishing guide.



THE ANGLICAN ANGLER

The angular Anglican angles the angle
A place where 3 streams come to meet in a cross

Expertly drawing his line with no tangle
He whips and he whizzes and casts his fine floss

I ask cross the ford if, "Might I have a word?"
"Friend sure," what he said, and then pinched his fine halyard

 "What need have you fisherman, for your basket has bread
What hunger now haunts you, is your spirit unfed?"

"I don't fish for me," was his modest compline
"Those like you, who've not heard, I must call with a line."

TOUGH CAT

It's been a few weeks - so long I had to reset my password on Blogger.
I've been working on 2 longer poems, maybe I'll post them next week.

In the meantime, another one-off.


TOUGH CAT

Pink cut spots on my left hand
Like acne dots on a young man

With Max the cat, who can be tough
The fault is mine for playing rough

Yes his claws all need a trim
And surely I'll clip him again

But I don't think it any sin
To catlike grasp and claw at him

He grabs my hand and pulls clamped down
With back feet kicking all around

He makes a tough cat growling sound
As I don't mind he sinks claws in

 

PANTS

I may have had too much to drink last night. Today was not a bad day, just one of those wherin nothing feels quite right.
Of note - when I googled "pants on the floor pic" to find a photo, it lead me to a a fingerpost poet, from whom I "borrowed" the pic. His/her work can be read here (but read mine first!)
http://damiensfingerpost.blogspot.com/2011/05/sometimes-life-seems-like-dream.html

PANTS

These pants are not the same ones that I wore just yesterday
And how I came to put them on I really can not say

No wallet in the pocket and no pens no pad no keys
Just remnants of a tissue from a long forgotten sneeze

This pair were too dirty so I left them on the floor
When yesterday I others wore and thought of these no more.

When I awoke this morning sleepily I took no care
And I stepped in footfirst into the first pair I saw there

But these are not the same pants that I wore yesterday

A momentary panic came as I did comprehend
Could someone else in my new pants all of my wallet spend?

Or break into my house or steal my car with my own keys?
I only knew that they'd not have what they'd need should they sneeze

Of course a moment later common sense dispelled that doom
As I recalled that last night I'd undressed in another room.

SWISS CHEESE

It's a funny thing, sense memory. A little over an hour ago I heard a radio commercial for Finlandia Real Swiss Cheese, and the memory came back to me of how I was once cheated at a French Restaurant.


SWISS CHEESE

So how does this work?
Ah Monsieur, I show you

First there is le caquelon, the pot
Which I rub garlic on
Then le rechaud we call this stove
Which I will spark to light

He added cubes of cheese devine
And with a splash of wine
Set all on to the flame and stiirred
Just stirred, from time to time

And this is Swiss Cheese?
Yes, Monsieur.
Real Swiss Cheese?
Of course, Monsieur. See I tip the pot. The cheese it has the holes. Only real Swiss cheese has the real Swiss Holes.
Proof, Thank you I agreed.

Soon the scent of warm fondue
I savored in my head
And took a long thin fork which then
Was layed beside my arm
And in a basket peered within
And speared a crust of bread
Which at his invitation
I then dipped into the pot
My expectations more than met
Nno flavor had been lost
But what were once fine cubes of cheese
Had all turned into sauce!

I stared down the bread upon my fork
all covered in fondue
Perceiving that there'd been a trick
As I observed the clue

Monsieur, is everthing all right?

You say it is but I think not
I yet reserve a doubt
For how can this be Real Swiss Cheese
With all the bubbles melted out?

FARMER CHRIS
In an attempt to write about blooms in Spring I actually wrote about a Fall event instead.
Oops! Oh well....

Dedicated to my love,

FARMER CHRIS

Kneeling on a gardeners bench
she pushes dibble down
Then spinkles loving fingers full
of phospahte in the ground

Then takes a bulb and drops it in
Sings "Happy Birthday Tulip Bulbs,"
And buries it within.
"I'll see you in the Spring." she adds
And so sets all its kin.

 

DO NOT RAZE YOUR CHILDREN

Well I'm not sure I like this, but anyway Last Sunday I bought both Smiley and Wests "The Rich and the Rest of Us," and a $2 used treasury of American poetry. So after 5 days reading Travis and West for a chuch book group, and thumbing through the Poetry re-read Ginsbergs "Howl."
The result was this, which I don't like for 3 reasons
1) Seems more of a rant than a poem. I mean I could re-work it in meter and rhymes, but Oof!
2) Seems to be telling the poor they should own their own businesses and purchase stocks. Reality check? Would that they could.
3) Yes the title is a pun.
So as for blending Smiley and West with Ginsburg it was a fun experiment. Read at your own risk.  


DO NOT RAZE YOUR CHILDREN

Do not raise your children
Believing you are graced by throwing them to the fires
Of Moloch, Baal or Mammon
For the earth must be yours and the rain must be yours and the plow must be yours
For the seed is yours.
And what can meek inherit when they are slaughtered?

Do not raise your children
To return them to the grinding brickyards and the slavery of Pharoah
Who made them a commodity and worthless and once cast out great Moses
For the sea must be yours and the pillar must be yours and the commandantments must be yours
For the seed is yours.
And what can meek inherit when not taught freedom?

Do not leave your lands to the Inquisitions wrath
And leave to your children the inheritance of living on the margins
of holy great estates who won't employ or tithe to them and teach them only obligation
For the church must be yours and the prayers must be yours and the host must be yours
For the seed is yours
And what can meek inherit with souls oblidged?

Do not raise your children
To be job slaves at the lowest wage for Moloch Corp or Pharoah Inc or fear their jackboot cops of       Inquisition
To be a commoditiy for labor whom they will always trade for the bottom line
For the company must be yours and the enterprise must be yours and the stock certificate must be yours
For the seed is yours
And you must be a partner own as yours incorporate
Or what will they inherit when you've consigned their wealth away?

 THE TARTAN PIPER

Several weeks ago my cousin Terry posted a joke on Facebook. I read it, thought I heard the echoes of Alfred Lord Tennyson on the horizon and decided to retell the joke in the Tennyson meme.
I'm sure real Tennyson scholars will take issue with my success, but as I didn't really ask them I am content they can just have and keep their opinions.


THE TARTAN PIPER

I am the tartan piper and there’s nowhere I won’t go
Bar Mitzvahs and Kiwanis Clubs I’ll always timely show
Graduations and parades I play, my pipes I faithfully blow
But where I’m piping next, my friend, the fookin’ Lord don’t know.

I got a call from an old friend, a funeral man by trade
A time and place to me he gave, lamentation there he bade
Quoted my fee, ok said he, then down my phone I laid
No doubt some soul come to an end, a prayer I quietly said.

Upon the day I tuned my pipes, and in my car I went
To find the peaceful mourners where I was solemnly sent
But as I sped along the road my map was blown and turned
The error of this happening I only later learned

I am the tartan piper and there’s nowhere I won’t go
Bar Mitzvahs and Kiwanis Clubs I’ll always timely show
Graduations and parades I play, my pipes I faithfully blow
But where I’m piping next, my friend, the fookin’ Lord don’t know.

When I arrived no mourners- none- not any there were found
Just a back-hoe and some workmen and a hole dug in the ground.
I’ve played for paupers many times, and blew a solemn sound
The workmen they removed their caps and then all gathered round

With heart and soul I piped my dirge as never I've before
I felt a man who’d died alone must surely deserve more
No family, friends, to mourn him, a poor pauper all alone
Ave’ Maria on my pipes, Benedictus I intone

When I was done the workman still were with me all about
And by the tears upon their cheeks I swore there was no doubt
That soon enough in Heaven this poor soul shall surely be
Escorted by the Angels and into the arms of He

And then one of the workmen said
“I’ve laid sewer pipes and septic tanks for forty years, but never one like this.”

I am the tartan piper and there’s nowhere I won’t go
Bar Mitzvahs and Kiwanis Clubs I’ll always timely show
Graduations and parades I play, my pipes I faithfully blow
But where I’m piping next, my friend, the fookin’ Lord don’t know.

FOR THOSE WHO WATCH THE COOKIE

Here is the second of two peoms inspired from last weeks Maundy Thursday vigil at oour local church.

For those not in the know, Maundy Thursday is the night before Good Friday. We celebrate the first Last Supper not only with communion but also ritual foot washing (it's not as icky as it sounds, but yes those are feet!).
The vigil which follows commenorates the moving of Christ and the apostles to the garden, where  while Christ prayed the apostles all famously fell asleep.
During the Mass a special loaf is consecrated, and then set on an altar in the choir room. Ours really did look like a 5 inch oatmeal cookie, and our Rector tells us that in seminary they fondly termed this ritual "watching the cookie."
At the vigil we each take a hour or so to "stay up", but this bothered me. If the apostles fell asleep, yet we stay awake all night, do we think we're better than the apostles?
Oh, and I had fun breaking up the meter with this one. The 2nd and 4th lines of most stanzas are that way on purpose, to break you out of the normal "poetry" meter and make you speak like a normal human. And the interjections are just Holy Anger!

FOR THOSE WHO WATCH THE COOKIE


I think I shall sleep well this night
For I was never chose as an apostle
Without ordainment I'm alright
I've no fear that Our Lord should soon turn hostile

 AWAKE AND PRAY!

We washed our feet on Thursday night
Our sacred blessed tithing
The breads been blessed, placed on a plate
And candles light our vigil night, all night, we muddle in the choir room

ARE YOU STILL SLEEPING?

I think I shall sleep well this night
I just don't know what is it that I should fear
For I with pink and rosey feet
am clean by all the work He came to do here

THE HOUR HAS COME!

I think I shall sleep well this night
For while you're ever in my prayer
There is one thing of which I care
...to be.. awake.. at your.. arising

A WALKING MEDITATION

This is the first of two peoms that came out of a recent Maundy Thursday vigil at oour local church. While others sat, prayed, read books and etc..., in the choir room, I chose instead to pace in a slow meditative manner around the nave, aka "doing laps."

I only actually conceived the first stanza that evening, the other 2 came about with more examination and revision over the following week.

It is not really meant to be a poem, nor a mantra, but a prayer.
Fold your hands in your lap, look down slightly in reverence, and walk slowly. Say or read the prayer at a rate of 2 syllables per footstep (excepting when "I"' begins a sentence, which is one).

When you get to the end repeat over and over and over again, and walking in the dark helps too.

A WALKING MEDITATION

Without Love I no one know
Without Charity I owe
Without Faith nowhere to go
Without Grace I am just so

I shall meet someone in need
With Your gift to give in deed
For in Faith from fear we're freed
And thus can let Grace intercede

Did I meet you sick or poor
And did I recognize that you're
The Charity and Faith most pure
And Grace that ever shall endure?

 

YOU WILL RUN WITH THE PACK

Spent this Saturday afternoon reading the Wall Street Journal and listening to Ogden Nash recite his poetry. Why that inspired me to write this I'll never know.


YOU WILL RUN WITH THE PACK

A lone wolf runs through field and steam
and mountains of free thinking dreams
But when he meets a new wolf pack
He checks his speech and holds it back
He will run with the pack

A red state I once lived in too
Or was it blue? I never knew
In freedom I did pay my due
To all that ambiant hullaballoo
I once ran with that pack

I sought to move without pretension
Attendant at a new convention
My old beliefs passed without mention
I should not peak their apprehension
I will run with this pack

Perhaps you don't like what you hear
And move to find some new freinds dear
But when they know you held views queer
They'll bark at you and teach you fear
You will run with that pack

You think your views are all your own
But none of us can live alone
We join our state our church our home
The dominant make us atone
We do run with the pack

 

Song Sparrow Reveille

 

This was wrote while on Martha's Vineyard with Christine, in 2007 (same as If Mary Had A Cat).


We had just a month or two before learned Christine had MS, and most morning she wasn't moving as quick as in past years. So while waiting for her to arise I would take bird walks.
One thing about that year was there were Song Sparrows everywhere, and the Song Sparrows on MV had a very distintive manner of song.

All of them, the males anyway, would sing like this:
Cheep cheep chrip Trillllll cheep
chrip chirp chirp
Cheep cheep chrip Trillllll chirp chirp
(now repeat endlessly throughout July and August)

So with this and our sorrows in mind, while ruminating on my morning walks, I composed this in the meter of the birdsong.

Song Sparrow Reveille

(July 27, 2007)

It’s time to gehhh-t you
Out of bed
It’s time to greee-t the day

Please rise and Shyiii-ne you
Sleepy head
You’ve only gohhh-t today

No need to wurrr-ry ‘bout
your health
No need for connn-cern dear

Do what you haaa-ve to
To take care
Then you’re alreahhh-dy there

Open your eyeee-s to
hours of sun
You’re missing alll-l the fun

Come whistle wihhh-th me
On a wire
I’ll show you haooo-w to fly

It’s not that harrr-rd as
You can see
You only kneee-d to try

It’s time to gehhh-t you
Out of bed
You only have to-

 

SEND A FRIEND A POEM

Another whimsical object exercise, and don't think I haven't noticed that 7 & 1/2 foot ballad meter isn't something I've used before, or twice, or always.
The preamble comes off as something snarky but I meant it to poke friends, and it got some attention.

April 1st, 2013
 You likely forgot that today, as is the first Monday of every April, is National Poem day, and usually celebrated by people sending poems to each others.
Well I haven't received yours yet, and I'm waiting.... ?!
In the meantime here's mine:

SEND A FRIEND A POEM

Cannot think a thing to say
So send a freind a poem
Even on a foggy day
Just as long as you know'em

What to write, have not a clue?
It's still simple thing to do
Just a line from me to you
So send a freind a poem

Must each stanza have a rhyme?
At the end of every line?
And metered feet to keep in time?
Don't know, let's go ask Owen.

It just takes a loving thought
Jotted down on paper bought
You'll get it wrong if you feel fraught
In peace keep your mind open

It has been the height of fashion
To pronounce ones instant passion
With worlds wild and without ration
Since long ago the time of Jereboam

So have no care 'bout what you say
No one will read it anyway
But make sure that you write today
And send a friend a poem!

I got 3 responses directly and one indirectly, so I guess being snarky gets results.

This was sent by Mogie Lilly Kinosian
http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/albert-and-the-lion/
This by Julianne Endler Heckert
http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/o-captain-my-captain/
Indirectly Rev Sara Irwin posted this on her own blog (I don't think she ever posted her own poetry before so I take credit for making the suggestive motivation)
 http://saraiwrites.blogspot.com/?spref=fb

and a Haiku from Christine:

"Haiku for the Crocuses"

Crocuses flower
in March's brown bower.
Spring splashes
on dull earth.

C.A.P.

Cute rhyme, 'Stine.

After I posted a link to "The Cat Hater's Handbook," on FB, Christine wrote this comment and rhyme:

Christine Powers I have never understood ailurophobes, nor will I ever. With me, it's always been, "If you love me, you love my cat!"
That said, here is an impromptu rhyme:

Joy is when our Maxie talks
about his spotless litter box.
"Mrroww," he sings, "It is so clean!
Thank you, dearest Ken and 'stine."

C.A.P.

And the Cat Haters Handbook:
http://www.brainpickings.org/index.php/2013/02/21/cat-haters-handbook-tomi-ungerer-william-cole/

 

ODE TO A DOG WITH NEW GLASSES
(Nothing like a crazy picture for inspiration. Not my best but what ho!):

Oh, Ode to a dog with new glasses in style
I thought that he can't read, and yet all the while
With his paper turned up we would think he'd no sense
But he reads with his his nose, and of news, he knows scents.

From his paper he gleans where are cops on the beat
And also where she dogs are at, and in heat
Thus his life, as a dog, is made full and complete
For Grace to a dog with new glasses

I'd bet him, one Chris Moore, his dog hasn't a clue
But I'd be money down, now, payment would be due
Except there is a headline I've just seen and now new,
Skunks are out, on report, spewing gasses.

If Mary had a Cat

In summer 2007, while Christine and I were on Martha's Vineyard we met her friend Dan Waters at an arts show. Dan does amazing old school print things, and had made a woodblock or litho portrait of Our Lady holding a cat.(Note, not the pic you see here - I'll have to find and scan it in later),
Long story short, it inspired the poem below, which Chris and I used with the picture of Mary for our Holiday cards.



 

 

If Mary had a Cat

(July 26 & 27, 2007)



 Suppose that Mary had a cat,
Instead of Baby Jesus
Then early up on Christmas morn’
What presents there would please us?

Hairballs, dead mice, you’d give to me
I’d stalk a partridge, for your tree
And when the wise kings came, to see
We’d scratch the ankles of those three!

No frankincense, no Magi myrrh
No mistletoe, just catnip pure.
No midnight hymns, all silent night
We’d lay about and purr

The badge of winter colds, would pass
No red nose blown in honor
We’d proudly get cat allergies
To fur, and disdain Donner.

Suppose that Mary had a cat
Instead of Baby Jesus
Knee deep in cat toys, we would be
Exchanging Christmas sneezes!