In the Pocket Where the Bobcat Sits
1.
In the pocket where the bobcat sits
When the road that sweeps in from behind
Is a pond of sunlight
The earth holds the world in place,
With a tooth
And whistle,
As the click above, in the green wood,
Walks among those who are near;
The noise caught up in the breeze
Just as I step from the light upon the parking lot,
And the way the woods invite a soul
To wander is enough to think twice
About the bobcat in the low-level made of trees.
The awe-inside and hollow belly full of lovely air
Give its full body
To standing there
So close, dare I say, to taking
A leap in
When soft steps are certainly advised
By the charge of wind.
2.
The game was played upon the floor and mat
The understanding was, you can keep what’s on you, just that;
What you have will be your sum of flaws,
Why bring too much?
Why not scurry away when less is more?
So I said in my pocket I have an answer
And I do not need opinion for it to sting
Because claws
Are still as fine to beat down nature as any tool
Along with armor surrounding a deadly pin
And that will be the mighty mule
I bring
I brought a bobcat
With me for the duel
But also a stinging scorpion.
That ruling was determined by me
Before proceeding in.
Poetry, Fire, History
To justify the ways of god to man…sheesh,
When Satan was harnessed by God to a leash.
John Milton’s song brought me to glory’s height
But did Milton overreach through sheer epic might?
What was not understated as an over arching plan
Still assumes I know the man.
Who was He and why such lofty goals,
If the song only confounds, as if it were written on scrolls?
An epic goal but an otherworldly voice
Means that the man was brought to me, I did make this choice.
Though the most glorious song Milton brings,
I still may not know the man when he sings.
Such beauteous epic, a concert of words
And I will chart the record of pandemonium with song of birds
All of this and more on praise
But the man who writes, through work, is still a mystery through ways.
To justify the ways of God to man
Means that I perceived Him, I did not read the master poet’s plan.
This one into history rolls
Because for all I know, it might have actually been written on scrolls.
Fine Tuning the Guitar
As I sit to wonder at the light
And to feel for something that keeps the bird there
That competes with me, the day, as I worked—noisy,
my companion.
I found the strings and wound them and strung
The instrument. I worked this day to stay tuned
With what at hand there is that is to be
Done. When I find problems here
I solve them there and there is joy of mine in the work.
That I am forty one now and still charmed by life.
By the pen and paper, by the films and music,
By the guitar in hand. That I have not chosen
An idea but many ideas to keep me busy
Is a chore that I believe in. The things that
Can be said stack and are heavy and success
Drives me to try new things and continue.
But I am forty one now. And now my lyrics
Feel like a sandwich in my hands, something
That I enjoy though it is only food. The pen
Does not seem to say more than that. I am
As good as I am. Not bad, however, I see genius continue.
The work that is left is sometimes to follow
The books that I did not write because there in
The work continues. The age has not bothered
Me and the sandwich that I have is not bad either.
But the work is to open the books that I did not write
And see myself as I saw myself as others, while
I was ambitious, as just an undergraduate. Because
Knowledge is greater that my technique. It surpasses
My technique daily though I get better, though
I see my flaws in comparison to others. Knowledge
has surpassed me now by long lanky strides and
Trust me, I have not missed a step. I am better now
Than ever. The pen rolls over in my hand and I wind
The string and that bird sang all day with me,
It was as vicious as a cat;
I am forty one and I will not be inventing some of this
I opened that book and then
Another and I see the work that will not be
Done by me.
And I will follow others as I get older
Because this road will lead to the end
And the art feels like bread and butter
But the road is safe and full of people
The inspiration of today is mere bread and butter
But the road is work that I can follow until it ends—
The strings look like buckles; I have done
Better than I had thought I could—
My voice sounds better than that bird
Or just as good.
I am matching ideas, pairing numbers,
And I see the joy of my youth return upon
Me in waves. But I do not believe the things
I write or the songs I sing, I enjoy them
Like bread and butter in my mouth.
I did not surpass myself either. I see there
A road to somewhere and that’s for me.
I even see my ambitious youth and the
promises I have made to follow someone
Even through artistic depth or thought. I did
Not slander the old man when I was young
And to read a book like that older guy or gal
And know that I follow YOU into old age is okay
Because that road also has a treacherous bolt
Struck through as the horizon fades into who knows where?
That I follow you into knowledge, that is how
I work now; I follow you into knowledge
Because I am forty one now. And the road continues
Till it ends—
Sound Mind
What if this guy, this warm guy, a talker,
For once, did not talk you up and down?
He did that, just off, and not much, but that:
He talk up, he talked down, which made sense through rebound.
Because this warm guy did not want to be unkind,
One who told a secret or snuck around.
His tone was bold, one of certainty, of sound mind:
“You that I am, or who know me, who know, I’m okay.”
One who addressed the room with the notion of sound.
He wailed and wept from flattery,
Right in there his story fit, have a look-see.
Why wouldn’t he address the room when, you can tell,
His audience was addressed because sound carries so well.
History Poem, 6: Knock-Many
The hill of Tyrone
Menes was buried before tin
Was taken from the shore
By Rome
From Cornwall
To make Bronze
From copper
For Carthage using
A Celtic to tell things
Espied.
All I Know of Why, Extinction
I thought about my life
How I die
And did I do enough
Or get to say the part that’s mine—
I know and feel
It will resolve, that
I will die, with a drop of rain
Upon my head, or, upon
My face, a ray of sunshine—
And that will be all I know of
Why.
Realpolitik (So, It Is Only Now You Will Not Talk About the Weather)
Why would you scream at me,
Realpolitik?
Why did you lose your cool
When it was your turn to pick
Something harmless or choose a topic?
What were the buildup thoughts
Why the outburst
Of such strong feelings, angry knots,
Clenched fists,
Deep breaths that lead to an open
Door
Where you inhale, exhale
Till you agree to no more,
But you agree to no more
Only if you are allowed, and that is all, to just stare
At the floor.
No more, as though you were harmed
Or held at bay.
But you agree to nothing, nothing!
Then why not say?
Say what it was that made you see
The problem as hostile?
It certainly isn’t me.
Who you are from there
is fine.
Dream up an excuse
To continue on
With feigned abuse.
No one was hurt,
No one hurt you.
You stammer on about offense
Because along the fence
Might make an offense seem true.
To feel concern, not to feel shame,
That feelings were not shared:
Consider the concerns of myself
And others.
Why would I share your feelings
When they
Are blatant?
Ex Nihilo or Nothing Comes From Nothing
1.
A wise old man sat upon a rock
To tell a child of what he knew
Of human folly and what is known or true.
He told the tale of a king
And the cunning of his rule, due
By and large to his simple advice
On what he would ask of his subjects
On how to behave and what they should
And should not do. This is the story the wise old man
Told the child regarding the story of a king,
told in a way in order to summarize his rule:
"'If you just look like the king
But you can’t act like the king
Then nothing comes from nothing:
You will end up looking like a fool.
Let me put it to you plainly,” said the king,
“Just don’t say something stupid
to Me about wearing my clothing.'" Then
the old man asked the child, “Now
why do you think the king
said that?” “Because I’m in charge,” the child replied.
2.
A wise old man said, what is the one thing that represents all you will ever know?
To which the child now a little older replied, wind, rain, flood and plague.
Then why am I here, the wise old man asked?
To tell me of a plague that’s near? Replied the child now a little older.
Then why is there a fortress on the hill?
Because the policemen are lying in the grass.
Forever Understand, Wisdom and Cunning Resolve with Time
1.
There have always been contests of thought on thought,
Such as who is trickier in the game of who is who
And when the game becomes spy vs spy, do not try merely to spot
Them, forever—understand that you must defeat the wiser of the two.
2.
Many scholars and poets will agree
That you are no Shakespeare which is fine by me.
But what does such a statement to history belie?
That, along with Truth, you should not believe an internal lie
While touching upon this and that, as such;
To believe a mistruth from within requires a counter-touch,
Perhaps an urban myth or fairytale that is known and shared by all
In order for the grand parade to develop through lack
Of Wherewithal.
That ‘a plague upon your houses’ means
A lie that can only be seen from within
Is how I intend to win through without;
As a flood, or plague or pandemic or novel virus,
That I can still round up many from within
Through a story of without
Which is what ‘a plague upon your houses,’ is really all about.
Some stories are saved for my own people to believe in.
3.
I cast it far, a single stone,
And watched it bounce and roll down hill
And I thought on what is perceived but rarely known
And what must happen when it does lie still.
A small amount broke and fell apart
The rest remained relatively whole
And the little that became, mere sandy art,
Of my throw was what I thought about in the lull:
That I saw a piece that was full grown
Though it might not really matter
Because the tale that will be told by the king's clown
Will sink in through court
And the stone will be lost to the greater pitter patter.
All My Own, A Private God
The two were tied together as
Bro and sis:
One was idiosyncratic
The other was furious.
The two as one family were no longer stuck
As competitors;
They freely compromised, through a private god,
On which one to the other was truly better.
Us two as one makes us a team
That knows what the other is thinking without a seam.
Anguishing Over Days Gone By
When witnessed by the people
Anguished
With covering up something juvenile
Left behind
By your signature
In a lower place
Than requested by others.
Apparently, those days
Are over.
Changing In My Evil Jeans
I was raised in the House of Hungry Clothes
(A strange locus none the less here it goes).
Hungry clothes are animals and eat
Without chewing and without teeth.
They are dangerous
And, though they supposedly would never harm us,
They have power to carve up life, till our wits are split
To pieces without scissors or teeth. What is known, I lived it.
They will gobble car keys, your very will,
And important papers till you stand stupid-still.
Particularly car keys, those are tasty.
Car keys are prey that can find no safety.
How does one handle a pest? Grip as cure;
You don’t! Then run and endure the creature.
I ran and I am writing in retrospect.
This sad song is of the catalyst
That prompted me to leave my home
And suffer the harsh world to roam.
Christmas is usually a happy time
When happy ornaments climb
On to a happy perky tree
Not in my home, Christmas irks me
Because it only adds to the monster.
The house belches a demonstrative “Gr!”
When holiday comes
Because it grows in exponential sums
I say quirky because I like presents,
Getting things fills me with many contents.
Presents add dimensions to the problem.
There is only one way to solve them.
Change them in, change in your toys and jeans
For cold hard cash, Those evil greens.
The house thinks that cash is an evil-ill
And kills it to hold us against our will.
I have fought this house my entire life
But we will not get into my prior strife.
Suffice it to say, my life has been hard
Playing life’s hand being short one card.
I decided to leave when one morning,
I battled my bedroom which was scorning
Me for trying to put it into order:
“Right! How dare I test its unsaid border.
I just want to organize one thought”
Which pissed it off! And so we fought.
When I grabbed a sock and folded it
My bedroom quickly took hold of it
And unraveled my work
Dumped a drawer (I could almost see it smirk
And smile in the form of pants, shirts, and a vest)
And threw both socks on the ground to rest.
“What in the hell!” I said, “You evil jerk!
You revel in my destruction? You smirk?
You want to see me laid to waste?”
I knew what to do and did it with haste.
I carved through the closet, filled with fiends,
And grabbed my pair of brand-new jeans.
Brand new, unworn, from this Christmas.
I said out loud, “I’m getting rid of this!”
The house bellowed, “No!” with low grumbling
But the camel’s back was broken. A bumbling
Fool I would be made no more.
I was heading for the department store
To return my brand new pants
And stop the march of the army ants
That had invaded my camp.
No peace. No diplomacy. Time to stamp,
Stomp and completely pummel
My invader mindlessly with vision tunnel.
I would take a stand for good or ill.
I would thin their ranks: Push me, I kill.
However, my jeans had grown an affinity
For my home and the community
Of evil clothes stacked within.
This was where my demise would begin.
I thought that since the pants were new
Nothing dangerous would happen or ensue
From a quiet trip to a giant mall
In downtown. Thus began my downfall.
Its creases were sharp, it still had the tag
My mom still had the receipt and the bag
From the time of their purchase.
That still seemed innocent, this little cuss.
It hadn’t been corrupted by the house
Or so I thought the sneaky little louse.
Now I have battled my home many times
But these jeans I hate! Gutter slimes
Trash appetizers and toxic waste
In my mouth would leave a better taste.
I’d rather dine on a dumpster dinner
Or be a frog eating contest winner
Than put those pants on my body—
In fashion? Ha! Outdated, bawdy.
If you were wondering, to let you know,
I’m not bitter from battle…does it show?
Regardless, those pants put me through hell…
I’m not bitter! I think you can tell.
I folded the pants, grabbed the receipt,
Grabbed my backpack, put shoes on my feet,
And smiled such a giant evil grin
That it stretched to the limit the skin
On my chin growing with stubble.
I said to my house, “Boy you’re in trouble.
I am going to thin your ranks.”
All of a sudden, I felt little yanks
Coming from the shoulder straps of my pack
And the bag bounced back and forth on my back.
The jeans were kicking and making a fuss.
I snarled, “Now sit still you little cuss.
You’re going back to where you came.
To dump you for good is what I aim
Although you have done nothing to me.
This house must pay until I am free.”
First sunglasses, my foot on one pedal,
I posed hard on my horse of metal.
I knew that I was looking like a stud
It was time to get rid of this little cud.
With that I took off on to my bike.
The downtown mall was bit of a hike…
Part: 2
Weaving in and out, the traffic
Posed a risk catastrophic.
So I made sure to take my time
With my arrival to the dime.
This was the start
Of the calamity
I will tell, minus the profanity
In real-life, I on occasion used.
No need for sensitive ears to be abused.
My little denim captive jostled hard
Stitched to the zipper of my backpack scarred.
It appeared a leasurely trip, no doubt,
The traffic humming as I weaved in and out
The approaching mall grew though still distant
Surrounded by small shops like the big tent
Of a circus with smaller attractions.
I had no idea the reactions
I would encounter in this magic place:
I double checked the zipper just in case.
Everything safe and secure to move on
Like the inching forward of a small pawn
On a board he’s unable to control
Or a ground hog’s head, peeping from his hole
Seeing lions quickly rushes back in
Like foolish prey confident he can win.
Against an experienced predator:
This become apparent as I opened the door
And took a step inside.
The mall was big. The food court wide
Stretched out traversed by folks walking
Consumed in the round about way of people talking
And enjoying the company of each other.
I could hear the helpless jeans blubber
Within my icy grip.
Everything on my trip
So far had gone off without a hitch,
I only needed to ditch
The jeans in my pack,
I was accosted by a voice on the sales rack
Of an art store
That occupied a place near the front door
Of the mall. Perhaps I heard it wrong
But I think it said, “You’ve lived too long.”
Which of course filled me with terror
Assuaged no less that my mind could error
And perhaps I was just hearing things:
The mind’s desire often brings
In an alternative voice
When we think we have no choice
But in reality we do.
Insanity proves we are not through
Living and learning.
Insanity keeps the mind turning.
But I wasn’t crazy yet
I was a fresh pawn among pieces set
To move and conquer:
I hadn’t yet lost my last and only bonker.
Part: 3
To save these jeans, a plan was cooking,
The lost remote would start looking
Along with my mom’s spare car
Keys, the two items would journey far
In order to bring back to the house
The abducted jeans. A mouse
Pulled the keys from their hiding place,
Finding lost things, the mouse was an ace…
Which is why my problems are plenty
And I stand here without a single penny
Perhaps the next time opinions pool
“Keep your crap to yourself as a rule”
Will be the standing order used like fur
The shelter to cover what was a blur
Silence upon me will be set, my boulder,
And silence can be heavy though better
So peace with a tyrant will be light as a feather
To give in, to be thought good
“Keep it to yourself,” they will say, “You should.”
“A grand insult,” I will say, “I feel the storm winds blast…”
Then I will bite my tongue because I want the peace to last
At this point I felt something change deep within me.
I looked around and said low, “Where is he?”
When I looked to the door, I saw two legs in mid-run
And the sight scared me. To see my jeans gun
It for the door filled me with fear, still,
And that’s why I pan-handle for a meal.
I can’t find those jeans, and I’m now lock from my house
And I would feel tricked save but by the mouse
Who took my keys and hid them good
So that when the jeans disappeared, I would
Not be able to get back in
And they could stay in the clothing bin.
The Scribblings of My Former Self.
Three years. Three ever growing years had passed
– (2t 3h 6r 9e 4a 4s 1v 1g 1o 2y 1w 2d 1p)
Since the elf had seen his friend Myrtle last.
– (4s+3i+3n+1c+7e+1th+2l+2f+1m+1y+2r+1t+2a)
And although in bed he did not turn and toss
– (2a+3n+4d+
He lived a
daily sense of loss
Way
down deep
within his heart
Though
He did
Not want to part
There was
Much he wanted to confess
En Medius Reise:
From ff the
carriage
he took a hop
in the distance ee
saw her shop
Amidst a group of tiny
shacks sat her shop selling knick-knacks
Taken from the ocean.
He filled with
. . .
Nnn—; His heart wrestled with many fears:
He hadn’t seen her in three years.
In her direction he turned his feet
And made his way down the street.
A lady
swept the curb while he walked,
tt tt
on the shop his eyes were locked.
Since their parting he had done many things
But full circle, often, our origin brings.
For he was no longer as he was
For no other reason than just because.
The mood was a bit softer now,
The time that passed had shown him how
He was afraid this lapse would change
Their friendship; On the door step, he felt strange.
He knew what he was doing was a little weird,
Losing
Myrtle was what
He really feared.
A small turtle
answered the door.
Levity in the elf’s heart began to soar.
“Hi, who are you?” “My name is Chipper.”
Another turtle appeared, “My name is Skipper.
Chipper is my younger sister.”
“Is Myrtle here? “You
just missed her.”
---elf had a
seat on the couch,
He was careful not to slouch
Because he
Wanted to make a good impression.
R RR
nervousness began to lessen.
Tt t
door cracked, someone in conversation
Made
the elf fill
with nervous elation.
To someone, Myrtle said, “See ya later,”
While the elf waited for her.
Then Myrtle and the elf stood eye to eye.
This visit, he quickly gave the reason why:
“Listen Myrtle, I have a problem.
My former problems, you’ve helped me solve them
So I need your help. I need a name.
Things for me are not the same
Since last I saw you.
I have this problem I need help through.
I can no longer say my name is my skin
And I just don’t know where to begin.
I just want to be normal.”
He kept his voice reserved and formal.
“How long have you wandered?” Myrtle’s kids perked their ears.
“Not too long,” he said, “About three years.”
“Three years! And you couldn’t figure it out?”
“Calm down, please don’t shout.”
“A name is special,” so Myrtle said,
“It is the food where your sense of self is fed.”
“I know myself, I just need a name!
Something good. Nothing lame.”
“How about Bob?” Myrtle asked.
“Bob!” the elf laughed.
“No, no that is not right.
I want something cool, masculine yet light
Like Dirk or Chase.”
Myrtle only made a funny face.
The elf smiled, “No, I like Dirk.”
He looked her in the eyes with a smirk.
“Fine Dirk, no! That sounds weird!”
In a prophetic voice, “It’s as I feared,”
He said, “I knew things between us would change.”
“God! You’re still just as strange.
Listen, I can’t leave with you.
What have you been up too?
I have kids now, I just couldn’t wait.”
“Ya, ya,” the elf carelessly said, “That’s great.”
“Why do you want a new name so much?”
“Because of a new land I want to touch.
This place, The Still World, I have heard
A lot about in my travels through word
Of mouth and casual conversation.
What do you say? Take a vacation!”
“I can’t! I have work to do
Around the shop that I must get through.
However, and don’t think you are a sage,
I have two kids coming of age
And they need exposure to the world.”
A smile from the elf curled.
Myrtle said, “Never mind! I take back what I said!”
The elf only shook his head.
“I think I can show them a thing or two.
I knew things between us were good, I knew.
Yes, I will take them to the Still World.”
Many feelings within him swirled.
Myrtle said, “Alright Dirk, make a bed,
You aren’t leaving until you are fed
And well rested in case the journey is long.”
“Would you like to hear my latest song?”
Myrtle swallowed, she had to sit.
She waited a little, she had to admit--
The elf played for them a rocking tune
And let her family gawk and swoon.
Chipper said, “I wish I could do that.”
Skipper with wide eyes still only sat
In total disbelief.
His music still brought relief
To sick and stagnant hearts
(Composition is just the sum of parts:
That’s not hard to understand.
Some speak with tongues, some with guitars in hand).
Myrtle said, “I am no longer a fighter,
I decided to become a writer.
Would you like to see my latest tale?”
The elf nearly turned pale
He was completely shocked.
His jaw hit the floor and his eyeballs gawked.
He knew reading it was what he wanted
Because, amidst his shock, his head nodded.
It was their adventure! Her perspective
Was correct and perhaps better than his.
It was vivid, compelling, well drawn art.
But what he found fascinating was its start.
He assumed the tale would begin
When he met her along the ocean’s rim.
But her story began in the ocean
And it was such a hypnotic potion
Full of danger, prior love, energy,
And angst. It was a side of her he’d never see
But could only imagine and infer.
He’d never truly know this side of her.
As he read her verse, Myrtle did not pace.
She savored his sighs, sad look, and troubled face.
She knew how the tale would affect him
Since he had gone out on such a limb
To see her. He was still vulnerable
So she swooped in like a hungry sea gull.
She was happy to see her long lost friend
Whom she loved, but would not tell, till the end.
A few of the names she had changed.
A few events she rearranged
But he knew what he was reading
But he was unsure where it was leading.
He knew she loved him but he felt
A life of solitude was what he’d been dealt.
He loved her because she tried
To force him to love (he pretended she pried).
The elf was what he was, perhaps crazy,
Ambitious, certainly not lazy,
Driven to a point that was unhealthy
But not preoccupied with becoming wealthy
In one sense he was empty although full:
The trappings of society were dull
A perspective which induced few friends
Which compounds the problem to no ends
In a cyclical fashion
(A romantic does not savor their ration
But eats it up in case there’s no tomorrow
But if there is, often times they have to borrow
In order to stay alive
Discretion is a good way to survive
But not a path that will make you content
But life sucks when all you have is lent).
Things between them had not diminished,
Or so he gathered once he had finished.
“I think that it’s pretty good.”
Myrtle didn’t smile, she only stood
Confident, a still statue,
A creature from the wide deep blue
The pieces were set to play the game:
The elf would go questing in search of a name.
…
“Are they ready,” he asked in Grand Tone,
Skipper then asked, “Why won't he leave us alone?”
The elf drew a line in the sand
Then said, “Child, give me your hand.”
Skipper took a step forward
And thrust with her sword.
In combat, she had the knack
To thrust and then, attack!
“Combat,” he said, “Then this is where we begin,
A lesson in knowing what it means to win.
Press forward to engage, but don't lose your footing;
A misplaced piece teaches the hand that’s putting.
Skipper said, “Why not avoid the pain
Of winning with nothing to gain?”
The elf then sat
And thought about the meaning of combat.
Skipper pressed her advantage, “take this and that!”
“Further sword play?” the elf said, “I see, I take off my hat—"
He bounced then, spinning to kick, his blow swung wide
And surprisingly he landed on the lawn outside.
The surprise attack, his lesson, did not stick
Because he couldn't land the spinning roundhouse kick.
“Footing,” he said, “no doubt
Is what this game is all about—”
…
Chipper was bored and pulled out her flute
Puffing her cheeks with sweet melodies and a TOOT,
TOOT—The elf sat down beside her with his guitar.
He soon caught on to the bar.
The elf said, “I see, a lesson in song
Teaches us that a string is a bong:
Strike the string to produce notes
But there still is air on which music floats—
String it out using math
But the word spoken still is your path.
The grandeur of an instrument
Is still only grandeur’s tint;
I am certain on this one, fairly certain, and clear
And I can prove it because my name is dear.”
As things in the group grew more and more light
The elf search for words both wrong and right:
The elf said, “Give me the map, I’m in charge.”
Skipper saluted and said, “Yes sir Sarge!”
The elf turned it over in his hand.
Underneath his breath he said, “I don’t understand—"
Chipper took the map from him.
Skipper whispered, “Don’t give it back to him.”
Part 2: Conclusion
He sat on the lawn full of browns and greens
And thought, “To settle down, that is what 'The Still World' means,”
As he continued to play in the yard,
He thought, “Maybe this job isn't so hard.
Not bad,” he thought, “to make this link
Does not mean my heart must sink.”
He then looked into the Dawn
And realized that he could move on
If he sat
And stayed where he was at
Because the turning of a page
Means I know enough through only age.
“I am now old enough to stay in one place
When moving on is just a race.
“I can do it all, right here
By seeing far but staying near;
Look at what you get!
You get dinner when dinner is set!”
Myrtle said, “Are you ready to have dinner with us?”
His heart did not sink before he said, “Yes.”
Time at the table mends
Lost time when it is done with friends;
Myrtle said, “Dirk is not the name
You seek, that is so lame,
There is only one name that is not a fad
And that is the lasting name of Dad.”
He could see himself in the picture
As a Dad for kids like Skipper and Chipper.
Part 3: The Still World
As stale air blew in, a cough caught him.
To die painlessly was a thought that pleased him.
A giant skipped through the aisle
Singing songs with a gigantic smile:
With coco in hand, she skipped
Carelessly, around the pit.
Waste to his life, and others, begot on many.
There was no hope, none, not any.
He wanted to lace
Her steaming coco-cup
And chuckle as she shriveled up.
Then he would say, ‘Ha-ha! That sugar
Isn’t quite so sweet you little booger!’
Then he would pump
His fist in the air triumphant!
Her indifference enraged the elf. He snarled.
He didn’t realize that he pulled
The strings on his guitar too hard, bending
Each note up a full step, which was sending
Wave on wave of music, rocking booms,
To the other elves in all of the rooms.
“Oh! Ah! Who is he?” they murmured;
The music surprisingly garnered
The elf a lot of attention
From the other elves in hell. Not to mention
It lightened up everyone’s woe
When he calmed down to play something slow.
She pretended that she was as meek as an ant
But in disguise she was a giant.
The worst thing was that in his jar
He did not have his oak-born guitar.
Two awful years he stayed in this hell,
Enslaved within a shiny glass cell.
He was turned into conversation for her friends.
Is this where the elf’s story ends?
No! Surprisingly he found a friendly
Face in the face of his former enemy.
The ghost elf within the Still World found him!
He found an ally in his evil twin!
He could see a place for revenge. He felt the itch
To destroy the ruthless evil witch.
The ghost elf, armed with song, could pass
Through the thick and heavy glass.
The guitar materialized in the elf’s hand.
Being captive was something he could not stand.
He began to play the most awful note.
This was the worst music that he wrote.
The giant girl’s eyes filled with horror
To see that her elf could actually bore her.
She shook the glass and battered him
But it did not matter to him.
He wanted out! Out! OUT!
He was a slave without a doubt.
He was so concerned about Skipper and Chipper.
He hoped that they had slipped by her
And her army of enslaved elves.
Turtles are complete, in and of themselves.
They do not need to be supplemented
By anyone. Their shells can be dented
Although they are strong creatures
Without their shells they are prey to feeders.
With no grasp of the transcendent.
Turtles are classy but not decadent.
She started to take the pants off her pawn.
The elf pulled them up and said, “Leave those on.”
“What? Are you gay?” she cruelly said.
“Woman! Can’t you see you’ll kill me in bed?”
She said, “I want you to take care of me.”
“You’re ten times my size and kind of scary.”
She said, “You broke The Forbidden Castle. What gives?”
He said, “Achievement is relative.
What is great to me is not necessarily for you.”
He tried to leave. She said, “You’re not through.”
“Who cares if the Castle’s waste, I laid it?”
She said, “It matters because my father made it.”
The elf’s eyes darted back and forth in terror
Because he knew he would have to bear her.
She said, “I find it totally imperative
In this life to mimic a narrative.
Decadence is how I know I’m sane
With all of the nutty things going on in my brain.
It is why I keep boys, you call them elves,
Trapped upon these lonely shelves.
Now these elves, as I have said,
Fit into the narrative rolling in my head!”
This was what could not reach her:
An elf is not a decadent creature.
“Why do you keep calling me boy? I’m an elf
And I can’t survive on a shelf!
One of the great powers of an elf
Is the ability to become something else.
The elf got an idea he thought would test her.
He filled his jar with molester.
When she came and yanked, pulling back the dim
Casting blanket that covered him,
Molester was there, humping the glass!
Completely naked! Completely bare-ass!
Now it was Molester who was caught.
Molester said to himself, “I’m so hot.”
Molester had finally gotten his wish
As if Golem had found his precious.
Above the jar was a note to the witch:
“How do you like me now crazy bitch?”
The elf said, “I don’t want to be a toy
And waste my life as your pretty boy.
Complete crap to your eyes you are full.
Music makes me strong and beautiful.
You can’t have my song
And music is what makes me strong!”
He now felt free as day to night began to melt
And the world spun freely, or so it felt.
As this feeling of things were on the mend
He was approached by a brand new friend.
His new friend said, “You look fine, are you broke?”
With a sense of recovery, the elf then spoke:
“Three years. Three ever-growing years had passed
Since I had seen my friend Myrtle last.
Although in bed I refused to turn and toss
I lived life with a haunting sense of loss.
I wandered through the world aimlessly
When one day word of Myrtle came to me.
There was so much I wanted to confess.
I think I’ll begin en medias rez
Because I had done very little since
We split that was of any consequence.
I had a few journeys, some boring lags,
Time spent without company only drags.
I had kept quiet what I had been doing.
This old relationship would take some wooing.”
The old loon banged on the table with a spoon
For no other reason than to break the cocoon.
“I know this part!” He said, his voice shook. “Is there more?
Yesterday you told it! Did I snore
When my eyes held your gaze, the entire time? You told it!
When I look away the emphasis grew, until a cadence rolled it
Into another day, then another!
I can hear the story in my sleep. Do you hear me brother?
Let me recite what you said,
Don’t repeat to me the same thing till your face turns red:
‘From off the carriage you took a hop.
In the distance, you saw Myrtle’s shop
Amidst a group of tiny shacks.
Her shop sat selling knick-knacks
Taken from the ocean.”
The elf held up a finger, “My heart filled with erratic emotion
And I wrestled with over-whelming fears
Because I hadn’t seen her in three years.”
The guard whispered to himself, as though a spell,
As beams of light through the guarded window fell.
He too knew this part of what was said
Because, in a circle, his thoughts were often led.
As the crook watches how the world can wind
When the key does not turn to break his bind.
He will begin to hear a soft bell ring, the years he will miss,
That stands for life carrying on, inspite of this.
A long conversation is all a person has to measure loss
And a guard’s opinion, when shared, makes me boss.
And helps resolve the matter
That’s been ground to fine powder.
“In her direction he turned his feet
And made his way down the street.
A lady swept the curb while he walked
But on the shop his eyes were locked.”
The elf perked his ears and said, “I know the story that I tell.”
Faintly, he could hear his voice down the wishing well.
Or so he thought, because, although he did not speak
He could hear the story he told yesterday from down the hall peak.
“Since our parting I had done a few things
But full circle often our origin brings.
He was now a different oak-born elf.
Adversity had grown to show itself.
And changed him into something new.
Myrtle was also very different too.
He was afraid time would change
Their friendship. On the door step he felt strange.
He knew what he was doing was a little weird.
Losing Myrtle was what he really feared.
A small turtle stood in the door
To Myrtle’s little knick-knack store.
The little turtle said, “Hi, my name is Chipper!”
An identical turtle said, “Skipper
Is my name. Chipper is my sister.”
“Is Myrtle here?” “You just missed her.”
The guard could care less. The elf interrupted
The silence with a cough. The guard said
In a booming voice to cover things up, “Quiet down you two!
Shut your traps or I’ll have the both of you
Whipped like dogs! Stop talking to strangers!”
The elf took discretion with the dangers
That encircled him. One was the guard
The other was the fact that his vision was marred
By the all-consuming dark.
His friend said, “Forget him. He’s all bark
And absolutely no bite.”
“Still,” the elf said, “I could use a little light.”
Out of the thick dark, they heard soft chuckles.
The elf nervously curled his knuckles
Around the bars and stuttered, “Who goes there?”
A voice answered, “What do you care!
Your tale is fascinating, don’t stop
If I don’t hear more I’m going to pop!
The elf said to his friend, “We’ve got company
Somewhere in the dark. Now I’m jumpy.”
“Calm down, calm down, finish your tale
No need to heed me, I stay quiet as mail
Sitting in a box for someone to read
My presence unknown will feed
The suspense
And thereby heighten your every sense.
So please don’t be jumpy as much as alert.
One thing I can assure is you won’t be hurt
By someone like me.”
The elf looked down and saw a small flea
Sitting on the bar to his cell.
The flea said, “Well, are you going to tell
Us the end or not?
I’m on pins and needles, my intrigue caught,
Don’t stop now, you’re burning hot!”
“Okay,” said the elf, “here I go…
Waiting a minute. So
Where was I?”
The flea said, “You had just got to her shop.”
“I knew that, don’t stop
Me in mid-thought.
I went to the counter and bought
A tiny shell.
Chipper said to her sister, ‘Don’t sell
That shell to him.
Mom said it’s for a special friend.’
Then Myrtle said, “That’s fine, what’s done is done.
Sell it to him. He’s already fingered that one.’”
The elf reached in his pocket but could not find
The shell that was purchased now still in his mind.
The loon said, “Then you took a seat on the couch.
You were careful not to slouch.”
“Right, because I wanted to make a good impression.
My nervousness began to lessen.
In the distance, someone in conversation
Made me fill with nervous elation.”
He sat for a minute not knowing more:
Why had he not added that part about this shell before?
Perhaps a new voice jarred his thought
And a detail that was missed then developed the plot.
Skipper and Chipper walked with the guard
Who seemed charmed by the tale though the elf remained barred.
He recited the tale then reached for his keys
And even added emotions learned from the elf’s pleas.
In spite of everything that he learned
Until pardon was granted the lock would not be turned.
The End.
To Scribble with Music and Memory While Young
Counting to Ten,
From Memories—
When children stir,
Line by line.
Together,
Finely woven:
The stitching of arm
With-eye
. . .
Now Poems, Written
For Purposes of Legibility—
As though a child.
These numbers, I use
to understand the world, so that I
will remember important lessons
so that
I will move forward
. . .
Now poems,
I move forward
So that I understand
From stitching
The world
With lines:
Written for Purposes of Legibility.
. . .
8a+1b+1c+1d+5e+2g+5h+8i+6l+1m+1n+1o+1p+4r+4s+4t+1u+2v+2y
Ceb gnpag mhudeao eee hlaalhr hhvar trraasva svii yyii syts iiii tt
Mpg ttssg
Aa uvn ctt eess—
. . .
I scribble with-line forwards back.
I count
To remember
forwards back
line with line. From Memories,
Written
For Purposes of Legibility---
I remember
With time that passes
My memories, recorded,
line by line.
and lessons
used to understand the world
I scribble---
forwards back.
A Mouthful Above Fallen Light
A distraction
Of any shape
And kind—
In the table is a square
That I use to understand
My new book.
The public space is soft and
I choose a-sitting that
Has enough to stay up above
The fallen light.
The space is storage
From which I see the
Ones which were forgotten
And misplaced.
These could be pulled from
The darkly lit room above
Fallen light to make semantics
Suitable to this task.
I choose to destroy them, to ‘die in piece,’
In a vaguely drawn dream
And start from the day
Of all things—now
Renewed.
The door to the opening
Of over-whelming future
Of over-whelming steps
That are still not outside
The danger of staying put.
Removed from the great book
Is Scripture
That makes tasteful
The longer I stay
Put the more I agree
With it.
In my future is a mouthful
Above fallen light
I choose to write—my book.
A Dialogue Between Bobcat and Scorpion (or A Crown Dawned in Newer Light)
Bobcat: Look at this, a tasty snack,
Now I do not know if I should approach, this little tool,
Your arms are wrenches that can clip and sting
And you skin is hard as a rule…
Scorpion: But might I say you are tough
And not one I would engage,
But if you just charge in, my purring friend,
And you discover while in pursuit, you can’t win,
Motivation alone will not necessarily do you any good,
To dawn a crown in newer light, as you should.
Then it’s going to be me that beats up you, also,
So defend yourself also before you begin
Because my wrench is connected to a hammer and pin.
Bobcat: I have claws my friend, claws to no end.
Scorpion: Do you really think my kind showed up, just yesterday,
From the sky’s low margin?
I’ve been in this game beneath the red glow
Much longer than you.
You have claws and jaws and they can sting
This along with a title, the Jungle’s King,
But at some point in history, if you were taught a lesson,
The crown you wear is done through evolution
Because a title comes with baggage.
You may not remember all,
But one misstep through a titled role
And I will show you that once in time, dear weasel,
I walked this earth tall
As tall can be as King, also,
And I will show you what that means when a species falls
Because I get back up easier than you
When the red glow calls
As long as I still have a wrench and hammer.
That’s the lesson an arachnid can teach to a new-comer.
Bobcat: Perhaps that true…
The loss of a snack is no reason to bemoan.
Scorpion: Now you’re smart, just leave me alone!
Are you going to leave? Thank you.
As you can see the horizon is now a rich full blue
And it is hard to live with hardened skin encased within a cone.
Two Roses and the Stand They Are In
Which rose pleases me most?
The one that flowers without care
Or the one composed?
The flower is showy and grand
But the bouquet implies a master plan—
A lovely bouquet to sit and stand
Or the flower held to show more
Which one shall I choose?
Shall be my chore—
I shall choose the one that shows
Me love more—
21st Century, Pastoral Poem
[A robot passes along genetic information to a child from her parents: the verb ‘to be’ comes from two squares, one from each parent.]
Stanza I:
Dawn is a cherry tree rising
Before the blossoms turn to fire.
The child is a full belly
If there is only truth in embers.
Her eyes warm the sun
And draw deep
The slow wind
Through the opened loose window.
The morning is the fields
All aflame in the windowsill.
The shelves are leaves with hushful steps.
The nursemaid’s voice through the window
Tells the story of her parents:
The verb ‘to be,’ comes from 2 squares,
One from each parent. That is my
understanding. The nursemaid’s
voice rolls across the hills with water
From the morning
Overjoyed from her dance
With a stream.
Her answer for the beginning
Rolls across the hills:
‘To play,’ comes from small creatures
Surviving the forest among larger, stronger creatures.
‘To have,’ comes from falling water
That pools and runs further on, forever!
Stanza II:
The child is now older,
Prickly with grass where the jaguar unwinds:
‘To know,’ comes from triangles, given to me,
From my ancestors.
She lands foot on grass as soft as summer
Midday beneath trees dripping with warm rain.
People giggle as she passes. Diamonds
Draw a path from crisscross branches
And vines that raise her brow as she
Pulls them down from her face.
Tiny twigs tangle in her hair cut
Free with children’s scissors show
Equal force with her index fingers.
A river reaches dark passages along
With heavy winded torrential breathing.
Stanza III:
The young woman pushes crib
From room and speaks to the hollow
Space still reach from every point
Within the room rib of light.
That crosses her escape
As a beam of light dances its approach:
She drops all and bites at the nursemaid:
“Approach me again in the street
And I will spill your blood!”
A childish weapon of crime can
Harm only oneself.
Stanza IV:
The adult ages further on stage
Among the hills she loves. Wandering
The drooping lagoon full of
Echoes’ shadow’s drawn form
In a swirl and she exhales satisfaction
To stand here in this lonely place.
The nurse maid tosses bread bites,
Loathsome-nibbling life in the tarry water,
She calls the girl to share
A moment of eating with the wild beasts:
‘Mistruth is whispered over shoulder
To a child.’ She stays longer, deepening
With middle age. Triangle becomes square.
Dust becomes dust. Rain becomes rain.
Snow becomes snow. Smiles become frowns
Keep her muscles tired from knowing
The field are a prank she will survive.
Excerpt, From Half-Human and Other Episodes
Dramatic Monologist 1, The Therapist:
What an odd time to draw you
From your quarters, you say?
Your eyes swing upwards
And the net beneath you rebounds with your safety
Then down to the
Table before you wipe your eyes and yawn.
Yes, of course, you can get a more comfortable chair.
I spin in mine and ask the guard to
Furnish one for you. If you get
Comfortable that, why that makes
Me happy.
To sit a quarter on my seat
And yawn with you as well.
We begin where you left off, yesterday—
This giant rolling page cascades with moss along the earth.
We will begin.
You have driven all through the night, before
These two bright stars cool off eternally—
The blind sky did not bat a single eye
And it did not sing, distant notes of light return—
On coming sounds of cars come and go
You seem to be to the only witness
To the lonely interstate above Me:
Vigilant and weary, stay hungry as
A wandering guard of this masquerade.
Fearful of earth, are you less than human?
Certainly, a breed of man and metal.
Half-car, half-human, predatory things
Rebounding through only light—without a string!
Agh! The pistol squeezes your thigh muscle.
You root for it and place it on the dash
As your bottom half digs in the road ahead:
What will make me less than human, you say.
Perhaps a centaur.
Does the awful interstate ever end?
Endless yellow lines and a tempo drip like blood from your lips.
You pull off from the interstate and see
The suburban homes yawn their tongue and recline.
They offer solace from the interstate.
You finally bring the car to a halt.
The strawberry of the lawn is a Gnome punching through with size.
Headlights appear in the living room window.
You take a quick moment to sit and sweat.
The beads of sweat are rolling down your cheek.
You grind your teeth into a fine powder.
You stare at the pistol sat on the dash.
You stomp the Gnome as you approach the door—
The sound of breaking
You grab it and let it hang by your side
As you approach the suburban household.
You should disguise the pistol in your jeans
So you don’t frighten the family—yet!
