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—