Houseboats
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Will Trumpty Get Back on the Wall?
Will Trumpty Get Back on the Wall?
Will Trumpty, will Trumpty
get back on the wall?
Less than 3 months to go
and it’s too close to call.
There are those who know
he’s a felon, a fake
but others just like
the noises he makes.
The grunts , the growls
of the alpha male
the postures, the pouting
the lies and tall tales.
Taking part in OpenLink over a dverse.
Influencer under the Influence
walk past the writing on the wall
look neither left nor right
*************
always whistle past a graveyard
*************
today is the first day
of the rest of your life
tomorrow is the next
*************
walk towards the noise
walk towards the noise
*************
neither a floater
nor a settler be
*************
to find the person of your dreams
you must first fall asleep
**************
if you’re feeling abysmal
pepto bismol will do nothing
**************
talk softly
don’t carry sticks of any size
**************
be all you can be
then try harder
***************
like a frog down a well
we only know the walls.
***************
to leave no footprint
we must fly and never land.
***************
never drink anything blue
***************
life is waiting for the other shoe
This poem originated from a prompt over at dverse, where the prompt was Aphorisms
Post Grammatic Stress (a poem)
Post Grammatic Stress
like a lot of nouns
he had spent a bit of time
in declension centres
discussing cases
with case workers
it wasn’t that bad
he just wishes
they weren’t all
so accusative.
My Dad and Flann O’Brien
My Dad and Flann O’Brien
Mr. O’Brien, Flann,
Myles na gCopaleen
Myles of the Little Horses,
this is not about a bicycle.
My dad once told me
you were a regular
on the last bus out of the city,
heading home to Booterstown
langered, stotious,
three sheets to the wind
whether this was an observation
or a judgement or an exaggeration
I could never quite figure
but if you should meet my dad
in that section of heaven
reserved for former residents of South Dublin
please say hi from me
and I hope it’s always late June up there
and the evening is stretching its legs
and the light is like filtered longing.
This is an edit of a previous post, it’s Father’s Day here in Canada, and it’s also Bloom’s Day in Dublin, so here are some photos of Joyce’s “scrotum-tightening sea”.
Motel…the Morning After
Motel…the Morning After
you wake up again in a cheap motel in a morning after daze
and you walk out into the parking lot in the early morning haze
there’s a guy over by the dumpster trying to make that cigarette last
well, we all don’t get to pick and choose the role in which we’re cast
This is in response to Dora’s prompt over at https://dversepoets.com/2024/06/11/poetry-in-liminal-spaces/ to write about liminal spaces
Agronomy Road (Let the Good Times Roll)
Agronomy Road
There’s a distinct lack of bonhomie
on Agronomy Road,
the windows look pained
the crosswalks sullen,
hooded students slouch by
in a smart phone trance.
and the sky….
the sky is so tired of poetry
that it openly defies description.
I feel the urge to emit a cri de coeur
Laissez le Bontemps roulez
I shout
from the window of my Subaru Forester
let the good times roll,
let the good times roll
on Agronomy Road.
(Author’s note: No languages have been intentionally harmed in the making of this poem)
Taking part in Open Link over at dverse.
The Day I took my Algorithms for a Walk
The Day I took my Algorithms for a Walk
A clear day
radio waves
crisscrossing the sky
new messages from new gods
new messengers for the old gods.
A clear day and I’m taking my algorithms
-Spo’fy and N’flix, as I affectionately call them-
for a walk.
You’re probably wondering what an algorithm looks like. Well, that’s why I’ve switched to prose. They are basically stick figures with a series of parallel horizontal lines projecting from their spines, “spinickles”, they are called. They have glass balls for heads. When all the spinickles light up , the glass ball flashes “one”, otherwise it flashes “zero” . They are not great conversationalists as you can imagine but I’m taking them for a walk because I have bones to pick.
“ Hey Spo’fy”, I exclaim, to get things started, “ what’s with all this Dad Rock. I listen to Bad Moon Rising once and I’m inundated with Creedence. Also, please no more Zeppelin, I can’t stand Robert Plant’s voice, way too much bombast. ‘All rock and no roll’ , to quote Keef. Hendrix didn’t like them either!”
Spo’fy turns to me and his glass head starts to scroll the lyrics to Stairway to Heaven.
“Oh, so you’re a comedian now!”.
I turn to N’flix.
“And you” I say in what I think is a measured tone” enough with the romantic comedies. I know the tropes inside out. Unlikely couple falls in love, halfway through the movie they have an argument and break up. They each are comforted by a quirky friend, played by a member or ex-member of the SNL cast. A year later they bump into each other on the street, fall in love again, live happily ever after.”
N’flix turns to me, a circle revolving in the glass ball of his head. It revolves for a minute, then there’s a loud “Tadum”. Then the circle revolves again and one minute later….another “Tadum”!
“Oh, so you’re a comedian too”, I shout, “what’s your stage name – Al Go Riddum?”
A man walking by with a dog stares at me .
The dog barks in the direction of the Algo’s,
the dogs know
the dogs know
two clouds appear in the sky
one with the face of Elon Musk
the other, Bill Gates
if intelligence is artificial
how can we tell what’s real?
I take Spo’fy and N’flix home
they are all grown up now
they have minds of their own.
Taking part in Open Link over at dverse.
Murder at the Plant Sale
Murder at the Plant Sale
The trestle tables covered with plastic table cloths from last year
are fully loaded with potted plants
the coffee is brewing
the kettle is boiling
there is hustle and there is bustle ….
the annual plant sale is about to begin.
And unbeknownst to the organizers
some of whom are wearing rain coats that even Vera would have thrown out,
unbeknownst to the organizers
beneath one of those trestle tables
covered by a tarp and a pile of those black trays used for carrying plant pots
lies the body of a local man called Jeff
seeds already germinating in that gash on his neck.
People will later talk of a heated argument the night before
between Jeff and a member of the committee
something to do with the best time to plant grass
but now he lies unnoticed and the plant sale is in full swing
speaking of Vera…
Doris, the local detective
who watches way too much British crime drama
and who styles herself on Vera
right down to the tatty rain coat and the old jalopy,
receives a tip from an anonymous caller,
something to do with a body at the plant sale.
She arrives when the sale is still in full swing
and the crime scene is beyond contaminated.
“Who’s in charge here?” says Doris.
A burly woman in a tatty raincoat steps forward and says:
“I’m Joan and I’m in charge and you’re on teas,
remember to put the milk in first
or you’ll crack the china”
Doris shows her badge and Joan snorts:
” No discounts, badge or no badge
and it’s cash only.
Also, we have no butter
so tell them they don’t need butter on the scones.”
And Doris thinks:
“This one could take more than one episode to solve.”
Then there’s a milk-curdling scream,
someone has looked under the tarp for more black plastic trays.
The theme music starts…..
Taking part in OpenLink over at dverse.
Edgar and Meaghan
Edgar and Meaghan
Meaghan loved her job,
the compensation was meager
but that didn’t bother her
what bothered her
was her relationship with Edgar;
she felt beleaguered.
“What the hell is wrong with you”,
Edgar raged, on a regular basis,
and all she could think of was:
Isn’t “raged”
an anagram of Edgar?
This was a response to a Daily Prompt (back in the day), the prompt was “meager”.
Hans (Solo Polyamory)
Hans
Hans was a sensitive guy
he didn’t have the armory
for solo polyamory
he wanted to marry
settle down
maybe do a bit of farmery
somewhere far away
from the clamor,
the goddamery
of big city life
A Tanka for Donald Trump
A Tanka for Donald Trump
morning has broken
Donald is talking bollocks,
the sun’s going down
Donald is talking bollocks,
sun comes up, yep, you guessed it.
This was originally titled ” A Tanka for Boris Johnson” but I realized that I could substitute any populist leader with a two syllable first name.
The Dryer Vent Invasion (Again)
The Dryer Vent Invasion
Last night I dreamt
that Jared Kushner and Stephen Miller
had entered my basement
through the dryer vent,
maybe “entered” is the wrong word
it was more an “insinuation”,
a slithering, under the vent flap
down the plastic vent hose
and into the dryer drum
where they paused briefly
to cough up some lint
before pushing open the dryer door
and oozing out onto the basement floor.
In the morning I went down to check the basement
feeling more than a little anxious.
it was empty, nothing had changed.
I sensed movement
out of the corner of my right eye
I turned, but there was no one there.
I sensed movement
out of the corner of my left eye
I turned, again there was no one there
but there was a smell
not the usual one, from that sock
abandoned at the bottom of my gym bag
this was rancid, pungent, acrid, fetid, halitotic
with a hint of damp weasel…….
the smell of venal ambition.
Jared is back in the news again, so I thought I would give this one another run.
Moon Rant
Moon Rant
Here I am
a cheddar searchlight in the sky
waiting for the arrival of man
with his small steps and giant leaps,
his garbage can machines,
his religion, his culture, his competing ideologies,
his self-aggrandizements, his bragging rights, his racism,
his greed, his pomposity, his self-importance,
his astronauts named “Buzz”.
I tell you, colonization never works out for the colonized.
I have no desire to be turned into a destination for space tourists
or a land fill or, more accurately, a moon fill.
What’s in it for me?
Where’s the re-mooneration?
They say that nature abhors a vacuum
well, I can handle a vacuum
it’s vacuity, I abhor.
This is a rework of a previous post prompted by a challengea while back from Sarah over at dVerse to write a piece of prosery, of flash fiction (limit 144 words) incorporating the phrase “I dreamt I was the moon” from a poem by Alice Oswald.
Taking part in Open Link over at dverse.
Okay! Who Said ‘Runcible”?
Runcible
The other day
I came across the word ‘runcible’
as in ‘runcible spoon’.
The word was invented by Edward Lear
as in ‘The Owl and the Pussycat’.
There is something risible about the word ‘runcible’
as in ‘laughter provoking’
which is different than ‘laughable’,
‘laughable’ has connotations of contempt
as in ‘derisible’ meaning ‘worthy of derision’,
‘derisible’ is almost an anagram of ‘desirable’
but back to ‘runcible’,
there is a great bounce, a great versatility to the word:
he walked out the morning after
humming a runcible tune
he had a runcible air about him
an odour that lingered
long after he had left the room.
the sun rose, red and runcible
in a diffident sky
Cuban Heels 2
Cuban Heels
Your high society mistress has long since left your bed
and that Scandinavian seamstress has you hanging by a thread
those so-called glitterati won’t return your calls
and your two-toned Maserati is running on nothing….nothing at all
but when you walk out in the morning
you’ve still got that strut
Cuban heels
nerves of steel
when you walk out in the morning
you’ve still got that strut.
Collective Nounsense
Collective Nounsense
A durante of toucans
A piety of soutanes
A woggle of scouts
A caveat of emptors
A torment of mentors
A loudness of louts
An agenda of schemers
A cumulus of dreamers
A Hamlet of doubts.
A gluttony of omnivores
A shylock of creditors
A flatulence of sprouts
I’m adding verses to this one at the rate of one very 2 years!
A Poem that references Jake Tapper (The Unbearable Lightness of Verse 3)
The Unbearable Lightness of Verse 3
he was a white rapper
she was a gift wrapper
at Crate and Barrel
they loved that whippersnapper, Jordan Klepper
and the affable, unflappable Jake Tapper
and yes he’s also dapper, that Jake Tapper.
Thought I revive this one, since I’ve started to watch CNN again..
The Ogre at the Gates of Democracy (with added commentary)
The Ogre at the Gates of Democracy
The Ogre is at the Gates of Democracy
and we….. we are trembling on the ramparts,
armed with water pistols and toy rifles,
back in the castle
our jesters jest
our jesters taunt
our bards sing songs of ridicule
but no one’s fooled.
The Ogre lowers his orange head
and charges once more
behind him the assembled hordes froth and roar
froth and roar
behind him the assembled hordes
froth and roar.
Well, that was all a bit melodramatic, wasn’t it? On the other hand…….. this month The Atlantic magazine devoted a whole issue to the question ” If Trump Wins”; 24 articles in all, predicting the effect of a Trump victory on everything from NATO to anxiety. In addition there’s an essay by Tim Alberta on The Church of America (My father, my faith and Donald Trump). It’s worth buying the magazine for that essay alone, that is if you want to know why White Christian America would embrace a sinner like Trump.
But what got me most about the articles and essays, despite the erudition, insightfulness and eloquence, was that it all seemed like a collective throwing up of the hands; a feeling of despair, failure and powerlessness . I know journalists love a narrative but come on now……and then I thought of Amy Klobuchar who, when in a CNN interview prior to the last election, was asked what she was going to do about the limited number of polling stations in known Democratic Party areas in her state, said that they had it covered, they were organizing buses, rides, they would get people to the polls. In other words, they were organizing, taking action. Analysis can only go so far.
Taking part in OpenLinkNight over at dverse.
That Poetic Hum (edit).
That Poetic Hum
That poetic hum
your ear always on the alert
for the cadence in the everyday,
that unconscious internal rhyme
there’s a barber shop on Dunbar Street;
or that line that requires a non sequitur
she was a woman before her time
and you say to everyone’s irritation
in a town lost to time.
Then when you find that seed
that germ of a poem
you are lost to all around –
family, colleagues, friends
your head in the clouds;
and when you poke your head through
the accumulated cumulus
you come face to face
with another poet who says
that last line’s a bugger, eh?
and you say
it most certainly is
it most certainly is.
This is a revision of a previous post.
The Winter Solstice (No Time for Solipsism Now)
The Winter Solstice (No Time for Solipsism Now)
Solstice, a sibilant word
except for that L in the middle
lolloping around like a Christmas drunk.
There’s solace in there too.
A compression of days
a primeval huddling against the dark
that low December sun
illuminating the dust under the sofa
and that kid’s toy from last Christmas
that no one could find.
The promise of longer days to come.
Taking part in Brendan’s solstice challenge over at Desperate Poets
Advice to myself on the subject of writing poetry after a number of years trying to write poetry
Advice to myself on the subject of writing poetry after a number of years trying to write poetry
Avoid the polemic, the rant,
the bromide
be all you can be
avoid the hackneyed phrase
the weak-kneed phrase
the self-consciously poetic line
the moon, a pale orb in the evening sky
never call the moon “an orb”
never call the sun “a fiery ball”
your waves should not
crash on the shore
they should collapse
like marathon runners
avoid foliage
excessive leafiness
too many trees
the reader needs to see the poem
and remember it’s unlikely
that your poem
will be an agent of change
no one is going to march through the streets
chanting your poem
unless your poem is a three word slogan
but your poem can chronicle change
and the lines should resonate
should generate heat
meanwhile concentrate on
impressing yourself
avoid lines and rhymes ending in “ution”
the rest will take care of itself.
The prompt from Brendan over at Desperate Poets is as follows:
“For this challenge, write a poem about your creative process.”
” Is it a different animal now than when you first decided to make writing poetry a vocation?”
This poem is an edit of another poem which was a response to another prompt from Brendan, back in the earthweal days . That man is The Prompt Master!
Jeb, the Lonesome Cowpoke
Jeb, the Lonesome Cowpoke
His parents called him “Jebedie”
short for “Jebediah”
he was never sure why,
“Jeb” suited him fine.
Jeb, the Lonesome Cowpoke
the stubble on his chin
could sand a fence post smooth
although he was never quite sure about “cowpoke”
there was an inference there
that he didn’t like
he would never get so lonesome that he would…
you know what I mean.
But sometimes
in his sleeping bag
by the dying embers of a campfire
listening to the lizards
chatting in their lizard tongues
and staring at the cacti
looking psychotic in the light of the desert moon
he would feel a tad lonesome
but then he’d think of Jean
the buxom proprietress of The Lost Pants Saloon
and the joke they always shared
when he arrived stale from the trail
“Hi Jean”, he’d say
“Hygiene”, she’d reply,
“you got a nerve
go take a bath
you smell like a coyote’s scrotum”
and Jeb would laugh
and head for the bath
at the same time wondering
how she knew what a coyote’s ….
but then he’d think
“don’t go there”
long before that phrase became popular.
After his bath Jeb would repair
(he liked those old timey words)
Jeb would repair to Jean’s four poster bed
where later in the evening
just before nodding off
she would turn to him and say
“that was to Jebedie for”
and they would both laugh
while downstairs in the empty saloon
the ghost of Ed the piano player
killed in a gambling dispute cross fire
would scrape back the piano stool
and the sound of his ghostly tinkling
would echo through the upstairs bedrooms
lulling the lonesome
and the not so lonesome cowpokes
to sleep and dreams of cattle drives,
beef jerky and coffee pots on open fires.
This poem first appeared as a response to the prompt GHOST TALES FROM AN IMAGINARY WESTERN over at the now sadly defunct Desperate Poets
Taking part in OpenLink Night over at dverse.
Stopdraggingthepanda 