blatant weather so unashamedly spring cherry blossoms striking iPhone poses the sun making promises it cannot possibly keep
on Easter Sunday while the churchgoing are going to church we vote in the federal election
on Easter Monday after giving Jesus his day Pope Francis shuffles quietly off the mortal and leaves us to talk of tariffs, annexation
I look north to the snow-capped peaks and the wilderness beyond and I think we could mount a resistance from there if it comes to it if it comes to it
lately, the phrase that could never happen seems impossibly naïve
I submit a version of this poem to Poets Respond at Rattle Magazine and get a form rejection but I understand they receive so many submissions and they are so polite
meanwhile to the south the behemoth awakens a faint, melancholy stirring in his loins he remembers that he was once the Loin King and now he’s just the king of all that he destroys and it doesn’t seem like enough.
In his dream, the ocean is always on the right which means he’s heading south to San Francisco or Santa Barbara or Los Angeles or San Diego, saints and angels; and his hair is blond even though it isn’t and his companion’s hair is blond and his friends in the back seat their hair is blond too and all that blond hair is blowing in the breeze and there are surfers bobbing on the ocean waiting for a wave and a group is singing three-part harmony on the radio, it could be the Mamas and the Papas it could be Crosby Stills and Nash it could be The Eagles it could be The Beach Boys and the band members in the bands he’s dreaming of have names like Dewey, Don, Randy, Jackson names that arrived by railroad, by wagon train and there is the feeling in his head of youth and endless possibilities something waiting down the road and in the dream he knows that he won’t arrive he will always be on the way and not arriving is the trick and not arriving is the best part the best part by far.
This is in part inspired by a prompt over on dverse;
“Krisis: Poetry at the Crossroads. Rooted in the Greek word krisis, meaning a pivotal decision point, we seek poems that explore moments of transformation, choice, and change.
Down by Locarno Beach two guys in camouflage pants are repeatedly checking underneath their parked Tesla they check, they get back in the car they don’t start the car they get back out they check underneath the car again what could they be looking for?
Snow-capped mountains an empty eagle’s nest in the bare branches of a tree is this a symbol?
Is everything a symbol?
Nope, the eagle is down on the beach searching for snacks in tide pools is this a metaphor?
Is everything a metaphor?
April’s Fools Day, and to the south of us The Sherriff of Tariffdom The Prince of Petulance The Toddler King is looking for his Sharpie.
The prompt over at dverse is :
“So for this prompt our writing will be in the Open Poetry Form, otherwise known as Free Verse or Vers Libre. This is not to be regarded as an anarchic free-for -all but rather poetry set free from the uniform straight jacket.”
The rumors started just after he won the election strange happenings at his rallies the blind seeing the deaf hearing the lame walking the mute talking he began to take credit for the sun coming up.
Then those stories out of Mar A Lago how at one banquet he turned bread rolls into fried chicken and at another he turned water into Coca Cola then there was the time he walked across a pond to retrieve his golf ball and fishing.. don’t talk to me about fishing the people of Florida are lining up to go fishing with Donald.
halibuns about Haliburton halibuns about halitosis halibuns about Halle Berry halibuns about Halley’s Comet
halibuns about Spiritus Mundi halibuns about Rosamund Pike halibuns about Solomon Grundy halibuns just for the fun of it
halibuns at Sun Dance halibuns in Halifax halibuns about halibut halibundance halibundance halibundance
But he never took a halibun to a pun fight.
The Poet’s Circle Holds a Haiku Evening
an evening of
syllable counts and cured meats
sheer haikuterie.
The title is obviously a variation of “jiggery-pokery” which apparently is probably an alteration of Scots joukery-pawkery, from jouk to dodge, cheat + pawk trick, wile.(Wikipedia) or it can mean just plain “trickery”
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.
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”.
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
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)
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.
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…..
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 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
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.
Stopdraggingthepanda 