Post –Election Riddle
If a democracy elects
a threat to democracy
is that self-harm?
The Trickle Down
Donald wins
and the Dow goes priapic
more money in the pockets of the working man
NOT
at best a trickle down
a leakage
from the anus of capitalism.
Taking part in Open Link over at dverse.
Election Night
xenophobia
hums in the background
like a cheap fridge
Golf, Flying Saucers and The Planet Odd
The end of the world has come and gone
but you remain standing on the eighteenth tee
feeling the gravitational pull of the Planet Odd
there’s no smoke without mirrors, you remark
and looking down you notice that you’re still wearing
a green polo shirt
your favorite plaid shorts
and your faded white golf shoes.
Golf is the only sport that requires blandness of its heroes
you think
and then you think …where is this shit coming from
and shouldn’t that be “demands blandness”?
There’s a low hum, you look up,
a large flying saucer hovers over the trees
to the left of the fairway
on top of the saucer is a giant inverted tea cup
complete with handle
a door opens in the side of the cup
and you’re sucked up, through the door
and into a room that looks remarkably like
the original Star Trek control room.
A guy who looks like Leonard Nimoy
walks over and says:
“How’s it going?
We’re from the Planet Odd or to be more formal, Earth 2.
You see, the Creator royally fucked up his first attempt
so we are the newer model, the second attempt.
Still a few things to work out, but we’re not doing badly at all.
We have created some illusions to make you feel at home,
but first things first , amigo.
Can I call you amigo?”
You nod.
“First things first, amigo, let’s get rid of those plaid shorts!”
This poem was inspired by a challenge from Brendan over at the now defunct Desperate Poets :
“Here’s the challenge: Start with two oracles. You can follow my lead and use The Aenead as one source if you have a copy, but any classic text will do — the Bible, Shakespeare, a volume of your favorite poet or one on Native American myth, whatever. Open the book blind and let your finger fall where it may on the page and write down whatever lines you struck on. Or deal a Tarot card or iChing hexagram. If you don’t have any such tools at home, there’s a random Tarot card generator at https://randomtarotcard.com/. You can try an AI version of the Delphic oracle at < https://delphi.allenai.org/> and there’s an I Ching hexagram generator at https://www.eclecticenergies.com/iching/virtualcoins.
Next, cast a more self-referential oracle from something you created, a poem or journal or dream. Source a few lines in the same accidental manner.”
So I went to my book shelf , picked a book – “Daddy, Daddy” by Paul Durcan, opened a page and let my finger fall on the two lines that start the poem above. I then went to “Notes” on my IPhone which is where I record random lines, sayings, thoughts and found “the gravitaional pull of Planet Odd” and “there’s no smoke without mirrors” and I took it from there. Lots of fun, thanks Brendan!
(the Paul Durcan poem that provides the first two lines is called : The Martyrdom of Saint Sebastian.)
I tried to write a country song
but my heart wasn’t in it
I tried and tried and tried again
but in the end I had to bin* it.
See, I don’t drink Jack Daniels
I don’t ride a horse
I don’t wear a cowboy hat
I’ve never been divorced
and I don’t own a pickup truck
or boots with fancy stitchin’
and the only range I’m home on
is that one in the kitchen **
Yes, I tried to write a country song
but my heart wasn’t in it
I tried and tried and tried again
but in the end I had to bin it.
** poetic license, regarding my being at home in the kitchen.
Tking part in open link over a dverse.
A Scarecrow looks back on his Life
Before Oz
I had control of my life
I had a purpose
a reason for existence
a modus operandi:
stand in a field
and scare crows
that’s it, that’s all.
It was lonely at times,
I admit, particularly
at night, but occasionally
a farmer returning
drunk across the fields
would stop and tell me his life story
then fall asleep, snoring
and farting at my feet
and yes, oh yes
I listened in on
acts of intimacy
on hot summer nights
and heard sounds
that made my straw curl;
then Oz occurred
and it was no longer
about presence
it was about absence
the absence of a brain;
children would circle me
and sing that stupid song
suddenly I was pathetic, forlorn;
what got me most was the
sheer illogicality of it all –
to yearn for a brain, one must
have a brain to begin with,
sometimes, I think the sole function
of a brain is to yearn…..
hang on a minute
I’m sure I saw that same crow yesterday
Look! He won’t come within twenty feet of me!
I’ve still got it! I’ve still got it!
The Parrot in the Liquor Store (Wild Thing)
I’m standing in the liquor store
staring at a bottle of Pinot Grigio
when Wild Thing by the Troggs
comes on the store speakers
and I’m thinking, to quote Leonard,
that song is a shining artifact of the past
and just as I’m thinking that
one of the Troggs launches into
a bizarre ocarina solo
and I turn around to find myself face to face
with a large blue and yellow parrot
perched on the leather-gloved hand
of a lady who has seen hippier times
never at a loss for words, I say,
“that’s a nice parrot”
and the lady says
“I have three more at home
one of them is a real man-hater
but this one here is my favowite
he’s a vewy, vewy, vewy nice pawwot”
she says, nuzzling the parrot, nose to beak
the parrot inflates its technicolor plumage
let’s out an almighty squawk
and displays its full wing span
and I’m thinking
“Wow, there’s a ocarina solo in the middle of Wild Thing,
who’s that on ocarina
I think it’s the lead singer
what was his name,
Reg Presley, I think,
yeah, that’s it
Reg Presley.”
The Days of Doggerel Past
There was time
I would take my doggerel
for a long, long walk
just me and a bunch of obvious rhymes
good times, good times, good times.
Another Haiku Involving a Vacuum
allergens loiter
on the vacuum’s humid breath
spiders abandon
web based solutions
seek cover in crevices
domestic terror.
Hal The Halibunist Looks Back On His Long Career
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”
Could this be a series starting??
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.
After the Time Bell Rings
After the time bell rings
and the barmen start stacking the chairs
Guitar George packs his old guitar
in his old guitar case
and Honky Tonk Harry
closes the lid of that pub piano
and together, still in sync
they leave to catch the last bus home
to their adjacent council flats
where their wives await
in front of the television
with pots of tea
and plates of chocolate digestive biscuits
and later still in sync
they both reach for that last chocolate digestive biscuit
one eye on their gently snoring wives
before retiring to bed
and dreams of New Orleans
and the muddy Mississippi River.
Apologies to Mark Knopfler for using two of his characters from one of the greatest guitar songs of all time….The Sultans Of Swing,
Taking part in OpenLInk over at dverse.
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
Thinking of it now, truth to tell
I should have said goodnight, turned out the light
I should never have started this villanelle
now I am stuck in verse form hell
everything I write seems totally trite
thinking of it now, truth to tell
I can check out but I can’t leave this hotel
(the Eagles, you get the reference, right?)
I should never have started this villanelle
mission bell, tinker bell, death knell
I’ve started to write total shite
thinking of it now, truth to tell
I have to get off this carousel
it’s been a struggle, it’s been a fight
I should never have started this villanelle
I need another word that rhymes with ‘elle’
final quatrain, the pain, the urge to yell;
thinking of it now, truth to tell
I should never have started this villanelle
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
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
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
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.
Notes on the Trump Trial
Michael Coen
fifty shades of shady
a face like collapsed optimism
Stormy Daniels
Stormy goes for bust
still Stormy after all these years
Judge and Jury
a thankless and dangerous job
The Sketch Artist
star of the show
Michelangelo
with an orange pen
Donald Trump
‘nuff said.
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.
Hierarchy
Know your place in society
that used to be a thing
trades around the back
no room at the inn.
Now we have an app
to tell us where we’re at
to locate us, not place us
No, there ain’t no app for that.
The challenge over at dverse is to write a quadrille (44 word poem) about “place”.
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.
The Exclusivity of Space
consider the object
consider the space
consider the objects
excluded from the space
ask the question:
is the object occupying the space
worthy of the space
or is the object
a waste of space?
consider the material
forming the space
journey to its origins
in a plantation somewhere
British Columbia, perhaps,
or Brazil
see the tree felled,
shorn of its branches,
loaded on a flatbed truck
with its passive companions
follow the truck
to a paper mill
the size of a small city
see the tree chipped, pulped, processed
see the gases escaping to atmosphere
hear the outfall roar into the river
ask the questions:
are we here to consume?
can we be consumed by consumption?
see the worker arriving home from the mill
to food on the table
a roof above his head
ask the question:
is there only one answer to a question?
return to the space
consider the object.
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
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
Tales from the Gym 3
I believe in Gluteanasia
he says, with a casual air
we all groan
a miniature serpent wriggles across the locker room floor
and I’m thinking
Next up is the one about
Gluteus Maximus
the Roman governor.
but no, I’m wrong
I’m reading A Gentleman in Moscow, he says,
by Amor Towles.
Ahh more towels, he says
isn’t that what you say
when room service knocks
on your hotel room door.
and I’m thinking
he really should trim those toe nails.
Taking part in Open Link over at dverse.
Stopdraggingthepanda 