Category Archives: Poetry

Admonition

My elders were very poor teachers,
Or I was a piss-poor student.
So much about aging was left unsaid
Or unheard:

That pain is ugly
But it’s only pain.

That your heart will heal
But it might be a little crooked afterwards.

That the injuries from the Spring of youth
Return in the Winter.

That you can weep when one who cares
moves on—
And still wish them every goodness.

They also didn’t mention that
Mentors grow in age,
That gardens aren’t about vegetables,
That owning a dog isn’t about owning.

And shame on them for not telling
How an old heart can swell,
not just with edema,
But from the full panoramic view of life
As it plays out on the faces of children
And then the Elfin magic of grandchildren.

I’m writing this down today
So no one else forgets to say
Or hear.

[43]

A Gift From the Cosmos

I don’t know where these came from. They seem to be characters in a music/arts scene somewhere. Two are recognizable as characters I’ve known from Ann Arbor. That’s George Bedard of George Bedard and the Kingpins above. He seems to belong with these. I don’t now if there are more of them or if they interact somehow, but I put them here so they won’t get lost.

Rocky
Low blare of the bass sax.
Get back to it, man.
Cats wearing shades.
Collars up-turned.
Black pants.
Black pants.
Hepcats in the wings.
Rocky croons a vibrato.
Her name is Wynona.
Rocky never gives us rules,
A right-hearted man.
Wynona was all warm.
Her hair with wine.
Her voice full of no-nah, no-nah.

[32]
..

George danced like a question mark.
It was always the same question.
The cat snapped his fingers
And kept the burning stump of a Lucky
Between his lips,
Smoke curling into a squinted eye.
George had been around a couple more years
Than the rest of the hep-cats.
A pioneer with a question
That never got answered.

[33]

(PS This is not George Bedard. This is another George who may very well have gone to listen to the Kingpins.)
..

Billy
Tough Black cat with a white guy’s name,
In a scene that’s pretty white.
Took the bias both ways.
Talks code to cross over
When he hangs at the last juke joint.
It’s all Blues
And Rock-a-billy with him.
He’s a Blues-Billie.

[34]
..

The Ardog
Beat poet
Black coat
A fucking beret,
Do you believe that cat?
Clove mutherfuckin’ cigarettes.
Does percussion on road trips
From the back seat
On the backs of the front seat.
Long hair flailing
But it’s getting thin already.
He’ll look like a monk in ten years.
Talks a hep game
But he’s a
One trick pony with eyebags.

[35]
..

Jake.
Whatchew doing here?
You gotta get some strings for that thing, man. Whoever heard of a man playing the three string?
The hat
The shades
The trenchcoat.
Those beads.
Alcohol did that to your voice?
That ain’t mouthwash.
You’ll never change, man.

[36]
..

Marcie,
Seems so French.
Holding her smoke upside-down
Pinched between her thumb and finger.
Also with the the black ankle boots.
They are French too?
your French sounds American.
Champs Elysees doesn’t sound a “p” in it.
Sometimes.
With Magyo,
Tough one,
Speaking Island French.
Holding Marcie’s temple
Against her bare shoulder,
Marcie’s neck in the crook of Magyo’s arm.
Marcie pouts.

[37]
..

Lyman
Likes beer.
:likes wine.
My old lady left me
While I was paralyzed six months.
Don’t hit me with no bus.
I’ll sue yer ass.
I’m set for life.
Now she wants to come back.
Lyman says no.
But he’s mad he has to say it.

[38]
..

Lump,
Everywhere he goes
It rains.
It finds him in the park,
In the alley.
He oozes the gloom.
No one smiles to see him
Or buys him a drink.
Keeps his hands in his overcoat.
Self-fulfilling prophet.

[39]
..

Jimmy Hot
Best dancer
Best fighter
Best racer
Best car
Best piano
But he’s boogie woogie, dontchaknow.
Too big to be a back-up.
He’ll beat your rockabillies
With a baseball bat or a piano.

[40]
..

Sweeny
Like all vixens
That look
That walk
That way of listening
And acting like there must be something better to do.
Used to be in the life
Now she’s kept.
Angling for Lyman
But with a man the age of
Lyman’s father.
Lyman’s father is dead.
So will this guy be
Before Sweeny is done with him.

[41]
..

Smitty’s on Alto
Plays it like a clarinet
Squeaks it
Lets it drone
He sweats
And he finds that one riff.
He plays it again
Again
Again
Again
Again
It breaks and the guy on the drums
Brings the band back.
That cat’s always there.

[42]
..

Little Hippie Farmer, Kate

Note: this is a creative account of events, some might be based on some truth.

Another note: I have been obsessively listening to John Prine for a couple of weeks. He finally broke through here. Yes, you can sing this to a good number of his compositions. And you should.

Kate is a little bit different.
Her brain is wired inside out.
She thinks when you garden topless
it keeps peaches from drying out.
She proved it with a picture
and peaches freshly picked.
Kate’s 5 foot 2 and through and through
She knows those farmers’ tricks.

Chorus:
Little hippie farmer
standing by a pot plant
in the middle of her garden,
out behind the barn,
smiling at the camera
and the fresh fall sunshine
in a little black something,
just tryin’ to stay warm.

I sent her seeds though the mailbox.
I know it was a federal crime.
But she could grow anything, ya know,
Like she was back in the olden time.
So, along about the harvest
She sent me back a little pic.
It made me smile to see her smile,
By a plant of 6 foot 6.

Chorus

It was green with heavy blossoms
But it was skinny as a rail.
It promised good things would happen
If we could stay out of jail.
Then suddenly it was legal!
All our sins were washed away.
We’d grow our own and we’d stay stoned
From now until Judgement Day.

Chorus

May 2 Story

I do not own the rights to this photo.

 

May 2 Story

Once upon a time, I started a WORDLE puzzle with the answer to the previous puzzle. It threw me for such a loop that I failed to solve it, thus, seven words for this WORDLE poem.

FORGO
ROMAN
ORALS
SAVOR
SHORE
SCORN
(STORY)

I had to FORGO my ROMAN holiday.
I had failed my ORALS.
The depression forbid me to SAVOR the flavor of fruits,
The smell of the SHORE—
All but the SCORN of my professors.
The scorn of my cohorts is a different STORY entirely.

EARTH TRASH from WORDLE

I don’t own this image.

The game, starting officially tomorrow, May 1, 2022, is to use the words in your WORDLE solution to serve as a prompt for a poem each day. My addition is to strive to use the words in the order used in the puzzle. But surprise! On this puzzle I did a 2! If I don’t use the start word in the poem, that leaves me with only one word, the solution. Start word: EARTH, solution: TRASH.

Earth Trash

It seems we can go from
EARTH to
TRASH
In one long, slow step.

A very early hominid
stood barefoot
near a fire
and discovered
good
beneath the limitless sky.

A very late hominid
kicked off his Crocs
near a fire
and cut his foot to the bone
on beach glass
beneath a sky interrupted
for low latency internet access.

WORDLE PROMPTS

I do not own this image. It is used without permission.

An idea emerged kind of organically on Brett Axel’s FaceBook page. The idea was to use one’s WORDLE words as prompts for poems. Further, we (at least three of us) resolved to do this daily through May for some potential book deal later. I put another layer of “rules” on the experiment in that I will endeavor to use the clue words in the order I used them in the WORDLE puzzle.
Book or no book, it’s a fun experiment which I have begun. This might be the first keeper.

Schrodinger’s Kitty

So, they threw me in jail
like a THIEF.
Locked me in a box
and left me.
Pitch dark, silent.
It smelled of tin cans
and ESTERS of cardboard glue.
No room. Could take no STEPS
left nor right.
I do not mind.
I take RESTS.
I admit, after forever,
I panicked
and let loose
lusty howls and
ZESTY yowls and
whimpering mewls.
With each breath,
all of what is/was/
may never be
outside the box
winked into and
out of
existence
.

And Now the Spring

And now the bulb is poised to pop.
And now the seed trembles in the soil.
The rhizome simmers sugars
Surging through cells to crush through mud.

And now the bud swells pregnant
And now the leaf grows shoulders in the bud.
The sun, the rain, the wind thrust,
All tremulous.

And now the yolk shivers in its sac.
And now the worm uncoils in a lurch.
Copulation is insistent and frequent.
The hive quivers its fertile breath.

And now the spring’s fidget returns.
And now the death must dither.
The rut is unopposed.
Even churches cannot begrudge a flower.

Again, For Brenda

Brenda Moossy (on left) with friend Lisa Martinovic (in hat)

As the number of my age
Rises by increments
regular as a plow horse
scratches furrow by furrow,
I look forward to the time
when Brenda and I
will soak in her hot tub
and drink strong drinks
among the stars.

In her voice,
the East Texas
will still subvert
the Arkansas,
Her tones,
(husky-sweet,
like Southern Comfort,
but only a little murky)
taking the time,
lingering in her mouth like earnest work,
Its presence palpable,
before it comes to me.

She bids me, “Breathe.”

Then lays that laugh on me, like light to a moth.

Dead Children in the Spring

I have not obtained permission to use this photo. I mean no ill by using it.

Nothing breaks
a grandfather’s heart
more completely than
even-toned news reports
of bombs being thrown
on children.
It breaks his heart,
then breaks the pieces,
then pulverizes the little pieces
then grinds the scraps to dust
then throws the dust in the littered gutter and burns it.