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.
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
.
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.
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.
Young Poets
are certain they see and know
all the things wrong in the world—
all the various injuries and injustices—
all the shadow forces at work on the human condition.
They bring hearty lungs and hale voice
to bear with lusty demonstration.
–
Old poets
know
treachery and
deceit and
iniquity in hearts and
the crushing weight
of patience.
As my life turns into a glide path,
Coming in for a landing
Here at the end,
I look forward to finally walking up
To The Pearly Gates
Where St. Peter will ask me,
With the most intense and sincere interest,
After a lifetime of joy and struggle,
“Did you ever get a 1 in WORDLE?”
And with tears in my eyes,
And hope in my throat
I will say,
“No, St. Peter, but I got a 2
And that is as near to perfection
As a human can come.”
And St. Peter will smile gently
and pause a lifetime,
Then say,
“Did you ever get a 6?”
And the fear of eternal damnation
Will dawn in my heart,
But knowing this is not a time to lie
I will confess, “Yes.”
And say nothing more,
With my eyes diverted to his feet,
While i wait to learn
If God is about flames of judgment
Or the cool spring of forgiveness.
The angel of death striking a door during the plague of Rome, 1879. Engraving by Levasseur after Jules-Élie Delaunay.
Caution: frank talk of suicide. Not a plea for personal help.
There is a moment every morning
when I decide not to kill myself today.
It might be after making coffee, not always.
Or after the under-blanket stretch which brings
a shudder of bladder awareness.
It might be after toast,
after email,
but sometime in the morning,
I elect to to go on with the mundane
and put off the ultimate until tomorrow.
I may be lazy—
just can’t get motivated to finish.
I may be forgetful.
It often doesn’t even occur to me until nearly afternoon
by which time it would be irredeemably irrational.
Why go through the mundane start of another mundane day
only to end it after News at Noon?
I may be fearful that leaving such a mess for someone else
in full daylight would be an act of terror.
And some days it’s too cold to go outside. Or too hot. Or raining.
By the time dinner is over,
there seems no point in doing more than going to bed
in service to Depression.
No one gets out of bed to kill themselves.
Behind closed lids,
I listen to the background hiss of the universe,
which I just discovered doesn’t exist.
My doctor says it is tinnitus.
I also learned the sense of hearing
may last beyond the loss of consciousness…
meaning
it is possible to hear your own dying breath,
if it gets past the tinnitus.
I do not get out of bed
except to pee.
No one commits suicide in their sleep.
Maybe there should be a prime time show
where the sleuth sets off to find
why the old man committed suicide
in his pajamas,
or his boxers,
or with his wherewithal hanging out.
I never think about suicide in my sleep.
I love it when Joe R. Lansdale gets a little weird, or a little kinky. In The Ape Man’s Brother we get both. And we get some excellent writing in a first person narrative almost devoid of dialog.
First, it’s a novella, only 103 pages in a pretty large font and a few full page line drawing images to boot! This ain’t no epic yarn. Second, the link to the Amazon offering (by which I might make a few pennies if you buy) offers the deluxe hardcover for something like $28.00 despite the fact the inside cover says it’s $20.00. That’s probably Joe Biden’s fault. And I found at least three glaring typos inside. Harrumph to their “special edition.” (BTW, I just re-red this paragraph and found a typo.)
I give nothing away when I say the narrator purports to be the real life inspiration for Cheetah of Tarzan-and-Cheetah. It’s a wonderful trope to talk about nature/civilization and savagery/acculturation. That Lansdale is a clever fellow.
The narrator, whose name is given in the book but is unpronounceable, is a remarkable twist on the premise of the Pygmalion/My Fair Lady story on one hand and a connoisseur of Hedonism on the other.
The last thing I’ll give away is the narrator possesses the legendary senses that living in nature gives to all wild creatures. It plays into the plot nicely. Especially the sense of smell. But enjoy this list of sensory language until you get your own copy: “(He)…grabbed Red’s arm. There was a cracking sound, like the weight of heavy ice breaking a rotten limb,…” or this weird visual image of blood, “…like a geyser full of red plum juice had erupted.” or, back to the ears, “You could hear flesh ripping like someone tearing old bed sheets.” or, again, “I could hear helium leaking from the zeppelin like a slow fart from a grandma.”
Do yourself a favor—don’t read the jacket cover until after you read the book. You’ll like it better. Oh, and do yourself one more—Re-read chapter One immediately after you finish reading it. You’ll thank me.
