Stumped

To drabble thus can be a chore

The goal, you see, is not to bore

But entertain with a few bon mots

Tell story smart and in the know

With crisp tight plot and punch line clever

No hanging threads, uncertainty, never

Sometimes though, nothing'll flow

Without idea or inspiration

Fuelled by angst and perspiration

I stare at page in search of words

And generate a gross of turds

I should’ve learned the trick by now

Not who or where or what, but how:

That at the point where you are stumped

Just grit your teeth and write some bumf

Inspired by writer’s block. Image by Elliott Park.

Nyet Nyet, Mad Putin

There is a crooked man, holding sway in Rus today
He’s a hate-filled snake, and he wants Ukraine to pay
World leaders look at him with fear and outright shock
But to Moscow oligarchs he has such a giant [CENSORED]

Da-da, Vlad Putin
Tyrant on the Russian scene
Nobody dared to tangle with him

So he figured he would win
With his Spetsnaz and his tanks
But he didn’t factor in
The corruption in his ranks

Hey, hey, hey, hey, hey, hey, hey, oops

F-you, Vlad Putin
Little man and would-be Czar
You’ll rue the day you started a [CENSORED-IN-RUSSIA]

Sung to the tune of Bony M’s 1978 hit Rasputin. Inspired by Black Swans and 2012’s Dead Dictator, half of my “World Dictators in Poetry” series. It is illegal in Russia to call Putin’s war in Ukraine a “war.” Image from the President of Russia website press service.

but can you touch

                                                      a praying mantis?
       can you smell rain or snakes or cancer?
       can you see russia from alaska?
       could you hear music as it’s playing on the moon?
       could you see mars last night or tuesday
            or taste spinach in a smoothie?
       should you feel guilty killing zombies?
       would you feel
                                       getting shot
                                                                in the head?
       oh: you. should you now be inclined to censure,
       you who touch your chest on bench press,
       you who hear from your ex-boyfriend everyday
                                      (that’s a lot)
       i suggest that you drink heavily
       i suggest that you tread lightly
       i suggest you let a praying mantis pray.

Image: Mantis.

Taken from the Spine

bloodletting & miraculous cures
behind the scenes at the museum
alone of all her sex
paris was a woman
loitering with intent
to kill a mockingbird –
the door into summer.

salt fish girl
salt fish girl,
interpreter of maladies,
when fox is a thousand
always
never let me go.

fugitive pieces
tender buttons leaving earth
eight cousins, tender is the night
the children of men voyage in the
dark green shadows, white whale, ammonite
a mouthful of air taken at the flood
tales from the thousand and one nights
the book of small fugitive pieces
charms for the easy life.

Wait! Now, go back to the beginning and touch each line in turn. And, if you like this sort of poetic puzzle, make sure to check out For 20 weightings.

Being in love with a bear

It’s awkward being in love with a bear 

First off, what can you say to the parents? 

You can say, “He’s dedicated to work 

’Cause, Dad, bearhood is no song and dance 

No beer, no skittles, no coffee breaks

Eating offal from seals takes real stamina.” 

You can say, “Daddy, at least he’s white and 

Remember what you said about Angelo 

Yes you did too say that and I was so 

Ashamed I wouldn’t visit you for months and –”

Yes, such arguments divert the parents 

But truth told, being in love has got to be 

Awkward, standing hair on end. 

Image: Catrin Welz-Stein.

HEY! (The already-outdated kimchi taco chant)

HEY! is the new hi rooibos the new chai

gluten is the new egg yolk fake’s the newest fur

kimchi the new taco and gambling new tobacco

for hipsters the new yuppies labradoodles their new puppies

sigh for rhinos the new dodos clap for katniss the new frodo

winning hunger like a new board game but HEY!

HEY! it’s the new hi syria’s in the news why
war is lame the new retarded like wispy bangs the new cross-
     parted
HEY! they’re the next hi and netflix the new sky’s
got ben the latest batman wearing cheetah: the new black. HEY!

Image: Steamy Kitchen.

Jump Rope Rhymes for a New Millenium

Skip, Momma Pony’s name is Pounce
Kitten’s name is Clop
Daddy, he cuts heads off
In the barbershop.

Sister likes the breast
Brother likes the thigh
Momma left us years ago
Daddy don't say why.

So, skip, Momma!
Skip, Momma!
A one, two, three
Back to your little family.

Yeah, skip, Momma!
Skip, Momma!
Anyone can see
How you miss your little family.

Sister’s Making MuffinsSister’s in the kitchen
Little Brother’s out in back
Sister’s making muffins
Little Brother's smoking crack.

When Sister heats the oven
Little Brother’s getting high
But Sister’s making muffins
Sugar muffins make her fly.

Image based on Skipping Vinegar Girl by flickrsquared.

The Ballad of Lonesome Lake

Baby’s softly sleeping
Momma’s fast awake
This time she hears the Devil
Cross the lonesome lake.

Momma clutches Baby
Cold in every pore
Hears Devil hooves a-scraping
Cross the wooden floor.

Baby wakes up crying
Momma strokes his head
Feels Devil horns a-growing
Sees eyes of crimson red.

She backs into the table
Takes the skillet pan
Cries, “Devil, leave my Baby!”
Smites him best she can.

Now Baby isn’t sleeping
Baby cannot wake
Baby’s head is sticky like
Syrup on a cake.

Momma ties her hair up
In a steady knot
Waiting for the angels
By sweet Baby’s cot.

Image: Hangman's Tree, by Przemysław Pielecki.

Momma's Got a Leopard Lighter

Momma’s got a leopard lighter
Fingernails of scarlet red
Daddy: he’s gone missing
I wonder if he's dead . . .
 
Cuz I read Daddy’s letter
Saying: Momma’s got a flame
Burning ’neath her collar for
A man on Colson Lane.

Said he saw them, wild and
Kissing, like creatures in a zoo
Now he’s a vacant corner
Can’t tell what he might do.

Said he’ll despise her always
And he'll drink a pint of lye
Said – in ink all sorry
Coloured like his eyes –

That he'll love Momma always
Like desert-loving rain . . .
Well, Momma’s leopard lighter
Burned his leavings all the same.

Cinemagraph by Jamie Beck

Dead Dictator

Professions of anguish, assertions of grief
Must mask the vacuum of your belief.
To save your own skin, to advance your career
You praise his false exploits and bow low to his bier.

You tell of his genius, you repeat all his lies
While ignoring the evidence of your own wary eyes.
His guidance impeccable – his opinion supreme:
A belly was full if he deigned to so deem.

So weep!  And bow low, to your dead dictator...
And pray you’ll survive to a saner later
When, taste on lips no longer bitter,
You’ll tell the truth on blog and Twitter.

Photo: Korean Central News Agency, showing the funeral of Kim Jong-Il

Thirty-Seven Point Nine Words

They say there’s forty words for snow.
None, though
for thirty-seven point nine degrees
of Celsius.

The flip-flop of doubt as sandals melt,
not into tar, as they are wont,
but onto concrete sidewalks, floating
sideways into slow repose as strangers
chatter into iced cafés, pile up
in tales of wilt and pushing fluids
(Getting old is hell, says Alan,
shouldering his laptop,
don’t get old.)

Time closes.
Sprinklers at 346 go on  
and here at thirty-seven odd degrees,
headlights shine through the mists in flowing
goldfish tails that once, impossibly,
were arctic snow.
 
Oh, no,
this won’t get old.

Image: K. Bischoping.

We Reached The Lucky Seven

(to the tune of The House of the Rising Sun)

Warren ran down barefoot
Ginny knelt and gave me tea
And pulled the rusty cat away
From the hole that was Rafe’s knee.

They set him on the table
Four sharp screams and then none
Ether and the hacksaw blade
He’d reached oblivion.

My hand went for the ether vial
Four inches left, then three
Sweet Ginny kicked me in the shin
Can’t you leave that ether be?

Warren told her keep on stitching
Said drink your tea down, son
I lay staring in the rusty mug
For sweet oblivion.









Image: Mylittlethriftstore.

While Disease Had Come to Live at Lowood

While disease had come to live at Lowood
     Death its frequent visitor
While gloom within the passages
     Steamed with hospital smells
While drug and pastille strove all in vain
     Against mortal effluvia
 That bright May shone

Unclouded over bold
     Hills and woodland out of doors
As the garden glowed, hollyhocks sprang
     Tall as trees, lilies opened
Roses bloomed red, little bordered beds
     Were daisy-blithe with pinks
Sweetbriars scented morn

And evening with their spice
     Of apples – treasures fragrant
Useless all
     For most of us in Lowood
Except to furnish, now and then
     A blossom handful
To leave inside a coffin.


Text based on Jane Eyre (1847) by Charlotte Brontë. Image of Helen and Jane from tumblr.com. Posted to dVerse Poets.

Red as . . .

Red as wagons
As Nana’s box that Squirrel came in
As fat wax candles and first nail polish
As stripes on ribbons in typing class
As filing folders, print on sugar packets, Persephone’s
        three-seed lunch and Diet Coke
As in walks an office fantasy . . .
Red as the east, eight hundred million little books and all
        the signs that time in Chinatown
As blood, as an apple, a Gala, Campari, a slapped cheek,
        the veins of a Jonathan and recklessness

As eyes at sunrise

And his eyes, years later, from the blood-thinners
As a tea found only in Canada
As pity.


Red Rose Tea, advertised with the slogan "only in Canada, pity", used to include a Wade figurine in every box. Figurine image by permission of Fabulously Fun Finding on etsy. Posted to dVerse Poets.

For 20 weightings

For bescarved doctors who
In those nights of topaz
Watched an eagle land up
On the moon
Now greyed knickerknackers
They’re hobbling toward
Heaven and gingersnaps
Just before noon.

For emergency callers
(True-hearted apostles)
Bringing pestos amore
To an ex with one eye
For pipers who pipe in
The cricketing team
So eagerly snubbed by
The zenith of tween.

For a hoarse gambler stalling
For Slurpees, for hope
Or towers to cease
Falling free
For a young—and rainy—river’s road
Beneath the chestnut-
Crayoned trees . . .

For 20 weightings on your heart
This poor small labyrinth of art.

Wait! Now, go back to the beginning and touch each line in turn. And, if you like this sort of poetic puzzle, make sure to check out π recalled.

Image from MyMaze.

I am a poem, but I’m not gonna hurt you

I am a poem, but I’m not gonna hurt you.
(See how I'm not beginning with any weird fogs
On little cat feet
Or Tyger-Tygers, burning bright
But a promise like some simple dog?)

We could be simple together.

No rhymes, no schemes
None of those, like, metaphors
No being read stupid aloud by Mr. Fergusson the
    year you’re doing Romeo and Juliet and his wife
    leaves him and his default sweater and he stops and
    tells the class: Poetry can hurt you
(and cries).
No next day, when they say he’s on leave.

No strange quiet months after that.


Image based on The Tyger, by William Blake.

Pocahontas

A horse spoke to me on the St. Clair West streetcar
A miniature horse on a grey winter day
I reached down to pat it as it lay sleeping
Coat matted a little, flattened from play
Its peeling hooves kicking, albino-rose bath toes,
Pocahontas, it wheezes, Pocahontas, don’t go.

Why Pocahontas? Are you a lost
And a foreshortened ghost horse
Forever careening down colonial trails?
Each time doomed to miss her
Each trace growing older
Don’t leave me, my princess –
Comes your warning
Too late.
    
Or is Pocahontas a missed after-
School special?
My plainting little pony
Your inhaler’s misplaced.

Image: SprinklesInTime. Posted to dVerse Poets.

Royal overflow

The King of Coventry and Kale

Continually would take baths

With rubber ducks, kaleidoscopes

Of bubbling oil or kitten soaps,

Killarney waters, Cupid’s tears,

Carnation petals, day-old beer,

Colloidal oatmeal, smooth as silk,

And litre flasks of cobra milk

(Subject to United Nations laws)

Purchased online by Jean-François,

The King’s esteemed koala pet,

Who’d clean the bath out with a net

And carry in the silver trays

Of cashew creams and USAs Today,

Hot fudge, whipped sundaes, whiskeys neat

The bath swayed wide on lion feet.

Fresh frankincense, pink coral scrubs,

(Because because because because)

Thus royal overflowed his tub.

Image: Collage by K. Bischoping

Two Poems on An

jane is jane
what were the parents thinking
the rain falls on the plain
the solid and unblinking
ann is an
article indefinite
a suitcase without tags
a promise from a profligate
a message washed in sand
my waiting room confederate.

           proficient ann
           prolific ann
           ann is an historian
        the past pluperfect at her hand . . . but trickling
   through the ampersands, evading
                 ann’s aligning hand, grains drift
          upon her planking floor in
     sighs of ans, in
ebbs
        of a knife-green and undulating strand of vast beguiling
                            continent, where corals reef and plankton
                       roar out: atlantis!
   (or a glimpse of it)
      singular
                           indefinite


Image: K. Bischoping

The Fire

The furious forest fire fought, those flaming fires almost won, the fair of heart fast flung the art the faded fortress walls were hung – a festive frieze, four fripperies, a limpid fawn in furbelows, a scorched and sunburnt fenwood girl, her fenwood arrows and her bow. (“Fourteen Left Faint” fretted tin-type flyers furnishéd by dawn.) And hunted by the flatfoot guard, the fire-setter from Fife was torn between the fishponds of remorse and fiddleheaded stalks of hope, a farandole of fears he trod, a figure eighty-eight with tropes and fluteful hops of frolic cheer: His long-lost fenwood bride was near.

Image based on Diana Hunting by Guillaume Seignac.