All Afternoon

All afternoon in my flower garden--
wolves, imps, children, heavy equipment.
I wore gloves.
I had a trowel and a shotgun. 
A bushel basket.
Tarot cards.

All afternoon, clouds traversed the sky,
reminding me of childhood days in Singapore.
Here are things which can change in an instant:
weather,
a steady heart beat,
the four walls around you.

All afternoon I'd had the urge
to shove my gloved hand down the throat of the earth
to draw out the devil's vocabulary.
Don't be stupid--
you know, the one that badgers speak,
the one that drowns anyone listening--
Drip.
Drip.
Damn.

All afternoon I slaved like a grave digger,
my straw hat gone, 
incubi dancing on the handle of my shovel.
I got a letter from the city, saying
cease and desist.
I got a letter from the Diocese,
saying I'd been excommunicated, along with the postman.
I got a letter from you
and it didn't say a god damned thing.

All afternoon I wondered why I opened it,
why I ever cared,
and whether I could use my 'do rag to flag the bombers
and sic them on your stupid paper house
with you in it.
I would like to stand on the rubble afterward, a martinet with round spectacles,
a cup of tea, 
and not a crumb of love left, 
but oh, one hell of a sense of righteous fury.
_______

Koi Pond Haiku

giant fanged goldfish

schools the flailing zen master

knowledge bubbles up

____

The Barn Cat's Betrayal

Bjorn, at Real Toads, wants us to play a game called Bout-Rimés. He gives us the end rhymes with which we are to compose a sonnet. I hate sonnets. Mine is called "The Barn Cat's Betrayal." It isn't about a cat. Enjoy.

I chanced to lie, but by no chance was caught,
A fetch in a mirror ball; and to him
With the cheek to spin what he has not got,
I say, "The more you grasp, the more I dim."
While my double poses riddles, throwing shade
And dirge down old bricks where the ivy goes,
His sister finds the handsy barn cat's glade--
Me in disguise, with gift of bird and flows
Of every feather, that in stillness lies.
Mirrors shatter, spins cease and turn to stone;
What never draws breath likewise never dies.
Send up a song in funereal tone
And dig the empty caskets from the lawn--
Our gift of dust--for love, for told, for gone.

From the Big Book of War Haiku : the War on Christmas chapter

Divine plan in place
and reward at God's right hand
but first: thorns, tree, dice.

your Santa's too black
mine, too much gay apparel
no free stuff, you bum.

something you don't want
I scored it on Black Friday.
next year re-gift it.

Christmas brag sheet comes
everybody kicking ass.
good for you, assholes.

the milk jug Santa
my ex's crazy friend made
on my door each year

see Uncle Billy
lose the wad again. Really???
must be here somewhere.

I so hate haiku
but love the haiku prompter
though she be evil.

Top photo: Catblossom places herself beneath the Xmas tree as Catgod's gift to humanity!

For Words Count with Mama Zen at Real Toads. She goes out of her way to torment me.

Merry Christmas to all my readers. Just to prove that my view of the holiday is not entirely jaundiced, I leave you with my favorite carol; and yes, I like Celine Dion sometimes. She's a little over the top and sings her heart out. Kind of like the silly chick who runs this blog.

 
 
 

 

Everyone's A Critic

Yesterday morning on my way to work, I made the sudden acquaintance of an SUV's bumper . The driver had pressing business off to his left somewhere, and did not find it necessary to look where he was going. 

Anyway, he ran over my bike, which is better than if he had run over my head. I am banged up and sore but not seriously hurt. I guess he objected to my choice of a two-wheeled lifestyle and took a moment to pray for me. It worked, as I immediately took up a new lifestyle on the fucking pavement. Or maybe he just hates bicyclists or poets. Or bloggers.