Conversant Animals In Stovepipe Hats

 In those days,

the skies were closer--

God peered down from nearer by

still tinkering.

Animals had names

and wore stovepipe hats

or tam o' shanters in various shades

and could speak.

Why tell us this

now, when vipers emerge

from every apple, with tongues

hollow and stiff?

I wish to soothe

your two exhausted ears

and place fish there, in the waters

of your mind.

Here is the boat

and the cloaks of soft fabric

to wear on the decks on the sea on the sphere

spinning the tale

of us,

every moment,

even now.

_____

for Word Garden Word List--Immortal Poems

Music: Cream (lyrics by poet Peter Brown)  Deserted Cities of the Heart 

Clover Flowers

 

I have a memory of a clover field--

white flowers in the warm June green

like spilled sugar on a farm wife's sleeve.

I have a memory of a spring lamb--

carried to the shed as the ewe screams

under a summer sky blank as muslin.

In the farm house, an old couch.

a television, and a sturdy oak table.

There is a savory aroma and mint jelly

set out with the white china plates.

My memories mix like a bowl of vegetables,

gravy on the tablecloth, blood on the ax.

I don't like to remember,

even in summer, on a bright afternoon.

_______

for What's Going On? "Memory"

Music: Cat Stevens Into White

Farm

 

The butter is hard--

the biscuit takes it like a punch.

Eat your crumbs, child.

The milk expands, exploding the jug.

Cold cows care for nothing,

least of all the farmer's hands blue on the udder. 

This is agri-business. There are rules.

The clerk is here to count the kernels.

 No kindness from crows hard and polished as obsidian.

The vane is a zig-zag escapee

shouting "Freedom!" from inside the wind's mouth

where white teeth worry at fogged-up windows.

Automated fakes pass out promises

in Dixie cups, hats bobbing like generator vent caps,

a rooster in every head, erupting with cold words. 

Paint the chickens black and white

and dress them in freezer bags like crunchy raincoats.

Salute the magpie, child,

for luck, your ribs bent into a horseshoe and nailed

above the big open door

where our policies are performed.

_______

for Word Garden Word List--Philip K. Dick

On The Way Home From Finishing School

 

On her way home through a deep dark wood, after studying rhyme and meter, what do you suppose should greet her but a big burly black bear. 

"You are in my woods," said the bear, "and I don't know if I should eat you or lick you."

Hands behind her back, the girl replied, "You are a very burly bear, and I don't know if I should teach you or trick you."

The bear eyed her hidden hands and pointed out that "you could be holding a pistol or a picnic basket, a treat for us or a blunderbuss." 

The girl brought out her hands and the bear's eyes grew wide, his face funny.

Then the bear said, "Oh, honey..."

_______

A bit of fun for Thursday's Six Sentence Link-Up. The required word was "meter." A bit out of my métier, I must say. ;-)

Music: The Bare Necessities

A Hollywood Haibun TLDR

 

On the set of the submarine movie, famous actress Natasha Krinkova is having an argument with the director. He says the other actors have complained about her three pet porcupines, Fremont, Lodi, and Malibu, who accompany Ms. Krinkova everywhere, including the cramped quarters of this undersea adventure epic.

"The fucking things stink," gripes one of the other actors, a man known for playing kindly uncles and benevolent bosses, but who could curdle milk with his off-camera personality. 

"They're wonderful, gentle creatures," protests the famous actress, tilting her chin as she did in Let Me Stand Next To Your Fire, a meandering detective yarn in which she played an extraterrestrial hooker. 

"They should be shot," says the kindly uncle actor. 

Yesterday was Fremont's birthday, though it's unclear how she knew. She set up streamers and had a concert pianist pop out of a giant birthday cake to play the Beatles ' Birthday for the rodent as it sat there twitching its nose like a palsied bunny with very sharp fur.

"Go play in traffic," sneered the kindly uncle. Fremont raised his quills. Lodi had an accident in the radar room of the submarine set. Malibu wouldn't come out from under a pile of Natasha's kimonos. The concert pianist segued into Octopuses'  Garden. 

Ms. Krinkova demands that the porcupines be written into the submarine movie. The kindly uncle shoves Lodi into a storage hatch and turns the latch. A fire breaks out in the torpedo bay, which is actually made of painted cardboard. There is panic and the sound of fire extinguishers. Somehow, the actress playing Lieutenant Mitford gets quills in her ass. There are tears and accusations. 

Watery Grave is never completed, and sinks the production company. The director's drinking gets worse. The kindly uncle actor wins an Oscar for his work in a subsequent film entitled Lassie In Space. Natasha Krinkova sells her gowns from the musical Chiffon Switchblade and uses the money to set up a trust for Fremont, Lodi, and Malibu, but unfortunately, Lodi wanders off somewhere and Ms. Krinkova sees to it that the nanny never works again. This series of events is hotly debated on line at Am I The Asshole?

quill is sharp but pliant

porcupine enjoys cherry blossom

but stinks like dumpster

(Excerpted from Hollywood Haibun: An Anthology of Japanesque Poetry From The Shelves of The Screen's Biggest Stars by Babs St. Argent, Pompano Publications, 2021)

___________

I have broken my own rule for Word Garden Word List #16 (Donald Barthelme). 

Pool Party

Olympic freestyle w/ jungle animals was an instant hit.

The world's top swimmers, driven by ambition and terror, amused the crowd with feats of athletic derring-do.

Behold the gentle panda

blocking lane three

and the gnu in two

basking elegantly.

It was indeed unfortunate about the hungry tigers

diving in and disturbing the plastic markers.

Next, we offer soccer w/ lion pride.

Test audiences loved it, sponsorships galore!

That's tonight at ten.

Gymnastics w/ wolverines tomorrow at four.

______

for Sunday Muse #144

The Knave Of Hearts Victorious

There is a sweet weight beside me in bed

curled close,

and that is my heart wandering

beyond the edges of my skin.

There is a jester who conquers with nonsense.

Ancient queens called, "Bring me my fool!",

but I am the witless one enticed into battle

over a headless rag that used to be a green frog.

See, Master? My heart is flown

and follows wherever you go,

like a colorful pennant declaring my imprimatur and blessing 

over Lord Goodboi, royal dog!

________

for Sunday Muse #119.

Old King Bosco, blind but still all-seeing. I was (and am) his personal Sheep to herd.

 

Young King Bosco, certain of a treat!

Zacky Peanut, heir to the royal throne!

Moon Rabbit

Moon Rabbit came back,
long after NASA had been sold for scrap.

"Bunny," I said, finding him there,
"you must be hungry,
coming from such a barren garden
so sparse of leaf and short of air."

I have a dusty hope chest
down a dusty stair
as dusty gray as the moonlit coat
of my silver-silent friend, the hare.

Moon Rabbit seemed
to like my hair
and made a red-spun warren there
where moon can light and moon can find
his loneliness and mine--entwined.
_______

for Sunday Muse #103 

Faux Foxes

You three.
Come to me.

Open this box.
Take out a fox.

They are color coded.
Don't tell me you didn't know this.

Now here's something you may not know:
Two are real, one is faux.

Ever wonder how this came to be?
What I'm saying, what I mean,

Is the thing that I most want to say:
ever wonder how a faux fox fffff-finds its way?

Okay, back in the box.
Come back next week--next week, ducks.
______

foolishness for Sunday Muse #102 and day 13 of my 39 poems in 39 days. 

Photography by Anatasiya Dobrovolskaya

Lioness On The Bus

There is a lioness on the bus.
She may want a transfer
if her needs lie elsewhere.

Passengers speculate as to how she arrived.
"On four legs," says some sk8ter dude.
He is now Swami of the 7th Avenue Line.

There is a lioness on the bus.
Nobody tries to perv her. 
She could chase down the passing bicyclist
but she can't open the window. 

If you see a lioness on the bus, it might be her.
She is pregnant. Offer her your seat.

Her eyes are golden. 
Her favorite poet is Lorca.
She wishes the signal bell were more musical,

and that it could be night.
_______

poem #8 of my 39 poems in 39 days. 

What Happened To Aunt Flossie

Arsenic in the wallpaper killed Aunt Florence,

her demise hastened by her habit of banging her head into the wall

at the slightest provocation.

Last time we visited,

my sisters and I chimed "Hello, Auntie,"

followed immediately by our polite curtsies

and more thundering head-bangs

which shook the house and dazed poor Aunt Flossie.

At tea, she spoke of being haunted by the spirit of a skunk

which had been living under the back stoop.

Her dog killed it, but the striped stinker in its anger

sought revenge.

We held our napkins to our faces in order to endure it. 

"How awful," we remarked,

upon which Aunt Flossie let her tea cup drop

from her fingers, and would have

banged most ferociously into the wall had we not instantly intervened.

My sisters and I are pious girls and we have faith

that the stinker will not be permitted to follow Aunt Flossie

into the golden gates of Heaven.

We shall miss her.

_____

for Poetry Pantry and Real Toads "scent."

Big Bucks

The woods being full of hunters,
some deer escape to a televised quiz show.
Who wrote the swing classic "Sing, Sing, Sing"?
The deer do not know.
(It was Louis Prima.)

The deer prefer Glenn Miller, 
though they cannot afford to ride the Chattanooga Choo Choo
unless they win big in the next round.

Who composed "The Song of the Volga Boatmen"?
The deer look at each other.
One of them dips his antlered head and buzzes in.
"Unknown," says the deer. "It's a traditional Russian piece,
popularized in the U.S. by Glenn Miller."
Correct! Bonus round!
In what year did his version hit #1 on the charts?
"1941," responds the deer. Too easy.

Later on, a herd of deer board a train.
They read a magazine and then they're in Baltimore.
The bucks clatter their racks on the Phoenix Shot Tower.
One doe asks another, who wrote "In The Mood"?
Joe Garland and Andy Razlaf,
but she is not smirking for knowing the answer.
______

for Sunday Muse #81. 

Pack

I was there, at your childhood Christmas,
crouched behind the tree, my striped backside against the wall.
You missed one gift because I had it in my mouth--
we have always shared everything.

I was there, the first time you made love,
denting the corner of the bed with my weight,
the breath from my nostrils sliding your hair across your eyes.
I was there in the morning,
and there a week later, pacing and turning circles as you cried.

I was there, with a chicken in my mouth
in the sacristy as you said your vows.
I was there at the end of the table with the cousins
that night, yawning wide while you danced.
I was curled silently in the back seat when you drove away.

I have been there, at your job,
at reunions and funerals and vacations and hospitals.
We have always shared everything.
I am there because my chest breathes air, 
my heart moves blood-- 
I want my life just as much as you want yours.

When the man comes, with his gun or his scythe,
I will be there.
He will hang us up by our heels and say, "Well now. Lookit you,"
and we will be still forevermore.
Until then, I am with you, with one eye cast down
on the dirt trail in the night,
and the other cast up
on the impossible wheeling stars. 
______

For Fireblossom Friday

 

The Other Sister

Born in a house of wind,

I leaned hard, a little animated stalk.

In a house of rain and mud,

Mother Rot stuffed endings in every word.

The Other Sister, the One Denied,

set the fields on fire

as signal and salvation.

Catching her scent on the gale,

I ran hell-for-Sunday

into the burning wild.

_____

A 55 for my BFF.

Pumpkin

I told Pumpkin
about your heart--
how it couldn't be broadcast, even locally.
Is fucking finding? No.
My life, yours, Pumpkin's,
are like collars fitted to only one neck. 
Right, girl?

Pumpkin is poemless, unlike me.
For her, shit is shit;
she's not sentimental.
She finds dead hearts, shakes them apart--
comes home looking pleased. 
______

A flash 55 for my BFF.

My Giraffe

My giraffe
s'got the down-nose look,
and those squinty rich-MILF eyes.
What a bitch.

Still, she got a sweet and useful tongue.

When you talk,
all the birds have heart attacks and tumble from the trees in shock. 
Fucking whales have more to say
than you. 

My giraffe
would cut you dead
in public, anytime.
________

for Friday 55 at my BFF's place.

 

Eddie and Sylvia

Eddie is fucked up again.
He is supposed to be mucking out the stalls, 
but there is a problem, the same problem as always--

The elephant shit looks like an old man's giant brown head,
the straw in it the hair, the shovel so handy!
He bashes at it with all his might, then runs for his wagon, and his pen.

Later, he is sorry.
Sylvia has him sitting in a trough, naked, red-eyed,
and she is tenderly washing away the last specks of dung from his face.
"You are a genius, Eddie," she says softly.
She wrings out the cloth, folds it neatly and lays it over the trough's edge.
"It's a brilliant story."

Eddie stays sober for a week.
Looking at the elephant shit, he sees Mount Olympus;
the straw in it is wings! Wings of the Immortals!
Thinking of his late mother, and of the women in whom he finds her kindness,
he throws down his shovel and runs for his wagon and his pen.

"Fuckin' ay, Eddie!" the crew boss roars, gesturing vaguely with his cigar.
"Can't you just shovel shit like I pay ya t'do?"
He can't.
He burns with shame and promises to do better,
but all the while he resents this cretin, this imbecile and his petty concerns!

Soon, Eddie is fucked up again.
Sylvia comes around to the animal trailers to try to soothe him.
Last time, she found him asleep in the tiger's cage;
she lifted his head from the cat's rough tongue and placed it upon her bosom.
This time, she finds him staring at elephant shit, his shovel forgotten.

"What is it, Eddie?" she asks, her voice betraying her worry.
"The birds!" he points, agitated and trembling.
Sure enough, crows are feasting on the droppings. 
He is still thinking about the Immortals. "Pallas! A bust of Pallas!" he cries.
"Eddie? Are you sure you're all right?"

But he is gone, off to his wagon and his pen.
This time, the crew boss will fire him, 
and the hopelessness of it all, the futility of Eddie's brilliance and her love,
sinks into her bones like sickness. 
"I'll be in the kitchen," she calls after his back, but she knows

by the time he comes looking for her she'll be gone.
_____ 

for Ella's very cool challenge at Real Toads. Combine a favorite poet with a circus setting.

Duckburg U.S.A.

Doesn't every American burb have a bright red satanic-looking goat at the intersection? No? Well we do! 

Giant PEZ dispenser, maybe? Gateway to Hell? Wildly ill-conceived petting zoo? Who knows?! 

Resolve

On New Year's Eve,
one should never choose to be solitary--
sitting, considering old lovers,
particularly if you spoke French with her
and she told you it reminded her of home.

I have worn red shoes until it's no longer becoming.
I have swirled and spun continuously
until my body told me it was done;
until my heart riding inside my bones shouted in my ear,
saying what should have been obvious to any idiot--
Stop. She's gone. They all are.

I turned on tv, the nature channel, looking for distraction.
Perhaps some brightly colored birds,
up to their beady little eyeballs in gorgeous song.
What I got was a dust storm of dumb beef on the hoof--
a dozen cape buffalo who had a lion trapped against an embankment.
They were murdering him
despite my cries
despite my horrified tears.

Those of us who love lions
are a different breed.
In the cathedral, I spat the wafer on the floor,
wanting steak, bloody, 
and an hour in the sun.

My German-born French-raised lover
objected to the flies who constantly plague me.
She didn't like the blusher I favored
when she found out it came from the hearts of the herd;
and yet,
she climbed me as if the world were vanishing beneath her feet,
and only fucking me could bring it back.

I have resolved
never to love anyone again who works around cattle, as she did.
I keep thinking of the lion--
though it was hopeless, he was magnificent and fierce.
Though his body was being ruined, horn by horn,
he seemed, more than anything, to be insulted.

Here I am, on the floor, my cheek against the carpet.
It is New Year's Day,
the sun is coming up,
my knees ache and my right foot feels fucked
in some indeterminate, but painful, way.
All the same, you bullshit ballerinas better step aside.

Come sit by me, Ghost of the Offended Big Cat.
I'll get to my feet and hide my own injuries if you'll do the same,
and the big bright thing will have to rise across our turf and tremble
if it wants to keep its date with the sky.
________

for Kerry's challenge at Real Toads

if anyone knows who should be credited with the image at top, please let me know.

Smile

Dude,
don't judge.
I woke up with these teeth in my mouth,
pretty spots that just won't stop,
and the hunger to do
what a girl's gotta do.

Sometimes,
when the sun is just right,
I can fall asleep in a tree with one paw hanging down
and dinner just jumps up to me,
presto!
Those are the days when this kitty's life
is the bee's knees baby.

Don't ever think
that there isn't a Goddess for cats.
Fifty million Egyptians can't be wrong,
and one of these days I'll be back where I belong--
running the place.
See if I don't!

Admit it.
You want to scratch behind these ears,
and under my chin!
Make the rumbles start.
Don't you know I'm half natural born killer
and half marsh-mallow pushover heart.

Smile!
If you were me, you would, too.
Some us are born too cool for the zoo,
too coo coo for a box of crackers,
with just one thing to do:
smile.
_____

written for my dear Mosky, by request.