Long poem by
Roy Jerden | Details |
I don't know what came over me that day - an instant of weakness after years of resistance, I suppose.
My beaming spouse leads me, a dog on a short leash, into the forbidden citadel, the sanctum sanctorum of feminine fastidiousness, the dreaded nail salon.
As we pass through the portal, we enter another dimension, one not of Man.
One of Woman.
Overwhelmed by estrogen, like Superman in the presence of Kryptonite, my strength saps.
The harpies in the salon immediately sense fresh meat, hailing my wife like Caesar in a Roman triumph, gleeful in the knowledge of the barbaric sacrifice to follow. Lightheaded, my eyes dart around, a trapped beast seeking escape.
The sacrificial altar is prepared. The torture device is like a dentist's chair, but with a tub for the feet, presumably where they will drain out my blood. Resigned to my fate, I mount the gallows.
Glancing around, it seems that all the employees are Southeast Asians. Mostly young. Reputedly, they own this territory, like Indians in convenience stores or Italian greengrocers. My personal tormentor is the proprietor, a slim pretty Vietnamese woman perhaps in her mid 50's, with cold eyes and a professional smile.
I immediately sense that I am dealing with She Who Must Be Obeyed. I am commanded in that bossy Asian way to put my feet in the tub, as she turns on the water. Apparently, like some feminine droit du seigneur, Dragon Lady reserves the right to draw first blood from pedicure virgins. My primae noctis, so to speak.
As she sits below me and leans forward to grab my feet, I get a good look at her well-formed cleavage. Maybe this won't be so bad,after all...
As my feet soak, I close my eyes and sink into a Felliniesque fantasy, surrounded by Asian houris garbed in short white Grecian gowns, catering to my manly whims.
I'm getting a semi...
Dragon Lady brings me back to reality, placing my left foot on her toweled workspace.
There's another guy here...
and that SOB is getting a manicure from one of my girlfriends!
An older lady enters the shop. She has an experienced and well-traveled look. Obviously a repeat offender, she immediately begins apologizing to Dragon Lady for her tardiness, meanwhile sizing me up like a slab of man-meat. Dragon Lady gives her a proper scolding, then the horny old biddy tweaks my big toe and flashes me a knowing smile. I wonder if she is packing heat in that big purse...
Suddenly, I become William Holden in Sunset Boulevard. As I make a break for freedom, I am plugged in the back by the scorned Gloria Swanson lookalike.
Then, a cold look from Dragon Lady and my spouse re-establishes territory and Gloria backs off.
Dragon Lady looks pleased as she draws out what appear to be farrier's tools for shoeing horses, presumably to work on my virgin toenails, which I admit are heading toward Fu Manchu territory. A pair of evil-looking wire cutters makes short work of my talons, then she pulls out a chisel and begins removing layers of yellowed nail until they are smooth and white.
Nice. I can take this.
Then she removes the cuticles and pushes back the skin.
Holy crap! I think she just popped my cherry! I see blood on my big toenail. I take it like a man. A bead of sweat runs down my brow.
She finishes the flaying job, puts the foot back into the soothing bath and begins carving up the other one.
"And women pay for this?", I think.
"You like massage?", she asks.
"Massage?" I glance at my spouse nervously, wondering if she intuits the direction of my thoughts.
She points to the control panel on the chair.
"Why, yes. Yes I would!", I reply.
Anything to take my mind off my pending amputation.
"All the way?"
I suppress my licentious thoughts.
"Warp seven, Mr. Sulu."
"To infinity, and beyond!"
She got that one, and turns on the machine. Robocop immediately digs deeply into my neck and spine with his titanium-steel fingers, plowing my vertebral column like a John Deere cultivator. My central nervous system releases a flood of endorphins. The cocktail of pain and pleasure is a masochist's wet dream.
The surgery going on downstairs dissolves into the background...
Dragon Lady puts the second foot back in the tub and removes the first. She pulls out a big cheese grater and goes to work on the bottom of my foot. I don't have thick calluses, but she produces a pretty respectable pile of Parmigiano. Makes short shrift on foot two. My smooth feet now look like a baby's.
Not too bad, not too bad.
My spouse shoots me the old Told You So look and smiles.
Dragon Lady now pulls out the pumice for the final polish. As she goes to work on my foot, nerve endings now exposed after many years return me to infancy.
It tickles! Oh Momma, does it tickle!
I'm giggling like a young girl. I can't stop, and I really don't want to either. The entire salon joins in my giggle fest.
Dragon Lady doesn't let up for a second. She is giggling too, and for the first time I see the young, innocent Vietnamese girl buried deep inside.
Then I see the napalm and burnt village.
And all the rest of it...
I see and she sees. We each have seen... too much.
She smiles sadly. As do I.
My next appointment is in a month
I'll be there.
September 11, 2014
Long poem by
DENNIS DE ROSE | Details | . You can read it on PoetrySoup.com' st_url='http://www.poetrysoup.com/poem/thats_chuck,_hes_my_friend_493715' st_title='That's Chuck, He's my Friend'>
What's that in your hand?. Let me see.. He said.
It's a picture; that`s Chuck; he is my friend... I said.
You pick your friends kinda young, don't you?... He said.
No, that was a long time ago. We were in college... I said.
I'd like to hear more about your pal Chuck... He said.
Okay... I met Chuck in New Paltz in `74... I said.
Oh, that's the pot smoking college, isn't it... He said.
Don't generalize, everyone's not the same... I said.
You're right. So tell me some more about Chuck... He said.
Okay, so you want the short version, or long one ... I said.
Whatever you like, I have plenty of time ... He said.
Well, this guy Chuck approaches me; he looks perplexed... I said.
So what was his issue. Why that look on his face... He said.
Chuck tells me "No one will stay with me in the room."... I said.
How odd is that? That doesn't make sense... He said.
You and I swing one way, Chuck swings the other. ... I said.
Now I see what the problem was; What did you do?... He said.
What do you think ? That doesn't bother me.... I said.
Hey, you want to hear a funny story? It's a side splitter... I said.
I've got time. I could use a good laugh right about now... He said.
Chuck had a 53 Schwinn bicycle, all chrome, red and white... I said.
You've got to be kidding me. I haven't seen one in years.... He said.
I'd hop on back. We`d go to town and chug down a few together... I said.
That's not funny. Where's the punchline? So what happened?... He said.
Well, one day Chuck failed a test and got super pissed off.... I said.
That's not funny either. You've got to do better than that.... He said.
He yanked on the handlebar so hard, he busted it clean in half... I said.
Wow ! Did they have "Funniest Home Videos" back then?... He said.
That's not all. We had so much fun together. There's more... I said.
Don't keep me in suspense. Lay it on me..... He said
There was this girl; unique with a special attribute.... I said.
What was so special? Three breasts instead of two?... He said.
No joke, her name was Madam Clittora! Enough said... I said.
I can't believe that. You gonna leave me hanging?... He said.
Anyway, shortly after that, I graduated. Chuck was younger.... I said.
So what happened to Chuck? Good friends keep in touch... He said.
We saw him two years later. We visited With his family, was nice... I said.
Ever see them again? You shouldn't desert a friend.... He said.
You're right. But things don't always pan out... I said.
So what does that mean? You both seemed quite close.... He said.
I was married at the time with a lot of responsibilities... I said.
So that's no excuse. You should've kept in touch... He said.
After that, I didn't. Time changes things. Wasn't intentional.... I said.
So is there more to this story? There's got to be more... He said.
Oh, there is. Time moves on. 35 years later... I said.
It's 2010 and out of the blue, I think of my old pal Chuck... I said.
So you didn't forget him after all, but almost... He said.
It's a gamble, Chuck Drzal was in the phonebook; I called... I said.
Good for you. You took a chance, renewed a friendship... He said.
You're right. Just like old times. `74 again. What a feeling... I said.
So what happened next. Tell me quick, can't wait... He said.
We talked off and on, old times and new things; it was good... I said.
So it sounds like things are really working out for you guys... He said.
We saw Chuck, in the summertime; looked good for 52... I said.
Hey that's great news; Is there more to the story?... He said.
A little more... His friend died the day after we saw him... I said.
Oh, bummer. Sorry to hear that. How`s Chuck now?... He said.
Called him in November. His diamond ring was stolen... I said.
Wow ! That's a real downer. Did they catch the bastard?... He said
No !... I said.
There's got to be more than that. Call him since then?... He said..
Yeah... but... I called twice... he never answered the phone... I said.
Well, I hope you find out how he is doing?... He said.
I did. Saw his obit a few days ago. He died November 17th... I said.
He looked at me. A tear rolled down his cheek... He said nothing..
I looked at him. Couldn't speak, all choked up.... I said nothing.
He looked at me. Gave me a hug, turned and walked away.
I yelled to the universe... "That's Chuck, he's my friend!"
Long poem by
Dawn Fulmer | Details |
It was the time before the celebration on Saint Peter’s day, when the noble page took a fine white scroll and was glad upon his way.
For a bird had whispered in this good page’s ear that what he bore might bring glad tidings near. Did he then hope too much for such as an extra ration or a copper penny to increase his fashion?
Indeed he did not and when the lord Auz Zoo had read the scroll he patted the back of this good page and said with a voice from his belly that told of his age. “Oh hoe! My lad run thither hence and tell the cook that I want mince” And this was good for everyone knew that when in fine spirits he’d call for his food.
The news ran thus, that the high king, Prince had granted lord AuzZoo his one great wish, a plot of land with fertile soil with plenty of hands to turn the mill and work and toil. That one day soon he might raise his castle there.
The feast was had and thus began many gold pieces spent and marvelous plans. The wood worker came and so did they all; chisel, hammer, axe, and, saw.
And when in court next day the high king, Prince did hear them say “Never before have we seen such a sight as this old bachelor knight.’’
For, many years he had saved his gold now giving him a wealth untold. So, fine jewels were engraved and a brilliant red carpet laid, a high backed chair of cedar wood but best of all, the kitchen stood where nothing entered save, the most savory meats and the sweetest treats.
Then the town crier cried and all stood silent with starring wide eyes as he proclaimed the first morn’s dawn upon this new castle Ugungawmon.
But still in the happiness he lived Lord AuzZoo felt there must be something askew. He knew this feeling to be right because of how he felt around the belt. And it is known both far and wide that those gut feelings never lie.
He pondered hard but thus it seemed that all his thoughts were locked and bared. Till one day at the height of noon our good page thought that for cause of the heat he’d surely swoon. And thus it accrued to our good page that there was indeed no castle gate.
Therein on report when the lord AuzZoo asked how his trip had fared the page then lifted up his chin and dared, say “All was well my master dear but I inquire with greatest respect is your head quite clear?’’
AuzZoo did not ask or threaten but simply waved his hand for an explanation.
“I fear…” the good page started again, “that I have found something wrong with you perfect castle.”
“For, it is such in every way down to the last sliver plate, and there it is out and plain that we have no castle gate.”
Lord AuzZoo had not interrupted he had let the page go on unheeded. But, when the page looked up a ghastly sight did meet his eyes for he thought his master might be in paradise.
For Lord AuzZoo had gone a hideous white and all his clothes did seem too tight, no breath he took just looked, and looked. This sight did so upset and grieve the page he wept and called for help of any age.
But, none did come till twas too late, now the page was drowned in grief and still there was no castle gate. The rest of his youth our good page spent in the service of the king till he himself could become a knight. And when he did for was fate he would no colors for a love he wore instead the glove of the lady determination he kissed so that there was only one burning desire in his breast and one thought that guided his lance and won his lot.
Thus, he returned to the home of his youth, the perfect castle Ugungawmon that he had bought and renewed.
Timber from the strongest trees and iron with the best of wrought was hither brought. Then for many years and everyday you’d see go by that way a small and vigorous party of the most skilled workers in that day.
One fine twilight our good knighted page with tears upon his cheeks did gaze upon his life time work. Better than any before, stronger than the strongest oak door, and bigger than the castle front its self-there she stood magnificent and unmovable.
Today, if a traveler will pause upon his weary way he may look to the east and see the glistening castles of Ugungawmon which stands before the open sea and the wind will blow but never shake the strong proud planks of the castle gate.
Long poem by
Loch David Crane | Details |
The Mojo Trick
Loch David Crane
Sweat-sticky and hot! The P. I. is not
a comfortable place to be;
but sit here and perspire (as though by the fire)
and I'll tell a tale to thee.
I was coming alive in a Philippine dive
after Mojo and San Miguels;
the raging fire in my stomach went higher
but my sea legs rode out the swells.
I began with a pitcher of Mojo that hit
a spot in my appetite;
and glass after glass I drank till the last
and soon was feeling just right.
Then a hostess sat down in a low-cut gown
and asked "I sit with you tonight?"
And I nodded OK in a nonchalant way
so she seated herself on my right.
Now the hostesses here are all drink San Miguel beer
And the same is served all around;
but it don't show much class to charge five times' a glass
when serving's the same size per round.
So you pay a dear price to drink beer over ice
which is how it is served in P.I.;
if you buy a girl beer when she says "I work here,"
then she knows you're a Big Spender guy.
So I looked at this girl and my mind began to whirl
and the Mojo played a trick.
Her face was so funny – a nose like a bunny –
I wouldn't let her flick my Bic!
I won’t call her ugly, but with that funny mug she'd
make customers run and hide;
you could send that girl in to a crowded room; then
watch as horrified man stepped outside.
So as I drank my beer with a grin ear to ear
I said "My name is Billy, I think."
She was hardly demure; she said "My name is La Tour.
I love you no lie. Buy me drink."
Well I should have said "no," and let the chick go
but I wasn't alone in the place;
and the thought of all night with this dog was a fright
though her body was nice – but that face!
I thought "just one more brew,” cause I'd only had two,
and I said that I'd buy her a drink.
Then she gave me a grin with her toothless brown chin
and my self image started to sink.
But because I was shy (I'm just that sort of guy)
I just couldn't tell her to leave;
so I stared at the band and I drummed with my hand
and I brushed off the lint from my sleeve.
Well the music was fine; but the bar girl's next line
was to say "Are you married, young man?"
And I saw my way out and lied with a pout –
told her I had a wife in Japan.
So she finished her beer, and was soon gone from here,
and I ordered two beers to celebrate;
I was lucky, I thought, not to get caught
between her and a magistrate.
For the Philippine girls wear long dresses and curls
and use perfume and makeup for baits;
for to marry a guy, seaman or G.I.,
means a free trip back to the States.
Then a man from the crew asked me "What's wrong with you?
Why did you let that girl go?"
And I told him her face was scare spots off an ace
but he looked back at me and said "No."
I called for "beer 12" and started to delve
into my pocket for money;
my friend said "I'll buy," and his cash didn't lie,
and "Mind if I sit with your honey?"
I said "you can do just what you want to do,"
and I said that I couldn’t look at her;
but he thought she was cute, had a nice bod to boot,
so I nodded to go ahead after.
But beer thirteen made my vision grow keen,
and I saw what a prize I had missed;
"I have drunk too much brew! She was beautiful, too."
as I saw him voluptuously kissed.
I thought "How could this be? She said she loved me! "
My hand shook; my ice cubes went clink.
I heard her say to him "My name is Tuptim.
I love you no lie. By me drink."
So I smiled. I was glad; I was no longer mad
'cause the Mojo had clouded my eyes;
I realized then she was after my friend,
and I hoped he was quick with his lies.
So it's "sailor beware!" In Olongopo there;
where the girls fish for guys in the bars;
and though I often roam, I always come home,
– single! Thanking my lucky stars.
– By the Phantom of the O2 level
(O1 and O2 are Officer’s and Civilians’ quarters on the USS Kitty Hawk; I taught English aboard several ships at sea, in the Program Afloat for College Education.)
Long poem by
Vic Pister | Details |
NEWS Item AP: TOGO
LOME – In an effort to topple a government set up to end a 24 year dictatorship rebellious army troops seized the state broadcasting station yesterday, then left the building but returned several hours later and recaptured it. Up to six people died in the clashes. The rebels forced a broadcaster to report demands that the prime minister Joseph Koffigoh resign and dissolve the high council set up to oversee the transition from military rule to democracy.
Revolution in Togo
I was lying on my lawn chair on a sunny summer day
With a dozen pack of Heineken and there I planned to stay
My wife came screaming from the house, most upset I must say
She knew there was trouble brewing, that I’d have to go away
In her hand she had the newspaper, waved it wildly in my face
I looked quickly at the headline and my heart began to race
What, I cried, a revolution? That could not be the case!
A revolution out in Togo? But we all came from that place!
“That’s impossible” I shouted, it is such a peaceful place
A revolution out in Togo? What a terrible disgrace!
I wondered what was brewing, what the problem there could be
My imagination then took over and the rest is history
I could see the picture clearly, I could see it all come down
It was all about the money, and the purse strings of the town
John Mulroy’d been in opposition for two terms maybe three
He was sick of watching the corruption and all the bribery
The foreigners came from Makaroff and San Clara and took hold
Taking all the jobs and contracts, lined their pockets with our gold
Johns support from Runnymede and Kamsack were stuck outside
Getting menial jobs and thinking they’d been taken for a ride
Rollie Hamel was Johns inside man, he was working for the town
Telling John what was going on and what was coming down
John was now determined to stop the debauchery
And raise himself an army to set the people free
He got the Nabe boys and the Burbacks and a couple of their friends
To mount an armed insurrection and bring this to an end
They quickly took the broadcast station in the back of Richies’ store
Within two hours the regular army came crashing through the door
What a standoff as they stared each other down with dirty looks
Talking about the law and the dubious entries in the village books
It was turning ugly for no one was backing down
But Richie’s store was also the only liquor store in town
In the meantime I had panicked with a sense of responsibility
For there are times when a man must fight to protect his dignity
I sold my house and all my toys to buy supplies and guns
To try and save the homeland from the invading Huns
I arrived in Togo just in time to get to Richies’ store
And found a bunch of bodies lying passed out on the floor
What happened? I cried, with dread to anyone that could hear
John Mulroy said, with groggy head, t’was the best party of the year
“We came down last night to have a beer and watch the hockey game
Drank a too much and passed out on the floor here, what a shame
We drank up all the whiskey, the whole supply in town
Then we finished off the moonshine as the third period wound down”
I said “What happened to the revolution going on here at home?”
He looked at my newspaper article and said “No, that says in Lome”
Lome I said, confused now, where the hell is Lome?
He said that’s in a place called Togo, I said well…. that is my home…..?
He said “No you idiot, that’s not here, it’s an African country
Everybody’s heard about it”, I thought “Yeah, everyone but me”
I said “Damn it, I’ve got loads of equipment, what can I do with it?”
He said “Sell it I guess, to tell the truth I don’t really give a shit”
So, I have two dozen crossbows, two hundred arrows and 3 Willis jeeps
I came fully prepared to fight the war, prepared to play for keeps
I have enough stores and weapons so any revolution I can dowse
I’m trying hard to sell it now so I can buy a house
Long poem by
Brian Johnston | Details |
(A Rave By A Poet)
Remember when you were a child?
Adults seemed then to be in control,
Almost like Gods, with special powers
That almost always knew
When you'd been up to mischief.
‘Playing with matches again Brian? '
What a childish view of things! Right?
And my punishment, how perfect that was!
‘After you've finished lighting two boxes
Of wooden matches, one at a time,
You can go to bed, without your supper! '
Probably the best punishment I ever got.
I really couldn't believe my luck
But I was more careful after that!
Of course mom's punishment didn't stop me.
Do you remember match guns,
Made from 2 wooden clothespins?
Oh, my God, what fun those were!
A little carving with a kitchen knife
Reversing the spring on the outside,
And some electrical tape was all it took.
Really made me appreciate man's genius!
Hiding behind parked cars (a block from home)
And shooting flaming missiles in the dark
At unsuspecting passing cars
And then running like Hell
On a preplanned escape route
When the innocent victim screeched to a stop
Jumped out of his car to yell at long gone villains.
Honestly, the 4th of July couldn't beat this!
Carrying out the garbage every night
Now that was a chore made in Hell,
Though better than the night pots
Our forebears had to deal with.
Wow, thank God for outhouses
But especially modern sewage systems!
At my house the trek to the garbage can
Was a long hike, especially for a kid.
We burned trash in those days,
There was no garbage pick up,
And the can was hidden in an alley way,
You had to go through a gate to get to it.
A big elm tree (that I loved in the daylight)
Blocked even starlight and made the yard dark.
I always was scared so I'd whistle to and back
Praying that if a monster got me Mom would know,
My whistle wouldn't stop without reason,
That there was a chance at least of rescue,
I think I was too scared though to test it out,
I needed to believe that Mom would hear.
How insensitive the child is to adult problems.
But really how's a child to know
The tyranny of feeding a family,
Of trying to secure an unknown future,
Without a crystal ball, only prayer really!
(Though with luck, maybe some common sense.)
Parents, really are children grown large,
Carrying their demons in a sack on their backs,
Taking them out on occasion to play with,
Hoping against hope that that's all there is,
That some special Hell doesn't await them!
Meteor showers that exterminate all life,
Dust bowls, global warming, ice ages,
A new Yellowstone blast that buries our cropland,
A Canary Island tsunami that wipes out the East Coast
(A 2,000 foot wall of water now 50 years overdue) ,
Magnetic storms that destroy all electronic progress
That we've made in just the last fifty years?
The universe may seem big
But there's really no place to hide.
The public school system, what a joke!
More like twelve years of day care.
A football coach teaching physics,
Latin the only language choice?
(Sure opened up the world for me!)
The most important job of our lives
Getting married? Sex? Raising a family?
Well our parents were screwed too,
‘Pass it on, no pass backs, joke's on you kid! '
You want to fix the problems of the world?
Make politicians work for no salary or benefits
Let them shower us with their love of country,
Eat cafeteria food every day (no wine) ,
Random armed guards monitor their calls.
Let's make teaching the highest paid profession
With teacher's tenure voted on each year
(Each kid two votes, parents one vote for both parents,
Put power where it belongs baby.)
Well this may not in fact be a poem,
But it has sure been cathartic.
Hope my venting at least struck some chords
And was not a complete waste of your time.
May God save us every one!
Long poem by
Vic Pister | Details |
It was in the mists of morning, beneath the rising morning sun,
We had come to conquer Ft. Langley, It was me and Al and John.
We had all teed off quite nicely, on number one I scored a seven,
But Al warned me that one was easy when compared to number eleven,
His eyes clouded as he spoke of it, I thought, God, it must be tough.
If its difficult for Allan, for me it'll be really rough
Now Allan is a golfer, par excellence, among the best
But we 'could see that number eleven, had put him to the test.
Well we carried on like troopers, we thrashed 3 & 4 & 5.
In the cool Ft. Langley morning, it felt great to be alive.
We left six's fairway smoking, seven posed a little hitch
John and Al were on the fairway, while I had smoked one into the ditch
Al was getting on a roll now blasting off just like a gun
But John was coming on like blazes nipping hard on Allan's buns,
We drove off on number 9 hole blasting off out into space
In the distance stood eleven ….we saw tension on Allan's face.
For eleven is a nightmare reserved only for the deft
For pressing hard against you is the river on' the left,
It appeared that Al had been there for his trembling would not cease
As we walked toward the tee box Al dropped briefly to his knees
We could feel the tension mounting, by Allan's eyes we could clearly tell
That the three of us were standing at the gate of golfers hell.
John was first up to the tee box drove a beauty down the pike
I was next and drove off nicely, center line and slightly right.
Al approached like he was frozen by the fears of hooking left
But he mustered his composure till he seemed quite calm and deft.
Be careful Al, we cautioned for on the left beyond those oaks
You'll be straight into the river and that costs two penalty strokes
Al teed up and drove his ball off picked his head up for a look
It was far and straight and pretty then 'oh my God' it started to hook.
It disappeared beyond the treetops Allan's jaw dropped in a gasp
In the distance we were certain that we heard a little splash,
Now Allan is a scholar predisposed to being kind
But he muttered as we snickered something about kissing his behind.
Al said damn I'm shooting 3 now I said, "No, I think it's more."
John said counting two for penalty I think now you're shooting four
Al bent down to tee another, lined up carefully to the right
Then he leaned in to the sucker and pounded out with all his might
Once again it rose like lightning exploding out into the sky
But when Al looked up to see it he could not believe his eyes
It was hooking to the river and disappeared into the heaven
"Fore" cried Al in horror, John said, "No, I think it’s seven."
Al was losing his composure he was crumbling from the stress
But he knew he had to do it and overcome his sheer distress.
Once again he teed a ball up took his time to take his aim
Let her rip and hit a beauty but oh my God, it did the same.
"Fore" croaked Allan weakly, as I fumbled for my pen.
John said don't forget the penalty I think now you're shooting ten.
Al staggered to his golf bag, his knees weak and soft as butter
He fumbled with his golf clubs and finally he pulled out his putter.
It was only with much urging, he agreed to try it one more time
This time he hit a beauty straight down field on center line.
As we helped Al down the fairway walking off the eleventh tee
We thought we heard the devil laughing through the breezes in the trees.
We could see that Al was hurting we knew he'd never be the same
But don't believe him when he tells you, that he's given up the game.
He'll be golfing till he dies, we think he's real hooked on the sport
But Al, as a professional golfer you’re coming up a little short.
Long poem by
Maurice Rigoler | Details |
Ordinarily I don’t disclose too many quirks
about myself, my behavior, or what goes on in my head
when alone. I’ve always guarded my privacy.
Most people prefer not to be burdened with such
personal things; moreover, they are quick to judge. –
(I’ve always been suspicious of human nature;
it’s not very reliable.) I feel comfortable telling you,
assured it won’t go beyond you.
Of late I find myself talking at length to my dog.–
There, I’ve said it; now it’s out. Already I’m breathing easier.
At first it was just small talk – you know, doggie talk.
Hardly outside the repertoire of familiar words
every doting dog-owner uses.
Certainly nothing beyond his canine grasp
that would make him feel less than intelligent –
things one would expect between a dog and his owner,
that quickly gets a dog’s attention, brightens his eyes,
makes his tail wag, and perks up his ears, as at
food time, an unexpected knock at the door,
or a promised stroll.
And he knows when I’m distressed or even mildly annoyed
when watching television, which, incidentally,
he also does relaxed on my lap.
When I disagree with a politician’s remarks
and shout at the television, he looks up
puzzled, as if to say, “You’re right, that was
a dumb statement that politician just made,”
or something to that effect.
Or, if a particularly inane commercial makes me
laugh so hard that I spill beer on his back or my lap,
he joins in with a few soft barks – his clever way of laughing –
to let me know he shares my sense of humor.
Of course, there are moments (more and more it seems)
when I pour out my heart to him. How could I not?
He’s twelve years old now, and in human years
he’s almost my age, and, like me,
showing undisguised signs even a dog is heir to,
to quote a famous line.
And then there are days when, like me, he appears
particularly pensive, listless, stretched out on the sofa
staring blankly as in a trance.
A gentle, reassuring pat on the head brings him out of it,
his brown eyes turning upwards to me as if to say:
Don’t be concerned, it’s just a dog thing, I’ll be fine.
It’s hard to know what a dog thinks at moments
like that, and I don’t pretend to know. But it does
worry me and I do wonder: Does he, like me –
and every other human, ponder his end,
that state or condition no longer informed by the flesh?
Does he look back on his life, regretting this or that
course or decision, or call to mind some indiscreet
youthful action or behavior – who hasn’t? – that affected
another’s life, and which, after many years, still haunts him?
That’s when he needs consoling and I open up
like a father to a son. On my lap, I gently stroke the back
of his nape, and a soft voice I tell him that I understand –
to put him at ease from embarrassment. I tell him that I, too,
did foolish things when young, and, yes, they do surface
from time to time to prick my conscience and condemn me
with no small measure of shame and self-deprecation.
With his sad eyes he seems to say, What, you too?
That’s when he gives his tail an understanding wag – my
interpretation that he feels the two of us are not so different.
And then – so touching – he lifts his head
with those small brown eyes and licks my face,
and I become emotional, pressing him against
my beating heart in a strong hug, burying my face
into his fur trying not to release a torrent of tears –
lest my weakness create a lack of confidence in him
since, from the time I brought him home from a kennel,
he’s looked up to me as if he were my only son
and I the stronger, at least until now.
Long poem by
Stephen Curtis | Details |
Now here's a tale that needs to be told
Of three little pigs so very different
Their names were Ernest, Roger and Winky
These names by their parents were given
Now I could say these pigs were not so nice
At times they were rightly a pain in the ass
Their parents had given up all hope
Of taming those three terrible pigs
All Ernest wanted was to watch TV
All day and night cartoons he'd see
Should anything happen he'd scream and cry
And run berserk throughout the house
Now Roger was different from other two
He was dirty and messy and stank a treat
His nose was runny and boogers on clothes
And socks not parted from feet for years
Winky you'd think sounds rather nice
But of all of them he was the worst
His toys he'd throw all over the house
And toilet seat he'd firmly leave down
Now mother pig when nature called
Her bottom she did plant
A mighty scream, a yell so loud
'Yuck!! my bottom is now all sticky
Those dirty little pigs,' she yelled
'They piddled all over the seat again
This is so bad, I'm sick of it
Please we need to find an answer'
They pondered to, they pondered fro
You could almost hear them thinking
Hope was almost given up
When the answer suddenly struck them
Away from home they would move
Across the road to his mother
There the pigs would never look
To cross the street was not allowed them
On his way coming home
A trailer papa pig rented
To load all things from in house
Across the street to be moving
The beds, the lounge, all dining room
And even the TV was loaded
Not a thing was left behind
Except three cups, plates and spoons
Off they set across the road
A new life for them awaited
Left behind all sorrows and woes
Three little pigs now on their own
Home they came from school all bright
Ready for some mischief
When shock, horror, oh my gosh
They found the house quite empty
Ernest went to sit down
No lounge to rest his body
Worse things were yet to come
No cartoons and no TV to watch them
Winky walked round and round
No toys to be found here
How could he throw them round the house
If there were no toys to be found there
Roger didn't really care
His stink was always with him
The only thing that upset him
No toilet seat to pee on
Just then a mighty bang on the door
The pigs jumped and squealed with fright
'Who's there?' they cried so timidly
'Tis Wolfred your friendly salesman'
'Open the door and let me in
I'll show you wonders and excitement'
'Do you have a TV with cartoons on it?'
Yelled the pig called Ernest
'The things I have you'll surely like
So let me in you pigs so tasty'
'No! no,' they cried in unison
'Not by the hair on our chinny, chin, chin'
This made the saleswolf mighty mad
He raved, ranted and shouted
'You wait pigs till I get in
A fine dinner you'll be making'
He pounded and pounded on the door
So hard they could hear it cracking
Suddenly it broke right in
There was a wolf of immense proportions
Now Ernest being ever so dumb
Asked 'have you got a TV?'
Wolf picked him up, one mighty gulp
And Ernest was gone forever
Now Winky knew trouble was here
Was looking for some place for hiding
The wolf just laughed as he picked him up
And ate this tasty morsel
Roger was thinking mighty quick
He was too young to be dinner
A sock parted from his foot
One deft move, in wolf's mouth shoved it
The wolf coughed, chocked and spluttered
Both little pigs were spat out
One last gasp and twitch of limbs
The wolf had met his maker
There is a moral to this tale
Or so I've been told
To softly always walk in life
And a BIG stink to be carrying
Long poem by
Gerald Dillenbeck | Details |
Love wants nothing to do
with the everyday affairs of men.
Love's only intention
is to catch the lover!
God wants nothing to do
with the routine affairs of men,
God's only intention
is to catch the lover's attention!
I wonder if Freud's id transfigured as a sociopathic burning bush
because Freud was drawn toward our shared holy ground of insanity,
internal competition for awareness and consciousness and belonging,
uncovering psychotherapeutic models for highly stressed cognitive dissonance.
Had he deep learned himself into Positive Psychology Mentors,
Freud might have grown a more positive consciousness
of self-id-entity as primally
and economically informed by regenerative natural Supereco
optimizing ego-systemic development compost,
glimpsing paradigmatic Permacultural Design and Implementation,
regenerative standards for achieving and maintaining Climax Community
intimately and internally Yin-landscaped,
within coincidental external Yang landscaped awareness
of Other's natural systemic ReGenesis.
Natural systems not coincidentally balancing
both interior-Yin and exterior-Yang
fail to thrive,
become at-risk of de-systemizing,
becoming Non-Polynomial former spacetime information;
a no-longer-incarnating Black Hole Codexed memory loss.
Underlying prime organic RNA/DNA fractal tipping-point balancing potentiality,
Bohm's Implicate Order?
lies prime thermodynamic radiant circumferential harmony
polar-waving gravitational atomic protons,
over binomial QBit TrimTabbing neutrons,
over 4-fold dipolar explicating electrons,
ergodically and ionically synergizing away
back through linear time.
We weave agreement:
This Golden Ratioed Earth and all inhabitants
grow stressed in critical climatic transitions,
sprouting both degenerative dissonance
and confluent regenerative trends of
Positive Deviant alternative karmic incarnations.
Our optimal diapraxis,
to notice these currently emerging ecological economic paradigms,
subcultures of cooperative economics and vocations and communities,
and cooperative health care and political discernment for inclusive well-being,
Green Occupier Gaia University Boddhisatvas,
and Permacultural Designers,
Food Justice is Economic Justice is Climate Justice is Ecotherapeutic Justice is Earth Justice.
These prune confusion toward prudent understanding of shared core eco-values,
rich with therapeutic seed potential
to plant investment more strategically,
within our more persistently dissonant negative cultural sociopathology,
divesting from long-term monopolizing and monocultural high risks,
exchanging positively valued Life Id-Entity
to invest in loss of population through monocultural anthropocentrism,
achieving nihilistic trend returns
through lack of conscience, conscientific deductive rationality
and Super-eco balancing awareness.
As I more permaculturally comprehend natural system development,
it's not so much that God is dead,
and it's not so much that God has an ego-optimizing sense of humor,
it's more like God is our Supereco polycultural awareness
of dipolar balancing humors trading ego-eco role plays,
emergent coincidental evolution,
actively peaceful revolutions in cooperative enculturing id-entity comprehension,
regenerative ecotherapeutic song and dance.
God grows empathetic love
to laugh within our dark places
to light their-our eco-identity faces.
To laugh with ourselves and others is divine.
To laugh at others, and sometimes self, is diva.