Best Barky Poems
At the risk of being called “rabble-rouser,”
I think poor old Barky Von Schnauzer,
should practice his aim,
his master to maim,
in the back end of his very best trousers!
My hero I would call dear old Barky,
if he could just muster the stealth of a sharky,
and covertly steer,
right straight for the rear,
of that great big old bag of malarkey!
I think I should send Barky a big four leaf clover,
so his bad luck would finally be over,
he could retire his fame,
move away, change his name,
to Bowser maybe Lassie or Rover!
Obviously I have been driven completely insane by that stupid t.v. commercial!
Happy St. Paddy's Day!
Homey eyes of peasant stew
A cozy-colored mossy mew
Stony cottage, snowcheeks bleu
The forest fins for frosted fruits.
The warmest thought speaks crumbly bread
A partridge purr puffs through my head
That grants the grunkest grue a ‘Get!’
To packrat out the paquerettes.
Don’t see the speech I say with sneer
As something to be had with beer
Don’t bucker bricks of buttered bleers
And sift strunk talk through quandarous weirs.
The clothes and shelter of your mouth
Has cleaned my frame as cold as south
For queeks are quay, oh when you quoth
And yokel twirls are yaws of youth.
Clearings clean, as cream is crisp
With cluffs of clementine in risp
The grout of your cuts, freed of lisps
Your watch turns wandering whelks to whisps.
Sweet as sneezes from a lamb
As cozy as a Christmas ham
To jaunt with you with bread and jam
Is all I am, is all I am…
A blanket for the rawest nerve
A babe beyond the laws of earth
A smile sways the swooping surf
And gifts sweet goods of grinning girths.
Your hair? An electric guitar!
With sprinkles of suburban stars
Might smell of smelting lemon bars
Each strand a sacred seminar.
That hark the realms of Everfar!
And halt the helms of Neverare!
That licks the lich that leavens scars!
Screams “Non septimo, sempris quar!”
I believe you’re Good, I mean you’re blessed
With holy elks that guard your breast
Whose rumps remain on royal chests
And watch for wendigos out West.
A soul of Greyhound bus views darkly
Hushed in cornfields crumps so starkly
With windmills waning wicks so barky
Olive Garden oligarchies.
Clearings clean, as cream is crisp
With cluffs of clementine in risp
The grout of your cuts, freed of lisps
Your watch turns wandering whelks to whisps.
Sweet as sneezes from a lamb
As cozy as a Christmas ham
To jaunt and jibe with you with bread and jam,
Is all I am, is all I am.
By Sashi. Prabhu(zeauoxian) 1/3/2012.
Often, I glimpse from my roof top garden, leftward,
From the sedentary swing but I know the descent of woodpeckers have soared.
From the vertical column sans a crown of leaves of rotted dead wood,
Once, which was in its own right a magnificent coconut tree where it stood.
Freshness, splendor, Vitality and flexibility of a live tree all depleted and gone,
T’was a pertinent choice for the woodpecker mates to build a home foregone.
Abundantly birdies flock, Pigeons, robins, mynahs, hornbills, cranes and parrots,
On the evergreen nearby tamarind tree, but the woodpeckers my eyes ferrets.
From that eventful day my eyes they set upon,
Their wood pecking bills would on the bark sculpt and impinge on.
A homely hole to drill,
Their head moving rhythmically and looks like a cap with red frill.
Twenty five days back they first arrived I lucidly recollect,
Ten days, a pair of hatched altricial chicks, mates from adversaries’ have to protect.
One morn had me glancing to the oval cavital hole on the bark,
And feasted my eyes on feeding chicks being readied, their lives to embark.
Blissful and content , I recollect now I sat a bit longer to observe and discern,
Glorious hues, auger bill, cap with red frills, of the peckers as they take their unambiguous turns.
To zip across like beige, buttery yellow plumaged darts across the lush foliage all green,
Within, watchable bounds to fetch, insects, worms and saps as nutriment routine.
The chicks I saw they peek out of the shielded barky holes with awe,
Strength it seems to me have filled their wings bill and sharpened claw.
Now I wonder if I can listen to the joyous feminine “chrr”
and the shrill masculine “kwirr”.
As the young chick in the hole frolicking, giving it a try to fly,
Away in the wide world after saying a good bye onto the sky very high…………
Now the mates without emotions, kerfuffle and ado,
To each other, their home and their prying neighbour me have bid “adieu”.
Often, I glimpse from my roof top garden, leftward,
From the sedentary swing but I know the descent of woodpeckers have soared
The night air,
waters (somewhere) burble.
A deer in the dark
hoof-crunches
yesterday’s now 12 degree snow.
A mouse moves. In sudden urgency.
Unseen all.
Unnoticed, none.
The moon is lost in wane,
in fog, in the coldest hour.
I balance a bundle of barky splits
in the fold of my arm. Indentations.
Scratches.
The stove awaits. The kettle, too.
Nearly midnight.
Poetry soon. Beneath the maple
silhouetted only by my memory of
the corner of Sky shared in
differing times by first the sun
and then the moon or first the moon
and then the sun.
Taiwanese whole-leaf, tightly bound.
Soon to unfurl in the new heat.
Some rinds to plop in, too.
The necessaries will wait,
tonight.
The tea, the fire, the words
won’t wait,
tonight.
They are the Actual Necessary.
I come to them in dark.
To drink of their light.
They call to me in dark.
To offer me their light.
I SAW THE TREES LAUGHING
I saw the trees laughing at the wind
as it passed by.
They were whispering jokes to each other,
I’m almost sure.
Their arms started flailing as the jolly rumble
began in the trunk;
A timber tickle sent through a barky throat
that shivered
Leading to the double-over, barrel-rolling
laughter.
Tell me you’ve heard the creaking bellow
in your ears, too,
And these are not more wild thoughts leaking
from mad places.
Tell me you’ve seen their frozen faces,
the many races,
The Standing People of older nations
alive but in peril.
Laugh now, before the chainsaw banter
and ‘Timber!’ throes.
Makes me wonder how they can laugh
at all.
Golden blood, strong and pure,
Seeping from fellow wooden hearts.
Emerald blades, tall and humble,
Beaded with silvery tears.
Weathered scarlet hoods, sorrowed and low,
Concealing unseen beauty.
For centuries it stands,
Its arms stretched wide,
For it cannot run, nor can it hide.
It sits to watch the seasons pass,
To witness life and death, alas.
Mother to the forest,
And all that roams.
Internal emotion blazes from the soul,
Though from within it is contained,
Behind those barky ribs.
Pity and shame,
Can only be felt,
For this silenced sage.
Seemingly immortality is possessed,
Though even this almighty will cease.
Young mango plant
Young growing seed
Push from the tumbling mess of weed
And gain the sunshine, gain the air-
Gain the microbe -but beware!
There lurks one special microbe here
Awaiting cuts and scrapes
He enters wounds and then insists
The host cell replicate
By conjugating with a plant,
He crosses all the lines
And forces all your cells to make
The food of his design
You’ll replicate incessantly
And form a barky ball
Abnormal growth for all to see
From one microbe so small!
Your kingdom is his kingdom,
Though he never was invited
Genome contaminated
When he thinks he is a virus
Beware this little microbe
Who seems to’ve lost his senses
Keep growing, but when cut
Prepare to booster your defenses