He sits at his stump-desk
as though the forest appointed him
keeper of its minor truths~
wire-rimmed glasses catching the low light,
plaid bowtie knotted with intention.
The wooden laptop waits,
open to whatever thought
the morning has not yet named.
Coffee steams beside the inkwell,
papers scattered like fallen leaves
he has already begun to translate.
Even the landline, absurd in its presence,
seems to understand
that calls here are rare
but always important.
The uncracked pecans rest beside his papers,
not symbolic, simply present~
a reminder that some work
starts with the smallest,
most ordinary labor of the hands.
He studies the papers strewn around him,
each marked with the faint trace
of earlier attempts at order.
For a moment he simply reads,
letting the work tell him
where to begin.
Held the dance floor, Hanson Biggily,
Smartly dressed, but bowtie wiggily;
Till, well, his belle,
Lest humor swell,
She removed that bowtie giggily.
I have a bow tie stereotype
thinking buffoon, bozo, clown, no hype
more common back in 1962
makes no difference if it’s red or blue
when I see a bow tie, I immediately think clown
the fact I stereotype at all, makes me frown
One Couple Of Days the sky sprangled tiddle-flop and haze,
We rode a unicorn in socks past singing maize,
We tickled the moon with a rubbery spoon,
Then juggled spaghetti with a jazz kazoo tune.
One Bright Day we saw a frog in a bowtie dance,
It offered us jellybeans from a cloud’s sideways glance,
We soared on toast wings through marmalade trees,
Then chased a giggle-dragon on quivering knees.
I have to crane my neck
the small coterie is pressed together.
The svelte tailored nose-whisperer
of a docent remarks:
“You have to see the hidden in the hidden.”
He is all neck and bowtie,
one eyebrow is raised
expecting us to know what he means.
Some nod, some wipe their eyeglasses
hoping to see the unseen more clearly.
I look up at the ceiling, it's a nice ceiling.
I am only here in this art gallery
because of the rain.
I try to take the painting in
from a larger point of view,
but there are backs
and back-packs,
there are slowly dripping rain hats.
Our guide is droning on,
going to a place
where a disjoined flower in a vase,
can be a post-revolutionary revelation
of something or other,
and obviously much, much more
than a few abstract blobs of color.
Tomorrow, I promise myself
to carry an umbrella.
THE MOUSE WITH THE HAT
But wait, is that a mouse with a hat
Tilted sideways in a most casual way
I guess it must be going somewhere
Scuttling along with a purposeful air
Perhaps to meet another once there
At some fancy formal dress up affair
And it may even be that special day
But a bowtie, so few expecting that
Does he notice? I scribble,
gripping my writer’s notebook
with the steady grip that I can only
manage when on vacation.
I write about the way he stands,
face to the incoming sea breeze,
shoes to the salt water,
not stepping back or caring.
Nor should I care: I write about
the fact that I do not care.
I write about the plaid flannel shirt,
the bowtie shaped like a fish,
the shoes so soaked now they might as well
be fish too.
I am writing out of scientific interest;
I am the objective observer,
the being who puts no feelings to things,
no personal engagements.
Adding to my observations, I notice
gleaming rings, high hair, a look
of contentment, or perhaps concentration.
I am concentrating as well;
science requires it–
until that glassy screen separating the observer
from the observed is
broken
by a left turn of the high-haired head
whose eyes meet my own.
Fish and chips and a pint of dark brew.
Malt vinegar and lashings of salt.
A fish dinner served up
by a truck in a newspaper cone.
That was then, that was before
taste buds got hard boiled,
before the bowtie culture wars.
Pickled onions are now too small
they should have stayed big and brown
something saucy and sour to munch on
while walking around London town.
Peas pudding, jellied eels,
pork pie to tempt our eyes.
Mostly all gone
or not the same.
Shame,
for now we are cosmopolitan
even here in the Midwest
we are upscale in the fine dining fare.
French, Italian, Bolivian, Mongolian,
Mexican and Estonian, it's all good
or can be, but
fish and chips wrapped in newspaper,
nothing better!
Comical Cat with his embellished top hat
Sat at the table with an ugly vampire bat
Along came a bee, all fluffy and phat.
We will be joined shortly by my friend, Freddy Gnat.
Do you like my burgundy ribbon? Asked the cat
Showing off his silky flamboyance, so shiny and fat.
Not as much as your bowtie, said Freddy the gnat.
Eyeing a small inviting hole in Comical Cat’s gorgeous hat.
Laura was couer-shaped,
the way her knees blossomed out,
magenta, genie-like sheer. She blew
kisses like cultivated fleurs de jour.
Her drooping necklace, a frolic of felicity.
Laura’s bodysuit pink — a glittering
off the shoulder bonbon,
holding perfect ample
and youthful bosoms.
Sam was blond,
a sunny-yellow brooding type. As Laura
faced West, He faced East. She leaned
against his ebony suit.
He wore a bowtie, not one that spins;
a scholarly erudite.
His cerulean shirt bleeds
deep in his heart, blue skies
infused into his profound eyes.
The third party, a french painter —
a poet, a woman’s woman.
Her husband gathered the flotsam —
driftwood to hang
on my wall. Romantic
whimsy gets me in the mood.
8/10/2020
Froggy with his eyes wide open
Met Ms Froggy full of hopin’
Had a basket on his arm
On his way to Ms Froggy’s farm
A baloney sandwich made with care
A chicken leg that they could share
Strawberries and a watermelon
Milk – about a good half gallon
A lunch to share with that young Ms
And maybe then to share a kiss
A pink bowtie this frog was sportin’
Back when Froggy went acourtin’
pink flower, pink flower.
one for me, one for he.
we dare not look into our togetherness eyes,
a bit shy.
my pink perkiness in a heart shape -
my billowing knees.
pink flower, pink flower.
one for me, one for he.
the yellow power of his hair.
my brunette cascade over naked shoulders.
will he dare to turn my way?
he loves me? he loves me not?
pink flower, pink flower.
one for me, one for he.
his blackened bowtie and electric blue shirt.
a johnny cash suit, an orange and tan boot.
does he know i'm here?
so afraid to look.
pink flower, pink flower.
one for me, one for he.
a sparkling silver and magenta torso.
my back gently leans, barely touching.
he looks that way, i look the other.
will our eyes meet?
pink flower, pink flower.
one for me, one for he.
the artist brush tickles
but we hold our stance.
sparks petrified on marine wood -
the circumference of our first dalliance.
3/11/2019
Black Powder
---------------------------------------
He waits offstage, his posture tense,
his gaze locked on the audience -
his first in years.
He blots the sweat that wets his face,
then walks onstage and gets in place,
amidst their cheers.
In bowtie, vest and dinner tails,
he's dressed down to his fingernails.
His face is flushed.
His eyes close tight, his breathing slows,
beyond his sight, the tension grows
The house is hushed...
If he can pull from knurled old trunks,
the Magic that their world debunks,
he can pretend
(at least until the curtain rolls)
it's still his show, and he controls
it in the end.
Illusion casts no lasting spell.
No, in conclusion, he's not well,
so... shifting gears,
he lifts his hat to loud applause,
black powder sifting out like gauze...
and disappears... *
---------------------------------------
Hoo-ya, hoo-ya, ziss boom bah!
My doctor has given me a thumbs up
I'm good to go for another year
Let's see, how should I celebrate?
Perhaps I'll try going a day without my walker
Just kidding! I don't use a walker
Hoo-ya, hoo-ya, ziss boom bah!
Maybe I'll try dressing myself today
Last time I tried that, I wore checks with stripes
A major “faux pas” in the fashion world
I was laughed out of the local coffee shop
Perhaps coz I was wearing shorts, a bowtie
And NOTHING else!!!
Hoo-ya, hoo-ya, ziss boom bah!
My adult diapers are starting to give me a rash
Methinks it's those damn No-Name brands
People kept asking, “Why are you walking that way?”
Told them it's an old war injury!
Hoo-ya, hoo-ya, ziss boom bah!
Gonna close now, wife Cathie made me some porridge
Told me it's good for my toidy habits
She usually knows what's best for me so I listen
The doc just gave me a thumbs up
So I'll keep doing what Cathie says!
Hoo-ya, hoo-ya, ziss boom bah!
My doctor has given me a thumbs up
I'm good to go for another year
Let's see, how should I celebrate?
Perhaps I'll try going a day without my walker
Just kidding! I don't use a walker
Hoo-ya, hoo-ya, ziss boom bah!
Maybe I'll try dressing myself today
Last time I tried that, I wore checks with stripes
A major “faut pas” in the fashion world
I was laughed out of the local coffee shop
Perhaps coz I was wearing shorts, a bowtie
And NOTHING else!!!
Hoo-ya, hoo-ya, ziss boom bah!
My adult diapers are starting to give me a rash
Methinks it's those damn No-Name brands
People kept asking, “Why are you walking that way?”
Told them it's an old war injury!
Hoo-ya, hoo-ya, ziss boom bah!
Gonna close now. Wife Cathie made me some porridge
Told me it's good for my toidy habits
She usually knows what's best for me so I listen
The doc just gave me a thumbs up
So I'll keep doing what Cathie says!
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