It was 2:59
as I turned the corner
to get something to eat,
on an average day,
a familiar street,
when the sun hit my eyes...
Momentarily blind,
I ordered my feet to stop.
But instead,
they carried me down the road
reading the cobble stone
through soles thicker than skin.
Suddenly, like an owl,
I picked up distant sounds,
of tuned acoustic guitar
and quietly spoken words.
Just then,
rang out the cathedral bells.
Hearing gone, sight returned.
I looked at the time.
Still 2:59
In a window with a bellrope ready sits old blind Captain Cat
calling in the day, with his old yarns wagging on the door mat.
He hears the postman's rat-a-tat, kids' feet skipping on cobble stones,
all the secrets leaking out windows, in furtive dulcet tones.
Dylan Thomas's beloved character 'Captain Cat', in the radio play for voices 'Under Milk Wood'.
Day before Thanksgiving
Working
From the frame of my upstairs window
Trees stripped bare
The sky and grass blue and white as a glacier
A big antlered buck
Chases a doe on the gold cobble of my front yard
The furnace
Vent
Materializes in the morning drapes
A bat billows to my window
Clings to the screen
Clicks and screams from his raisin mouth
To this mosquito net
Its wings spread like a charcoal web
Eyes popping for a sip of coffee
A sizzle of bacon
Please
Could you cover up the sun and bring back summer?
I can see in my mind
Its mind
As I sit here
Clinging to my own screen
Screaming
Twiddling my thumbs
Typing an e mail
To the freezing wind.
My name is Sergeant Humpty Dumpty Crandall.
You'll see, if, your pardon, I may beg,
that I'm shaped a little like an egg
if you hold me to a candle.
I don't consider myself stern or strict,
but there's one thing you must get straight
to avoid the thing that I most hate,
or you'll be severely pummeled and kicked.
Take care not to place me on a wall,
for should I start to wobble,
there'll be a mess a horse can't cobble
(or the king's men). At ease, boys. That is all.
Evangelicals of the Golden Coin
hypocrites in every way
every hour of every day
the slaughter and starvation of children
as long as its not their own
they rise up and sing, the others
they deserve it!
colonizers are always right
the oppressed and poor
simply cobble stones to walk over
singing Christmas carols with eggnog
while bombs fall on little children
I want to throw up, sorry
I am disgusted
as would be little Tiny Tim
Wordsmith
When writing, shall we dare call it poetry
I, because of my lack of academic learning
cannot seek inspiration in the classics,
except for the god Sisyphus, who
I find it funny, realising I am laughing at myself.
The lacuna between me and poetry, I have
tried to fill with words, one day I can build
a park for lovers,
At my relatively old age, which is no more
Then, a blinking star, I have read hundreds
of books that have been stuck in my mind.
A few writers' names are remembered,
most of the American writers, sprinkled
by Norwegian and Russian authors.
When writing, I draw from this well
What I need to cobble together the wisdom
which is everlasting, because I'm bringing
forward what has been said before me.
LIVING IN MUNICH GERMANY THOMAS MANN TOWN THE TOWN OF POETRY MARIENPLATZ TOY TOWN CHRISTMAS TOWN THE PLACE WHERE HUMMELS COME ALIVE WOODEN CLOG SOUNDS IN A DISTANCE UPON THE COBBLE STONE BRATS AND LARGE PRETZEL HANG BEER STEINS ARE SLID ACROSS LONG TABLES INSIDE ROWS OF TENTS OCKTOBER IS NEAR THE OKTOBER FEST APPROACHES THE CLOCK MAKERS GATHERED CARRYING NUTS BOLTS GOLD SPRINGS FOR THE COO COO CLOCKS THE WOOD CUTTERS SAWING TINY MILK MAIDS DANCES MATRYOSHKA DOLLS STACKED NEATLY WIENERWALD SNITZEL AND POMFRITTS GERMAN BLUEBERRY SKONES BECKON MY THOUGHTS CRAVING NAUGHT CALMLY I SLIP INTO MY LEADER HOSEN SIPPING A CRISP REISLING READING JOHN KEATS COMFORTED BY TIME THAT GOES BY
7 lines /7syllables
______________
she was touched by a phantom
becoming a phantom too
both boarded coral carriage
wheels grate cobble streets in mist
opera seats were waiting
then to swirl on dancing floor
she relished escaping hours
Angry Conifers
Trees in the avenue
have a weird sense
of humor
Long roots cracking up
finely laid cobble stone
pavement
Slightly bent easterly
give pain in the lower
trunk
The younger trees
bleat about older trees
taking space
Older trees show
distain of needy trees
no dignity
Trees are silent
lack imparting skills
shake leaves
With limp thunder
came silent still-born rain.
Sky broke,
clouds chose
to play apart today,
as the gray clad stand-ins
in blue duffel coats,
and snow white hoods
slunk away, to fade away,
like peals of bells
fade when echoes fail
to surface on
soft absorbent
compliant surfaces.
Black clouds like the thunder
missed the role-call.
Remained waiting
in the bleachers
for someone
to applaud,
to gee-up
the thunder with claps,
to raise a curtain call.
To giddy-up, giddy-up
the mighty steed Thunder,
to do its
clippety-clop, clippety-clop thing.
to do its
rumble, rattle and roll,
with steely shod and shiny
hooves on cobble stones.
Sometimes my dear steed Thunder,
led along on its reins and bridle,
enters the storm unmounted,
hushed to neigh forlorn,
in gray clouds,
in sky-blue skies.
Mere words are placed upon the page
Where ink conjoins with pulp.
And higher themes than tongues can wage
Are sought in parsing prose.
Language is the mind’s attempt
To cobble thoughts from words,
Yet seeks discourse on things exempt
From rationale’s employ.
‘Tis not a boast upon the breast,
That burden to un-bear,
But hope that scripting at its best
Does speak without a breath.
.
'tiz written
all 'bout hern
face
from
red hair
unto her fair
tall
built
'pon the cobble stones
uv
cognac
hern
celtic
glisters
Larva of meal worms are tasty Corn Cob Cobble said.
A meely worm collector who is always well-fed.
I love them he told me, want to give one a try?
They were squirming and ugly, I gave them the eye.
I had one before, I lied through my mouth and my nose.
These worms gave me the creeps from my head down to my toes.
Suit yourself Corn Cob Cobbie said, popping two in his mouth.
I watch his esophagus twitch and wiggle as they both headed south.
do not look for me
among gravestones by black attire
once chiselled ergo sum
but instead a mother’s arms
a womb from whence laid cobble stones
I paved in tears, in many strides
and tread along forever
then glistening bud
and falling leaf
find me somewhere in between
where I’ve sat
among scenes of many views
the hourglass and all its sand
a grain within grains, find me
and shall not all ends
deliver all beginnings
At the Butter Exchange
Is grand commerce in motion
Yet be under no illusion
Of the merchant’s potion
‘Clip, Clop,’
Go horses’ shoes
On the cobble stones of Lancaster Quay
From nearby office windows
Proprietors observe with glee
The little children of Sunday’s Well
Are taught a well-known adage
That they must hold their balance
Whilst traversing Daly’s Bridge
Great ships unload boxes of tea
Outside the Customs House
Bringing Ceylon’s finest
To the financier’s spouse
When evening strikes
The Savings Bank closes
And across the river
An alderman’s motion proposes
The Corporation tram
Carries the workers to dinner
Their journey brightened
By a passing street singer
Yet throughout the city
Lies an abundance of misery
A reminder of poverty
And economic bewitchery
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