Pa grunted “we must get on”
sweating through his one good shirt
I don’t want to leave Wisconsin
I’ve named all the trees
Ma and me we were baptized in the pond
I don’t care about Kansas. Pa says “we have to”
I saw a white-tailed deer and a beaver yesterday
The Northwoods will hide me. I hate Pa today.
I’ll hold Betsy all the way ‘til ma says
“Constance, let go!”
I won’t bounce around, minding ma, keeping still
I won’t darn another sock ever again!
What are these symbols? Letters? Ink?
Holding the meaning of what we think?
If I had been born in a different time,
Lines of writing would not fill my time.
I may have grunted with purpose that led
To all the words that have been said.
I may have hummed with feeling that drew
From sentiments I knew as true.
I may have hummed with a sing-songy tune,
Spoke to my children by light of the moon.
Now there is language, helpful and tricky.
Some of the things that we hear become sticky.
Is much of it useful? Much of it nice?
To receive in the morn when we haven’t thought twice?
Cleverly used and in most complex ways,
What is it actually trying to say?
Maybe the grunt and the hum as of yore,
Would help us remember what we knew before.
He was on the path, walking toward me at dusk
at first, I thought it was a man, but my senses began twitching
danger, danger, danger, danger, whispered my internal save machines
It was a sasquatch, and he smelled horrible.
I was too close to him to hide, so I slid off the path
Letting him have the whole path, expecting the worst.
He had not slowed down, his stride was amazingly long.
I watched him get closer and closer.
Would he eat me? Bite my arms? Wring my neck?
He grunted something and kept going.
It sounded a lot like good day.
One glorious, sun-drenched, thirsty December day,
I sat, numbed with the agedness of a visitor, and
Fumed eloquently with joy for the benefit of the
Seine – the ointment of Paris.
Somewhere along the gritty line laid bare by sere weeds
Of winter,
A restless tranter eulogised:
“Ce est Paris!”
From the whistling, grating metro to the navel of
Elevated Eiffel, the tall, metallic maiden,
I saw frantic beauty.
I inhaled the peace of the atrium, sighting
Our Dame....
“Ce est Paris!”
The voice, girly, and with the earnestness
Of chivalrous youth, came again, cold and soft,
Just the way of a sprightly winter.
Turning, I saw Paris in full nakedness of her beauty, like
A priceless fresco hanging from the sky.
“Do you need company?” The tranter anglicised her French.
In one gulp I swallowed the pride of Paris.
“Hmmm!” I grunted, wincing loudly from brio,
Counting my woes should I plod away to the red light areas,
“Give me Shakespeare and Company”.
There she stood with tears rolling down her face and cheeks
Looking downward – such innocence – mild and meek
Her first trip to the slaughter house was no joke
Proved to be a one-sick hoax!
Slowly but surely – she told us the story
Leaving out NOT the gory!
“I was asked by dad
To join him fast
To pick out a chicken
“O Good Riddens!
At last – no fret
I’m picking out my very first pet!”
Is what I thought
When my breath I caught!
So, with joy in my heart,
And exuberant glee at start
I singled out the healthiest plump!
The attendant let out a little grunt
Roughly taking the chicken outback
She grunted sternly: ‘Wait Right here…I’ll be right back!’
With one quick twist
Of her hand and wrist
The chicken’s neck she snapped in half.
Mortified I stood on the chicken’s behalf!
Speechless, I stood - so panic-stricken
Horrified and mortified because of the chicken!
With no further delay
To my dismay
I was handed a bag
While the attendant let out a mischievous laugh!
From this day forward, I shall live to fret
Of what occurred to my chicken-pet
And live forever with my regret
Of visiting the Old Chicken Coup
All for mom’s LIVE Chicken Soup…?
I am a demon and I want to be better….
The priest stared at the girl
A smile flickered for a see on his face
He grunted a cough
A demon wouldn’t want better -he beamed with exaggerated sense of worth at his answer
She tilted her head up
Her sockets devoid or eyes
Just a black crude pool wisp of greys slithering its depths
I need to be better…help me
A tear trickled her face it course burning the skin
like lightening crackle….
It started with the beeping of my clock.
Sometimes I want to bash that irksome thing.
My dog barked for his food and then a walk.
While walking him, my cell phone went brring brrring.
I passed some school girls chattering away
like chirping birds. Back to my house I went
to feed the cats that mewed without delay.
I grunted next. My bills had gone unsent.
To mail them I zoomed off inside my car.
It rained. Outside my car I had to slosh
through puddles with no boots on. Great! Har har.
I splashed back to my car, and oh my gosh,
someone had whammed into my new car’s door.
I nearly bawled. Not even noon – what more?
Chagisite or helium3
mined for the future of
the World. Poor people
grunted hearing the report
while the wealthy
smiled and had dreams of
extraction
and manufacturing
"his smile was so wide
it made a noise"
2 protons and one neutron.
asphyxiant potental in the energy field
radioactive isotope is ideal fuel for the
operation of a fusion reactor
fusing helium-3 with deuterium.
"burst of energy
to power reactors
reactors to move and create energy!"
Houtermans and Rutherford
Sceince of creation
dynamics, phrasing and articulation
TIIAY=yaiitorYAIIpolledsar rating
A moment gifted by nature's mother
Frozen still- we both stared
No doubt, who will break first- crossed both our minds
His tail that quickly rose, drooped- adagio
He feared me not, nor I- him
With the sun beaming through the leafless trees,
his majestic antlers hid well
He stood- like Rudolph- on steroids
But, seemed as tame, as MGM's Leo
A steady stream of mist blew,
from his glazed snotty snout
Then suddenly, he grunted
He grunted once more,
and then he bowed his head,
stomped his hooves- twice,
and continued prancing...
into the deep, dense
forest
A man with horn-rimmed glasses
knelt in the sand
thinking: "my office just got a whole lot bigger."
He had just flown from sea to shining sea
to survey the sea lions.
He walked barefoot to a rocky outcrop
to count the creatures (for he was an accountant),
the counting took many days -
he was engaged upon a sea lion census.
The sea lions would dive into the tossing waves
and so deplete the sea lion company or rookery,
other's would arrive with unaccounted-fore friends,
The rest yelled all day long or grunted huffily.
it was a rowdy crowd.
The accountant took off his glasses and wiped his brow.
The sea lions continued to bark at him
while scratching their ears with distaining flippers.
Reluctantly he turned to fly back to New York,
where sea lions are parked carefully
in a funky concrete compound.
Each one of those aquatic New Yorkers
could be counted upon
and they were
as they swam moodily in the small oily pool
generously provided for them.
Lizzie would never get tired of the color Pepto pink.
Her clothes, her cat, her artistic ink
With all this pink, how can you think?
This was from a plumber underneath her sink.
I love this color, she said, wondering why.
She felt a need to explain to this random guy.
The guy grunted, as liquid Drano ran by.
The color pink is romantic, Lizzie explained with a sigh.
“What kind of food is that?” Lee turkey asked the pig.
The pig pretended he did not understand.
Grunted his way out of answering outright.
“That’s a turkey leg!” Lee’s cousin yelped. “Disgusting!”
“You are a cannibal!” they both yelled at the pig.
The pig did not know what he was eating.
He only knew it was delicious.
He smiled his happiest grin.
Knowing he could take both of them if he had to.
Wondering how long you bake a turkey leg?
What’s happening? A bystander asked the McCormick sisters, unduly soused.
They lost a bet, Wilma and Lucille said as the other two grunted and roused.
You mean they must pull that cart all the way to Marshalltown today?
Yes, and the horse was so happy she did a celebratory sashay.
Do you McCormicks often make your siblings tow the line like this?
It will make them much stronger said Wilma, an enterprising miss.
Lucille kept quiet, because she knows the mind of women on the street.
And seeing her sisters struggle to pull their cart was an enormous treat.
High ho Hill Bill is singing the hillbilly blues
It’s not a bad life, yet, not one that I’d choose
He’s wailing like a cat with a pinched big toe
Singing the blues up and down in summer and snow.
They found me under a spoiled apple tree
I was never a good boy, no one wanted me.
My daddy ran off with the housewife next door.
I looked just like him, so my behind was always sore!
My mom took his discretions out of my little hide.
I was never welcome in the house, or anywhere inside.
My bed was in the barn, I slept with a mouse and a cow.
Being grunted at by a gas-passing horse and a worse passing sow.
It’s not a bad life, yet not one that I’d choose.
This is why I am forever singing the hillbilly blues.
I want to get on tv, or at least the afternoon news.
But no one wants me except for liquor and booze.
Grandma wore petti-pants, a form of straight bloomers to exercise class.
Back in the fifties, you had to wear dresses, to cover your…..
In grayscale, these housewives bent, grunted and gave a big reach.
The days before work-out-clothes, women were daring to say the least.
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