Long Diabolically Poems
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I was caught by a train yesterday
I hear people say
this often in exasperation
exaggerated tones
with over-dramatic groans
as if the train somehow
physically captured them
in its large mechanical grasp
diabolically refusing
to let them go
Yesterday
I was caught in a different way
imagination captured, you might say
captivated
charmed
and enchanted
by the passing art display
Something about the way
vibrant, vivid colors
unexpectedly
splashed out on moving canvas
of rust red and dull gray
traveling fast
across the city
feisty train talking smack
with tags and words amusing, witty
strange, disturbing, edgy, gritty
grinding down the tracks
Sometimes shocking-
artfully rendered obscenities
or surprisingly
endearing
cartoon creatures
manga characters
from overseas
expressed with impressive
expertise
and ingenuity
As other drivers sat nearby
fussing, fuming
missing the show
pawing their floorboards
like impatient horses
hands gripping wheels
ready to go-
I watched the trains in
constant childlike
wonder and delight
for those twenty minutes of my day
two trains gone by, one each way
...Then watched the other cars
rolling through
still red
flashing lights
as soon as crossing arms
were lifted halfway
rushing, roaring
trying to make up
the time that was “taken”
by the railway
Blech - impossible mission to savor mug of ginger tea...
When the entire mug awash
with floating leavings
by golly by gosh,
sipping said herbal brew
analogous challenge
to eat spaghetti squash
with one chopstick.
Earlier yesterday February twenty fourth
two thousand twenty four
found yours truly (me)
blithely consuming delicious
La COLOMBE DOUBLE LATTE
cold iced latte, complete
with a frothy layer
of milk and a touch of sugar.
Lower gastrointestinal war civil
immediately declared
because yours truly beleaguered
by lactose intolerance.
Courtesy veritable sweet tooth
(er...rather dentures)
craved absolute zero sum game yoking,
wickedly villainous, x'acting tummy
upsetting Pavlovian salivating, romancing,
quid pro quo woe pea pie us, orthodox,
conventional, nun habit forming (Lie),
mouth watering, lip locked, kickstarting,
Je Suis ill lust trios, hymn bracing,
gobstopping, feasting immediate laxative
inducing, decadent chocolate baneful
cake courtesy of adoring bubela, (the
same over stuffed ego freezer oft
mentioned counterpart, who unwittingly
prepared spot of tea), charming,
hugely overpowering tenderly loving
zee missus diabolically exuding
"FAKE" gracious humane insinuating
jabbering, knowingly ill loo man hating,
needful offal pestiferous quasi rip
snorting, tush under fire, violent
whooshing, expelling xyz lower
abdominal contractions, indubitably
kindling, jumpstarting instagramming
howling, fostering execrable, debilitating,
besieging posterior, automatically
clutching derriere, experiencing ferocious
gluteus maximus intractable jabbing, knifing,
lacerating, mutilating nameless oaf (me),
painfully quaking das simian, torturously
undergoing vicious wretched excessive
yawping worse fate than death!
Otherwise ass hide from irritable bowel
syndrome approximately
twenty four hours ago
from Saturday February twenty fifth
two thousand twenty four
me quite yawningly wonderful, uneventful,
sedate, quiet, ordinary, mundane, languid,
joyously humdrum, fabulously for
two whit tuss lee drab
characterized local buttuck blaster
also hashtagged endearment
as bubble butt.
Now shall I cut thee a slice of outrageously
luscious, keister jump/kick starting heavenly
gourmet deluxe cheese cake?
Cubism is my favorite art.
I love making silly blockheaded people, pretending
Ignorance as to why I would have drawn certain
Wonderful people in this manner.
I grin diabolically as I cartoon them with cubed heads,
And uppity squared off eyes, looking shifty.
Blocked noses high in the air, looking square-pigged snooty.
My grin gets bigger and bigger as I draw…
I think I started to do this in third grade, as a defense
Mechanism when Ms. Smells – not her real name, but her real attitude
Was too superior to help us in any way, angry if we did not
Understand the concepts she galloped through at a sixth grade level.
It is just something that came to me, I said innocently,
Presenting her with her caricature with a flourish,
Pretending this was a wonderful compliment.
She seemed pleased, not realizing the extent of the insult.
So at the ripe age of eight, I accidentally discovered
I can get in my licks, even against haughty grownups, in the name of art,
By seventh grade I did not always remember to do it with a smile,
So it did not work nearly as well.
But this in no way wiped out my love of cubism.
Lower gastrointestinal war civil declared
because sweet tooth (er...rather dentures)
craved absolute zero sum game yoking,
wickedly villainous, x'acting tummy
upsetting Pavlovian salivating, romancing,
quid pro quo woe pea pie us, orthodox,
conventional, nun habit forming (Lie),
mouth watering, lip locked, kickstarting,
Je Suis ill lust trios, hymn bracing, gob
stop ping, feasting immediate enema
inducing, decadent chocolate baneful
cake courtesy of adoring bubela, (the
same over stuffed ego freezer oft
mentioned counterpart), charming,
hugely overpowering tenderly loving
zee missus diabolically exuding
"FAKE" gracious humane insinuating
jabbering, knowingly loo man hating,
needful offal pestiferous quasi rip
snorting, tush under fire, violent
whooshing, expelling xyz lower
abdominal contractions, indubitably
kindling, jumpstarting instagramming
howling, fostering execrable, debilitating,
besieging posterior, automatically
clutching derriere, experiencing ferocious
gluteus maximus intractable jabbing, knifing,
lacerating, mutilating nameless oaf (me),
painfully quaking das simian, torturously
undergoing vicious wretched excessive
yawping worse fate than death!
Otherwise ass hide from irritable bowel
syndrome this second July Sunday 2019
quite yawningly wonderful, uneventful,
sedate, quiet, ordinary, mundane, languid,
joyously humdrum, fabulously drab
characterizing local buffoon, i.e. yours truly.
Shall I cut thee a slice of outrageously
luscious, keister heavenly gourmet deluxe cake?
I want to be that guy
that knows how to fix a transmission
or put a cabin together, with only an axe.
However, I am that guy
who wanders hardware stores
picking up Swiss Army knives
and dreaming of conquering nature
by whittling a thousand sticks,
or of constructing furniture
using only an awl and a spokeshave
not having a clue what they are
or do.
I am that guy
who hunts for the perfect tool box
for his Swiss Army Knife and Screwdriver,
who dreams of working in the garage
on a project so diabolically engineered
that it only requires
a Swiss Army knife and a screwdriver
to take it apart.
If society ever breaks down
I hope I will know
how to create a preppers kingdom
defended by boobytraps.
In any hardware store I can be seen
searching for boobytrap kits
traps that can be easily assembled
with a spokeshave and an awl.
I stand here in front of myself, yelling, stop.
Loudly, authoritatively, sometimes meanly.
Because I know the damage I can do with an angry face, or a disappointed demeanor, worst of all, an “I-hate-you” stance.
Releasing myself not in the least, standing here, holding myself back, forcing myself to take another look at my body language. I could cause an acapolypse by simply showing that I am enraged, outraged, hurt or disappointed.
So I stand here, in front of my true real self, with both hands out, holding fast. Fingers straight up, palms out, slowing my “I am so mad” side from doing the emotional damage I know I am capable of doing.
I am a teacher, a school counselor, a role model to children who are hypervigilant, smarter than many of the adults they are saddled with, and miss nothing. They watch my actions and reactions all day long.
They have to know that I love them every single second of every single day, and that I have their backs, and I appreciate them and respect them no matter how diabolically mean they behave, no matter how their actions and reactions can completely infuriate me.
This is why I stand here, in front of myself, holding my reptilian reactive brain back behind my thinking brain.
Written 10-06-2018 Contest: I Stand Here
Sponsor: Craig Cornish
One more year before the wild bird flies her coop.
Not bad. Bravo. Wise one.
You are more than enough.
Your optimism shines throughout your poems.
You know yourself.
Any idea how rare that is?
There are seventy-year olds who have no idea of themselves
They live a life set down by others
Follow a path
not their own
They do not realize there was a choice
No one said it
Whether miserable or barely happy, they do not complain
Knowing no better.
One more year before you leave the family nest, my friend
Your words will carry you to great heights,
You will write poetry to help save the others
It will come more naturally and completely
as you sleep in a nest of your own making
With pillows you choose and a comforter that
makes you feel safer than you had ever dared dreamed.
A mere 365 days until you can be fully, utterly, diabolically you.
Live spontaneously! Enthusiastically kick around your joy.
Take risks. Love people no one else ever would or could.
Bring home stray puppies. Dance your dance. Sing your song.
You are on your way. Only 365 days. I am so proud of you.
I see the optimism and enthusiasm in your poetry, and I smile
realizing you are heading toward the biggest adventure of your life.
I love this for you. Take risks. Have fun. Fear no one.
Enjoy yourself like you have never enjoyed yourself before.
Happy birthday. It is almost time....
There is one in every family.
Someone determined to be mad.
Not diabolically crazy or fun-loving or whimsically mad.
Angry, hateful, grousing, pouting mad.
Ours is named Louisa, and she is a professional.
She attempts to ruin every family dinner.
Storming off, yelling, screaming, sometimes hitting us on her way out.
It doesn’t matter, Grandpa says “as long as she leaves”.
But sometimes she comes back.
Climbs in the window so she can make another dramatic exit.
“Save your drama for your mama!” someone yells.
This always stirs her up, because her mama is dead.
If they forget to yell it, I do.
It would not seem like family without this.
Whisker Fever had suffered a really horrible, angry, bad day.
He had not gotten the Kibble he wanted. His master was way.
Creature he’s left him with was too prissy and stuck-up to like.
He would have pedaled away if he had been left with a bike.
“Oh, Whiskers,” she cooed, in a saccharine voice, irritating him.
She had a tiny bit of oatmeal stuck firmly to her left chin.
“Where is my big boy?” she crooned, like she was a friend.
If he had an axe, he would have given her a swift happy end.
“Where are you Honey?” she asked in a voice meant to please.
He hid in the smallest cupboard, a place his body could barely squeeze.
Tonight when she was asleep, he had a diabolically wonderful plan.
He would dump all her fish, watch them twist in his hand.
Then he would gulp them up and spit out their heads.
Their eyes would go buggy showing their last moments of dread.
Whisker Fever was angry as all get up, and wanted to leave.
But then she brought home catnip, and renamed him King Steve.
April fools' day - (ordinarily) all manner of tomfoolery abounds
Pandemic straps tightly plied girded beltway
unlike any other All fools day
in annals of recorded ("fake") history
western civilization tapestry doth fray
April first two thousand and twenty
neigh, no time for horseplay
what with coronavirus (COVID-19)
boarded ship of jilted fools
(think *****sapiens)
barred courtesy omnipotent jackstay
furloughed workers analogous
grumpy minions lay
dwarfed by unfortunate global events, née...
germinating, jackknifing, and wreaking havoc
Mother Earth nonchalantly toying
(indiscriminately) regarding humanity
as bestrewing bajillion biohazards berserkly
bequeathing bedlam child's play
just desserts, she doth understandably repay
man/womankind flicked as flotsam and jetsam
vile treatment diabolically heaped,
jubilantly loosed, maniacally pitched
upon her terrestrial firma oy vey
she chokes, gags, laughs raspily yea
rebuffs, refuses, and renounces further abuse.
Nevertheless toothless gumption, albeit feeble
fighting spirit, her survival instincts assail
cumulative environmental destruction
triggered casus belli expelling deadly toxins,
when Gaia doth exhale
since onset of global interregnum
(think virulent spreading poisonous Kudzu
like wildfire biohazard)
since world wide webbed disease
brought grinding halt
consumerist paradigm in lockdown,
nonetheless within brief interim
noticeable clearer air to inhale
amazingly enough postal system...
intact voila... uninterrupted delivery of mail,
the daily highlight experienced
among people emotionally crippled
pasty faced and pale
finds quivering captain Kangaroo
plus good n plenti proud primates
each quivering like a captive quail.