Long Interlopers Poems
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Baking was not an option,
long gone were the days (and nights!) of crème brûlée and bûche noël.
Such delicacies have taken a more...paternalistic
approach,
abstaining stove-works entirely,
however slippery,
often guided by such vintage luminarians as Einstein's popular 'words to live by' & action-tropes by the enticing acrobatic authors,
J & L Bird.
Various interlopers, actual or imaginary, instantly
stiffened to attention once the oven-door was opened and the klaxon bell engaged.
Ceremoniously, once alert, all in attendance
(rubber black-rats excluded) turned towards
shelved rainbow rivers of irises (plasic, of course!) and with goodwill (and smiles) together recited the Lord's Prayer,
and departed.
Dedicated to Clarky & his loving support team, you know who you are...
03/19/22
7:18pm
james marshall goff
astronomical anatomical atoms
buying brilliant blubbery bimbo blobs
collecting claustrophobic colorized clandescently clams
depicting deplorable dependable depraved dendrites
enticing and enlisting energetic enthusiastic enigmas
finally fueling fussy frisky flatulence, forming fleece finders
giving gluttonous glorious gargoyles grinning grace
holding heavy-handed hospital heathens
Ignoring impassible imaginative ideas of interlopers
justifying jiggly jealous jaundiced jugglers jumping jury joyrides
killing kinesthetic kingly Kansas killjoys
leaving lighthearted Larry lollygagging lower than legumes
memorizing momentous miracles of magic meaning moroseness
nudging nebulous narcissistic nightly northern narwhals
occupying octagonal orbital ostrich-like ocelots
pursuing persnickety picky perverted pencils
quizzing questionable quails and quacks
redeeming respectable rustic ricocheting roadrunners
scalloping scuzzy scared scarred skeletons
teasing torrential test tube tarantulas
undermining understated underwater umbrellas
validating villainous vagrants verifying vigor and vim
worrying wiggly worm-like women wasps
‘xasperating ‘xpensive ‘xpansive ‘xtraordinary ‘xtraterrestrials
yielding yellowish youngish yippy youngbloods
zooming zealous zebras zigging and zagging in Zimbabwe
my wife begins her annual preparation for mid-autumn.
from the kitchen window the phases of the moon
count down for our children to ready cartoon lanterns.
she blends flour with golden syrup, oil, lotus paste into dough,
her recipe calling this a festival, although the seasons
have never learned the habit of changing here at home
there is no real autumn here, but this country found home
for a festival that arrived carrying another’s autumn,
a harvest remembered from places where seasons
announce themselves in falling leaves, while the moon
marks the fifteenth night after work in the fields, and dough
is how abundance is gifted to children beaming like lanterns
light has always been the symbol of hope; likewise, lanterns—
geography cannot take this away, even if far from home.
Southern Chinese migrants carried stories in their dough;
their ships crossed vast seas beneath an ancient autumn
carrying memory in recipe. generations after learn the moon
means celebration, even if they do not recognise the season
bulbs glow where candlelight once did for this borrowed season
while our children practise parading with lanterns
before the actual day when we will be beneath the full moon
along the common spaces linking the blocks we call home.
my wife chooses auspicious idioms to mark mid-autumn,
and imprints the words by pressing the mould into dough
my wife preheats the oven, about to bake the dough
encasing lotus paste into mooncakes, for this special season.
cartoon rabbits and plastic moons may represent mid-autumn
but patterns of modern popularity are interlopers on the lanterns.
in decades, harvest became festival, then a tradition at home:
I regale the children with tales of Chang’e fleeing to the moon
my wife takes out the dozen of small imitations of the moon
from the oven, and cuts one to verify that the dough
has browned exactly right—an edible history, lovingly home-
made, for lamentation of harvest without fields, in this season-
less country; a lack of swaying leaves that perhaps lanterns
can replace; a longing for cool air that comes with real autumns
here once a year, one full moon is when mooncakes are in season,
a sweet treasure of fillings in dough, accompanied by bright lanterns
illuminating the many homes pretending we have a link to autumn
(read like bob dylan talk-sings)
back of the property there's a rattle of crows...
could be that wolf that was walking down the road...
this morning...look'n quite pleased with itself...
like it just ate...big smile and a trot that'd stop any car
and make ye stare...at natures spectacle look'n back at you
in yer machine...float'n down a gravel road...and wolf's thinkin...
man's fly'n but he can't catch me i've seen these things tangled up in trees...
along the road that is...lights flash'n sirens blast'n people die'n...freeze
or thaw...nature deals with interlopers...across her wilds...and territories..
stan sand
The Whitehouse is bracing itself,
interlopers are everywhere.
Not since the times of Abraham Lincoln
has the house been so full
of unwelcome visitors.
The Presidents chef is at his wits end
the throng needs feeding,
they are hungry for answers
and Spam sandwiches will not do.
They are squatting, raising tent cities
among the colonial furnishings.
Our leader is about to make a statement,
a speech about our secure borders,
and how Right Wing Extremists
continue to spread disinformation.
The FBI is of course standing by
their guns drawn
ready to bus them back
to the heart of America
where they came from.
In nineteen sixty-three, May twenty-eight,
three youngsters in a Woolworths five-and-dime
sat down and asked for coffee. This was war.
In Jackson, Mississippi, way back when,
outrageous things like this riled up the pack.
The photos still exist. You feel the hate.
To ask for coffee, then, was such a crime,
so unacceptable to local law
that men (look at the photos – they’re all men)
could not restrain themselves. Attack, attack!
With ketchup, mustard, butter they went straight
to smear the interlopers with their slime:
what else are coffee-grounds and soda for?
The heroes (in the age of Colonel Glenn,
the Right Stuff mattered) took down from the rack
more gunge. These sons of the Magnolia State
poured vinegar in solemn pantomime
(one wiped molasses on the young man’s jaw).
What caused this ritual? This zoo-like zen?
The guests had the effrontery to be black.
Lakes and beaches are wiped clean like a whiteboard,
each day by waves, tide, wind.
Then marks of ripples and tracks provide transient tell-tales
of what has gone on since, of what is yet to come.
What caused those ripples? Where did they come from?
What caused those tracks marking crisscross paths on the sand?
From whence did they come? To where are these interlopers going?
The agents and causes know nothing of these things.
They do not care.
They can't know they are being tracked.
They do not wipe their foot or finger prints clean.
They wander furtively wary,
scarily and carefully looking about, but unaware.
They dare not look back,
lest they be cast into salt or stone,
or sent back to hell,
for defacing such clean pristine spaces with
their street-art hieroglyph graffiti.
A hushed stillness lies over the lake at dawn
A single plop or tremble stirs a ripple the mirrored plane.
Soft as a whispered caress on a sleeping cheek,
Perhaps the kiss of wind, barely daring to touch.
Perhaps it's the kiss of fish rising to take a fly.
Perhaps an insect flitting, skittling onto the surface
Or a bird dipping to drink from beak.
The ripple propagates outwards in concentric rings,
echoing and resonating on its journey,
long after the cause has passed and gone.
Where are these ripples of unknown causes going and why,
The sources are untraceable via back-tracking,
remaining hidden and mysterious,
long since gone.
Do these ripples want to cuddle a distant shore,
to caress a foot paddling in the shallows,
to rock a boat with sleepers to sleep,
or to kiss the pebbles puckered up to kiss in rows?
Or to simply go and then fade gently and dissolve from view,
happy in their journey getting there.
In time the wind and water gathers breath,
to blur the lines, to wipe the scroll and slate clean,
To blow the sand grains around to cover the tracks.
The tide comes in, obliterating the imprints.
The wind builds waves to crush the ripples in chaos.
The defaced becomes a pure clean mirror surface unmarked again,
With no trace of regret, or memory to replay.
The defacers, shakers and movers,
long forgotten, forlorn and forgiven,
have faded away, to dreams and memories,
forgotten, hidden, wiped away, until awaken.
Principles of mod
Cantor is interlopers
and Cantrix is a
romantic saboteur.
Mixolydian is there
religion Lydian the
emotional character
in description of
"the Sleaze or
there way of Being"
sai this way of performing
is the sense of shoddiness
defined by there acts
which is due to the fact
of Cantrix and Cantor's
disloyalty to there
defined roles.
Charters in the Scripts
of love they deviate from
the purpose of there
togetherness and are seen
as misleading in the presence
of there audience.
.Core motivations needed
definedment because they are
obligated to others
Assocate members found
them in Chaos as there passions
for one another showed on stage.
Limiting there perform
and replacing them
were mentioned.
Guitar and Saxophone were seen as sexy
but this performance
scale back that assessment.
Brick houses gone, wood houses gone
Family histories blown away
No photos or proof of life
2.8 billion dollars worth of damage
Devastation for a mile.
One house standing, with debris
Covering every inch of her yard.
2008 Chevy in oak tree,
Electric lines dangerously torn
Silence after the roar of what sounded
like a train, but must have been the
Two hundred and eighty-one mile an hour winds.
Tornado on a scale we cannot comprehend
No one creeping out of houses
For almost no one was there when it hit.
If they had been, they are gone now.
People creeping back hours later
Shocked, horrified, grief-stricken
Not for loss of life, which did happen,
But for life of soul-things.
Photographs, decorations, spoons, and forks,
Family heirlooms, favorite purple boots,
Grandma’s gold chain, lost forever, a lifetime of memories lost,
most never recovered, destroyed, or dumped in rivers.
May 22, 2011, Joplin Missouri’s most catastrophic EF-5 tornado
The city comes together about a week later
Interlopers from other cities come,
Pouring in with help, food, water, clothes
Things a family needs to get back on their feet
The love shown to Joplin was fierce and fast.
Tears flowed unexpectedly, and selfishness
Was felt by those who did not feel
“grateful” like they were supposed to feel.
Many felt despondent, devastated, depressed.
They were immobile, some never fully recovering
While in the back of their minds many were
Silently grateful, thanking God for being spared.
I have a bet
with an old fig tree
in my backyard;
a bet as to whether
he will be out
of the ground
before I am in it;
not that we wish the other
a speedier demise, for there
is a strong fondness and
bound we share -- having fed
one another for many years—
I, on his figs and lustrous shade;
and he, on my careful pruning
and sensitive irrigation...both
of us, around harvest, receiving
song-full praising from the
many winged interlopers, and
four legged sojourners of our
opulent and thoroughly integrated
community;
as to the motive for our wager
it is more tongue-and-cheek,
or bark-and...whatever --
reflecting the inevitable folly
of both our journeys…
below or above seems to make
little difference in the final
revelation—sort of like, rich
vs. poor...we are all equal
to the Grim Reaper—Nature’s
totally, Politically Correct
Recycler….