Long Jacque Poems
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S'more sprawling poppycock
Chock·a·block discombobulated poem
for your reading pleasure
dashed off ad hoc
my final literary endeavor before
hour hand affixed
to intricately carved cuckoo clock
displaying carved leaves, birds,
deer heads (Jagdstück design),
other animals, aquatic militia man,
etc feigns firing flintlock
(announcing onset of
daylight savings times)
said French soldier christened Jacque
dipping paddles of oarlock
into time stream
as the sun beats down,
he doth shockingly unfrock.
Once again modest wily word wizard
sports, struts his stuff inarguably
a blinding blizzard
of poetic gumbo mumbo jumbo,
his convoluted crafted vizard
easily misinterpreted as offal
lee batty, quirky, snooty, trippy...
who honestly doesn't know A from izzard.
The ticking seconds will not wait
while yours feebly cobbles etches
across blank figurative slate
lame resultant impasse I narrate
experiencing disappointment
earlier spurt of balderdash,
gibberish, rubbish... which I hate
yet must suffice impossible mission
to complete satisfactory poem does agitate.
Vainglorious idea to employ
daylight savings time
even a mediocre reasonable rhyme
futile effort finds current strife prime
juncture to breakaway
and resume later nighttime or
call writing aspiration quits
crowded house that for being sublime?
Unlikely literary pursuit or aim
will find yours truly a best seller
never experiencing accolades
nor remuneration to claim
truth be told, cuz I haint seeking
neither fortune nor fame.
The principle impetus explaining zeal
to discipline generic human to hone
his ability, where basic blocks of English
language (words) linkedin incorporating
mental cogs and gears mesh
making (mishmash) as figurative wheel
in the sky keeps on turning
perhaps divine intervention
intercedes as yours truly takes
lock, stock, and barrel of himself, one
bumbling, grumbling, tumbling schlemiel
cue hapless characteristic vagrant tramp
as viewed courtesy black and white newsreel
enroute to meet cobbler, cuz worn out heel
actually kind individual stopped to offer hobo
an uber lyft courtesy fancy automobile.
Life is confusing sometimes
At least it has been for me
I was Mom’s “change of life” baby
two siblings far older
change in the birth certificate
three days spent as Marilyn
then I became Carolyn
not many toys in our city home
so I started jumping off things
graduated from steps to trees
then my preference changed to roofs
fearless always, perhaps foolishly so
but I sensed my limitations
at three I was standing on my head
spinning like a top
ran faster, jumped higher
than boys on my block
walked tall on stilts
bounced on my pogo-stick around the block
hid my frog “Pierre” in the garage
acrobat lessons for eight years (Hurray!)
but Mom wanted to make a lady of me
ballet didn’t change this tomboy
went to the state spelling championship
but at age 12, I couldn’t spell “murmur”
and the oddest books I read as a child:
“Lincoln the Unknown”
“How to Stop Worrying and Start Living”
Jacque Cousteau’s “Silent World”
traded my pig tails for mini skirts
cheerleading for the high school football team
still love the sport today
recruited by the ice hockey coach
to teach boys how to skate backward
recruited by the boys’ gymnastics coach
to flip and vault as team members scowled
captain of my college speech and debate team
first freshman to win the Peace Oratory contest
judged by Princeton University professors
writing has supported me all of my life
from high school to the present
first a copywriter, then a journalist
humorous verse is my favorite
some family members say I’m a “wit”
They’re only half right :D
*October 18, 2014 by Carolyn Devonshire
Friends, I’ve got a flu now and hope to be well enough
to return comments soon.
Get me inside quickly and as fast as you can,
please turn the time travel dial to September 1963
Get me to a post office in Washington, D.C.,
so I can send an important letter to Jacque Kennedy.
The letter will tell her about her newest son, Patrick,
ahead of time I will give her his four pound birth weight.
To prove I am ahead, and I know what I am talking about,
I will tell her about my time travel, and warn her of the fate
And that her husband, President John F. Kennedy
is in grave danger, warn her on November 23rd, 1963,
If she lets him go to Dallas and ride in an open limousine,
he will be assassinated at her knee.
Trip number two, will bring me to February 1968,
but I will stay in the same post office. Here is the thing.
I will write a detailed letter to Coretta Scott King,
warning her about the assassination of Dr. Martin Luther King.
To prove that I am reliable I will tell her that January 30th,
1956 is the day a bomb
will go off on her porch, but it will not hurt anyone.
After a little sandwich, and a drink in a cold fountain,
I will now dial up August 14th, 1969, and head to the
Catskill Mountains,
It will be splendid to be the first to arrive,
At Woodstock, a day ahead of the crowd
of 400, 000, now I am feeling truly alive.
I will be civil, not puffed up or proud.
I will spend three glorious days enjoying the music here,
enjoying the hip-hugging bell-bottoms, dairy cows, staying clear
of the bra-less women and the minds that are a bit unclear.
My last trip is easy. I will return to two days ago, and from breakfast
re-do that entire day.
I was pretty mean to my husband,
and I would like to stop myself from acting that way.
Get me inside quickly and as fast as you can,
please turn the time travel dial to September 1963
Get me to a post office in Washington, D.C.,
so I can send an important letter to Jacque Kennedy.
The letter will tell her about her premature son, Patrick,
I will give her his four pound birth weight.
To prove I know what I am talking about,
I will tell her about my time travel, and warn her of the fate
And that her husband, President John F. Kennedy
is in grave danger, and that on November 23rd, 1963,
If she lets him go to Dallas and ride in an open limousine,
he will be assassinated at her knee.
Trip number two, will bring me to February 1968,
but I will stay in the same post office. Here is the thing.
I will write a detailed letter to Coretta Scott King,
warning her about the assassination of Dr. Martin Luther King.
To prove that I am reliable I will tell her that January 30th,
1956 is the day that a bomb
will go off on her porch, but it will not hurt anyone.
After a little sandwich, and a drink in a cold fountain,
I will now dial up August 14th, 1969, and head to Catskill Mountain,
It will be splendid to be the first to arrive,
At Woodstock, a day ahead of the crowd
of 400,000, now I am feeling truly alive.
I will be civil, not puffed up or proud.
I will spend three glorious days enjoying the music here,
marvel at the hip-hugger bell-bottoms, and dear
black and white dairy cows, staying clear
of the braless women and the minds that are a bit unclear.
My last trip is easy. I will return to two days ago,
and from breakfast re-do that entire day.
I was pretty mean to my husband,
and I would like to stop myself from acting that way.
Let Jacqueline, Jacque, and sophisticated Parisians rave about the Eiffel Tower
Romantic poets write in egregious excess of their cozy, intimate leafy bowers
Leave scientists and paleontologists to their study of fossils and dinosaurs--
As for me, nothing compares with a home-from-work, end-of-the-day shower.
Political scientists dissect the machinations of international superpowers
Historians pore over WW2 battles and the heroics of Dwight David Eisenhower
Gardeners & green thumbers extol the myriad virtues of planting flowers--
But as for me, no occupation holds a candle to the pleasure of a bracing shower.
The downtown office crowd breathlessly counts down the minutes to Friday's Happy Hour
Bartenders mix exotic drinks like Coconut Pussycats, Lady Godivas, or plain old Whiskey Sours
College professors soar above the mundane pursuits of common workers, in their cushy ivory towers--
Yet as for me, there's no finer pursuit than the anticipation of a relaxing, refreshing shower.
Cooks and master chefs endlessly debate palate appeal of asparagus tips and fried cauliflower
Efficiency experts squeeze the most from a production line's manpower output per man hour
Grease jockeys and auto mechanics wax rapturous about muscle cars and their horsepower--
Whereas all I can think about the entire working day is returning home to a steamy, hot shower.
So please remember, my friend:
No matter how sour your whey
No matter how dour your day
No matter your willpower fade
Your brainpower stray
Even if your boss forgets your pay--
Simply wash all of your cares away
With a shower at the end of each day!
Joe and Jacque almost met on a Friday in 1996, but not really
They kind of glanced at each other, not speaking
In line for a train heading to Hanover Park, Illinois.
He did not even know her name or hear her voice
An internal voice whispered “kismet”, so he paid attention.
His friend nodded in her direction, saying “See the redhead?
She is mine.”
Joe knew better, some instinct said she was his, but he kept silent.
His friend, Sam, was known to be a hothead,
and he did not want to start a fuss.
Sam got off at his stop, and he travelled to the next car to find her.
The mystery woman was not there, so Joe kept going.
At the next stop he watched her disembark.
Thousands of Chicago workers ride the train to the city,
so he figured it was up to fate as to whether he would see her again.
Joe did not see her for a year and a day.
he knew because it was his birthday when he found her.
Jacque looked up and smiled.
“Where have you been?” She asked. “I have looked for you.”
This was news to him. “
Destiny told me that you were going to be in my life,” she added.
He sat down next to her and asked if he could hold her hand.
It was slim and soft.
He got her phone number, and her address,
feeling a joy that made his heart sing.
Her grandmother had been praying she would meet a lovely spouse.
His grandmother had been praying that he would settle down.
They recognized each other instantly at their grandchildren’s wedding.
“Kismet!” they said, then “jinx!”
Nothing more powerful than two praying grandmothers
who had once been best friends since the fifth grade!
The ominous presence of something evil that was felt but not eye-seen brought a presage of doom to the already spooky-feeling bonfire in the woods.
The campfire which had been glowing and popping and snorting oranges and yellows, was rapidly turning into an ugly, smudgy gray and black mess.
My friends’ faces were starting to look creepy, lit only by the silly jack-o-lantern light up necklaces Linda had purchased at the Dollar Store on her way to the forest.
I have a weird feeling, Marcia said.
I don’t! Linda promptly yelled.
The rest of us giggled, nervously. I glanced behind me, expecting a werewolf, keeping
Silent, afraid fear could draw the mysterious “it” closer.
We sat in silence, listening to the last pops of the fire, staring, conversation at a standstill. Things that we had been hyena-laughing about a few hours ago, had faded from my memory now. I was feeling
tired, and when I get that way, I sometimes get mean, so I wisely shut my cookie-hole. I wished they were going home, but I was the one who had invited them to sleep in tents with me, so it was my fault they were staying.
Things felt somber, cold.
Jacque was the first to make her way to the pup tent with our sleeping bags, which I hoped
Did not have any snakes in them yet.
Linda and Marcia told her good-night.
I had a weird feeling, so I jumped up just as Jacque reached the tent. “Wait!” I said.
Everyone laughed, as this was so like me.
The next morning, when Jacque could not be wakened, they looked at me with suspicion, like I was the cause.
It was our last campfire.
Sheesh! I think there are ANTS IN MY PANTS! The strange kid yelled.
The rest of us started laughing like our HEARTS were going to fall out.
Her annoyance tickled us, she had not been invited, and was not welcome.
We were thirteen, and a mighty group of three. Not four.
SORRY! I apologized. No POKER face, so she probably knew I was lying.
There would be big TROUBLE for me though if her mealy mouth
mama came after mine.
We were distantly related through an OLD MAID aunt,
which does not make sense either.
GUESS WHO would call my mother if I didn’t start back pedaling here?
So I began to grovel. It’s not funny! I said. Then I asked her if she was okay.
She was the weirdest kid LIFE could have coughed up,
and where did she land?
Ha! In my friendship circle, and it was pure AGGRAVATION.
Don’t get MAD I said, insincerely.
I have to GO FISH, my friend Jacque said.
She could not stop laughing as she left.
You don’t have a MONOPOLY on fishing!
Patty yelled after her. They were competitive.
“Did you set this MOUSETRAP?” My mother hollered from somewhere below us.
Mousetraps were TABOO at our house,
with a four-year-old around.
“No, Dad set it!” I yelled.
Knowing he was going to get IT now.
Did you want to play? The strange kid asked us.
We pretended CONCENTRATION, and played a few hands,
just to let her think we liked her.
She was snarly and grumpy, and still dancing around, scratching herself.
No POKER face either.
Written 3-4-2019
Contest: Anyone Game?
Sponsor: Carol Connell
Dialogue
When 2 people each have a glass of wine, and listen to the others viewpoint
Debate
When 2 people each drink a bottle of wine and make damn sure the other person knows they are right, both argue until one falls asleep.
Battle
when each person drinks 6 bottles of wine each, fiercely argue their point, breaking all 12 bottles in half to be used as weapons of convincing, until both lie in a pool of blood.
War
When each side drinks 6 bottles of wine rounds up all the villagers and they each drink 6 bottle of wine, and attack the other village for not agreeing to their point of view. When one village is almost wiped out then the other side with all their wounded wine drinkers, then declares victory.
United Nations
When to stop the two sides from debating their opinions in war like manner, they come and set a boundary between the two villages. Of course because they are unarmed, they bring cases of wine to give to both sides, to sooth the wounded and calm down the rest. Any minor conflicts are resolved with a glass of wine and a mediator.
A Vineyard somewhere in France
ahh Jacque, regarde, look, this beautiful vineyard of grapes, and this beautiful summer morning! ah oui oui tres beaux! Yes Monsieur Antoine, so true, what a wonderful trade, satisfying the thirst of people and knowledge, that you bring such peace and protection to the world, Antoine truly, bless you.
Magazines and jewelry
Nothing shows your age faster
I see a broach and think “That is from the 40’s or 50’s.”
Mink stoles were from the 30’s to sixty’s depending on the style.
Mushroom canister sets excite my 1970’s self.
Teenage movie magazines from the 50’s and 60’s
are easy to recognize.
The disco stuff with the faux fur vests and
tight striped pants for men. 80’s.
I look at old magazines from the 60’s and
I know most of the players.
Maybe all of them.
I recognize Dr. Martin Luther King, Jacque O and Marilyn for sure.
Lucy and Desi, Tab Hunter and Natalie Woods.
Pink cars? From the 50’s and 60’s probably.
Turquoise cars? Not as easy.
Turquoise cars made a comeback in the 90’s.
But the style might help.
It used to be I could name the year of any car
built from 1955 through 1980.
I doubt I could do that anymore.
Having moved on to other interests.
The Checker and the Mercury Marquis do not count.
They never wavered much from their own status quo.
I visit antique stores and smile.
Recognizing things from my childhood.
Everything from my childhood is in an antique store including me.
I feel totally fine about it. It is the natural order of life.
"Hey, isn't that what's his name?" Uh-oh.