Long On a lark Poems
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I wrote a great book, part memoir, part novel
Shopped it around, I ain’t too proud to grovel
Got kicked upstairs to a big publishing head
He invited me in, and here's what was said:
This screed you call Crack House of the 13 Gables
Is one long rant mixed with recycled fables
It wanders aimlessly, but never resolves
Characters pop out of nowhere, then simply dissolve
But the symbolism, sir, allow me to explain
The Victorian parlor represents pathos and pain
In the attic are mothballed broken dreams and betrayals
It's gonna shift your paradigm right off its rails
It’s a thousand-page odyssey into the surreal
The hedge maze is where all 14 sub-plots congeal
Enough! The only reason I called you in, punk
Is to meet the lunatic who scribbled this junk
So I slunk away, not a little dejected
Ain’t much fun being literarily rejected
Trudged back to my grueling, stale coffee grind
Working 15-hour days, going out of my mind
Then one day I met an old pal for some beers
Hadn't seen him in quite a few years
I told him about my rejection slip wrangle
He said buck up, you just need the right angle
I like reading novels, now don’t get me wrong
But writin' 'em, man, that just takes too damn long
And what a huge risk, 16 years you devoted
For no payday at all, just your ego imploded
There's no need to pen the next Moby Dick
Try something short, now that is the trick!
So, I thanked my friend for his most sage advice
And took it to heart without thinkin' thrice
And now I am back as a voice for the ages
Except I'm makin' my mark in far fewer pages
I write sound bites and maxims and pithy remarks
T-shirt slogans and jokes, I just do on a lark
I bang out poems and lyrics at the drop of a hat
Dash off 17 syllables in ten seconds flat
Haikus by the bunch
Cook up a batch before lunch
Put that in your pipe
____________________________
For Humor Contest
Sponsored by: Carol Eastman
Discovered by three cousins on a lark
Ahoy Maties! I’m captain of this ship.
One rapidly named himself Captain Stark.
But this isn’t fair the third gave them lip.
You be the Kill Boy, when we get to see
Okay, he agreed, for he was but four
Push them in the water one said with glee
But these great ships were stuck hard on the shore.
He is not pushing his weight said brother.
Cousins had a fine day playing pirate.
Sh! You’ll alert Dee and then our mother.
Same time tomorrow they whispered, quiet?
At lunch grandma asked what they did all day
Were you in the barn, did you ride the horse?
Giggling foolishly they dared not say
Their savvy grandpa probably knew of course.
He was grateful they were down by the pond
With their imaginations fully on.
Written 6-16-2016 Contest: Choices Poetry Contest - Sonnet
Picture: Number One
Sponsor: Sara Kendrick
when on a lark, this primate shut his eyes
until sight formed slits doubling up as a wink
this earthling stared hard and scrunched brow
unintentionally mimicking,
the familiar Auguste Rodin statue
likened to a pose when one doth think
perhaps said captive pose pondering
(similar to me) about life on other planets
while I stared at lunar surface
akin to a disc or dime sized skating rink
awash with luminescence
and imaging himself whisked away
by an alien, synonymous
to the peculiar millions miles distant pastische
manifested entity than didst slink
a non hue man feline looking cat in the hat
comical creatures decked out entirely in pink
soft halos conjured up saintly mink
or...a far fetched thought suddenly
came to form in my mind,
that this har creature a found missing link
whose nocturnal glowing facade exploding charade
possibly a message
or motion nothing more
than routine smoothing out an anatomical kink
on front and back oh head resembling
a Doctor Zeus characterization,
viz a harmless rat fink
hm...maybe a vestigial progenitor
of former birth by Gaia now extinct
though from afar, the b52 shaped being
aye espied as fur ball affixed
with a long elephant like snout to drink
and appeared to lack occipital orbs,
yet evinced possible mode to see via a chink
impossible to restrain me noggin
appearing to nod and blink,
--------------------------------
hence entranced my attention fixed
from faint (perhaps a feint)
flickr ring meant as playful faux
role playing lunatic humorous acting wry
impossible to decode explicit antics
(of spacial cosmic guest),
no matter eyes nearly shut tight visual
wondering if non verbal communication
of mine correctly interpreted
meant to kibitz and vie
despite impossibility to validate,
a continuous effort yours truly did try
fixing thy gaze, nee straining
with alm aye might to esse spy
if cheap trick concocted entire visage,
which might not constitute life form
(admitting this chap to prevaricate,
and be full of baloney),
himself prone to confabulate
(dropped one to many times on the head)
when this rocky lunar image,
a moon scape comprising nothing
boot ham and cheese on rye.
A mystical, magical cat named Mary Maid Mim
Met me at my most favorite spinning class in a gym
She said, "Your beard certainly needs a good trim."
I thought, "This cat has a lot of sass, vigor and vim."
I brought her home, on a lark, using a box from the park.
She did not do any tricks the first day, choosing perhaps to stay.
The next night I awoke to two cats, and other one's name was Spats.
How did he get in, I wondered as I massaged my chin.
By day four there were four cats in my sink, cozy cuddily I think.
I could not believe my eyes, the two new ones were a surprise!
"I can clone myself," Mary Maid Mim told me, with finesse of an elf.
What in the world was I going to do? Every day a cat, a new?
Trite query from pen so weary
My muse has blown a fuse
The light that once shined has declined
My fleeting hope hangs from a rope
A vagabond whose muse did abscond
With illuminating spark leaving him in the dark
Out on a lark; my scuttled engine in park
Night and day I recon the lexicon
But the literary discourse is no recourse
To a stray itinerate who has lost his way
The sty in my eye has begun to cry
The pus is no fuss; my page is dry
A rhyme for a dime would be sublime
Perhaps, a bartered verse in my purse
Will break the curse, or still worse
Might stain with shame my languishing pain
Incarcerating my fraudulent pen in the critic's den
Oh, if words would rain then my brain drain
Would filter inspiration to my perspiration
The fertile strain if only but a grain
Would fertile sprouts shoot extinguishing my doubts
He was going to choose coffee.
But this matcha drink intrigued him.
Made him buy it on a lark.
Monday coffee?
Monday Matcha sounds better!
He wanted to share matcha with his coworkers.
But then they would hate him.
Glaring at him as if his clothes were melting away.
And also his hair is dripping with some goo.
They’ve always hated him.
He keeps the matcha a secret.
He hands everyone their coffee drinks.
The lattes, the doubles, even the triples.
He takes a sip of this green drink.
The taste is odd.
Like drinking footprints.
He takes another sip.
The taste is like some person handed him this green drink.
Except it doesn't taste green, or gray, or even orange.
Or floral, or bright, or happy.
He had been drinking coffee since college.
Terrible times.
Do people like matcha?
Do people hate matcha?
They sure hate him.
Yet, somehow the rest of the week was…
Like matcha.
You can’t spit it out.
You can’t undo it.
Everyone hates you.
Matcha Monday…
The coffeeshop asked what he wanted.
And he really didn’t know.
In the green Adirondack foothills lies
the haven of our old summer camp,
once a place of adventure and outdoor joy,
and the loud cries of precocious scamps,
their energy you never could tamp,
scurrying ’round on small, rapid feet,
leaping into the pond without a beat.
I remember coming here myself,
gazing up at the grand totem pole,
the mess hall with fieldstone fireplace,
where countless tall-tales were told,
and lordy, was the pond bitter cold!
There was a trading post for candy, snacks,
and toilets which all amenities lacked…
To scampering kids it felt like we were
far off in a rugged wilderness,
that tall white pines just rolled on
in a vast and uncharted forest,
and we were just the ones to explore it!
The only sign of steel on our trails
was a pair of rusted, forgotten trial rails.
Then I came back here as an adult
and found the revelry was long passed,
the town had bought up all the old camp,
no kids raced swiftly ’cross the grass,
it had been too good of a place to last,
folks blamed it on poor demographics,
cell phones, and parents afraid of risk.
I suppose I should be thanking the town,
because the made the space into a park,
at the very least it will be preserved,
even though it’s missing that old spark,
and youngsters sprinting ’round on a lark,
they’re even cleared out some new ground…
by tearing half the rustic buildings down.
The trading post, now a picnic pavilion,
the staff cabins now an empty field,
the docks pulled up and carted away,
the pond belongs now to minnows and eels,
not entirely sure how I feel,
out there we swam and swamped canoes,
now it’s blocked off from public use.
The mess hall, at least, is still standing,
they say it’s becoming a historic sight,
but to see it still present, all alone,
somehow just doesn’t feel all that right,
with its clap-board fading in bright sunlight,
at least the boat-house still rises near,
though it’s probably collapse within the year.
I turned away in a very glum mood,
made my way to my car rather slow,
thinking of all I had done here
that my children are never going to know,
there are few places like this left to go.
it brings a well-known though to my mind:
Damn you, damn you, damn you time!
Thistle Be Nettlesome To Weed...
Who (on a lark) doth
spur my distant soul
fully bellowed ahoy
quickly hastening
ye to catfish
as a way to avoid
this beastie boy
wherein America playfulness
of generic gull versus buoy
ought tubby coy,
where thee
(latter days haint)
feeble, (non fable us)
jerry-rig mock up employ
appetizing as pâté de foie
gras, flavored for
tastebuds of goy
opposed to dietary
strictures of Jew,
moost likely christening
implies holier than thou
(especially, asper those hoy
tee toy
tee upscale rich folk)
proudly prideful mensch
linkedin kindling joy
de vivre, while
quietly dwelling stoke
king traditions ensconced, poke
king and prodding youngest
generation to become
rooted like mighty oak,
within their mini mansions,
and attending synagogue,
solemn non joke
kingly seriously
commingling, congregating,
and copulating plenti
fully, while livingsocial
at least among other rich folk,
sans Mainline, Pennsylvania
a cohesive family tribe
dispersed members of Zion
prompting this atheistic
scribe try'n
to fathom long gone - NEIN
never forgotten Semitic
village people (mine
ancestry), who hailed and
harkened from Eastern Europe
wonder on this
eightieth anniversary,
of Kristallnacht, where genocide
cleft a jagged line,
where ponders thyself
countless relations
haunting as I dost
eat, sleep or dine!
Some questions for you, Little Miss Riding Hood.
First, do you often walk all alone in the wood?
Why yes, as a matter of fact, I do.
I like being out in nature. Don’t you?
Yes, but the wood is scary and dark.
I wouldn’t go walking there just on a lark.
Well, I go out a lot, for my grandma lives there.
Unlike Goldilocks, I’m afraid of no bear!
But I read in some book that a big bad wolf ate
your grandma. Then also you met the same fate.
You’ve read the wrong version of a dumb fairy tale.
It’s barely the truth and things ended quite well!
Well, that’s plain to see. You’re as live as can be.
What actually happened? You’ve got to tell me!
When the wolf in my grandma’s clothes lay in her bed.
I was thinking, “Oh, crap. Is my grandmother dead?”
So the wolf did not fool you, and you did not say
“Grandma, how big your nose is” that day?
Even a fool could have figured things out.
People don’t have noses as large as a snout!
So you guessed right away! But weren’t you afraid?
Your story is nothing like how it’s portrayed.
In my basket I carry a nice big sharp knife.
I used it to take the big bad wolf’s life.
How daring and brave. But your grandma was dead.
At least that’s what every fairy tale said.
Oh, no, they’re all wrong. My grandma’s okay.
The wolf only knocked her unconscious that day.
My questions are answered. I thank you, Miss Hood.
Your story’s not gruesome. The ending is good!
You’re welcome. I think my tale should reinforce
if you want the truth, you should go straight to the source!
This is me conversing with Miss Hood (whose words are in bold print)
For those who do not know, this is a fairy tale for which there are different versions; however, always in the fairy tales Red Riding Hood is tricked into believing that the wolf is impersonating her grandmother, and to me, this just never made sense that someone could not see with their own eyes that a wolf was wearing a grandmother's clothes, so that was my inspiration for this poem
Written Feb. 27, 2022
For A Conversation With A Fictional Character Poetry Contest
Sponsor: Natasha L Scragg
Some poets write to glorify the Lord
while others like to sing the praises of
earth’s beauty or perhaps of their adored.
So many write of nature and of love!
Some poets have a funny bone. They come
up with cute limericks while some write dark!
Some rant; some ramble; some write haiku; some
can give great thought, while some write on a lark!
All poets use the themes that suit them best.
Some are eclectic. Others use few styles.
It’s not for me to say what is the best.
We can inform, inspire, bring tears or smiles.
So whether it’s with levity or might,
we poets must take up our pens and write!
Oct. 9, 2020 for Beth Evans' A Poet's Duty Poetry Contest
Submitted Feb. 7, 2022 for 'A STRAND (1068)' Poetry Contest