Long Peck at Poems
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This is a story of an old couple who had no children of their own.
One day while the old woman was washing clothes at a nearby river, she saw a large rosy peach floating downstream.
She got ahold of it to give to the old man.
Yet, before he had a bite of it, the rosy peach burst open.
It had no large seed in it, but a baby boy.
The baby ate the peach and became very strong and healthy.
The old couple took care of him as he grew to be the strongest and healthiest baby in the whole countryside.
The old couple named him 'Momotaro', the Peach Boy, a secret kept only to themselves.
One day, Momotaro asked his mother, the old woman, to make him a bagful of 'kimi-dango', a Japanese millet dumpling, for him to take on a journey to Ogre's Island and take their treasure from them.
He left the couple with the kimi-dango bag tied to his waist.
He came upon a monkey who says to him, "Kia, Kia!" Momotaro tells him of his task, whereto, the monkey said he'll tag along for a kimi-dango.
Momotaro agreed and off they went until they came upon a pheasant who says, "Ken, Ken!" Momotaro tells him of his task, whereto, the pheasant said he'll tag along for a kimi-dango.
Momotaro agreed and off they went until they came upon a dog who says, "Bow, Wow, Wow!" Momotaro tells him of his task, whereto, the dog said he'll tag along for a kimi-dango.
Momotaro agreed and off they went until they came upon Ogre Island where Momotaro reveals his plan.
The pheasant must flu over the castle gate and peck at the Ogre's, and the monkey must climb over the castle wall and pinch the Ogre's and the dog and I will break the bolt and the dog will bite the Ogre's and I will fight with the Ogre's.
A great battle then ensued.
"Kia, Kia!", "Ken, Ken!", "Bow Wow Wow!", was heard from sun to sun, ending with all the ogre's tied and the treasure was shared between the four.
Date: 06/16/2019
I have bought an old typewriter.
Black and silver scrolled, heavy as history.
Up all night, dreaming up a desk for it.
The desktop had to marshmallow plumpy
to avoid the rattle of any disjointed poetry.
The white legs shaped just right.
I put a black lace garter on all four.
The antiquated machine
speaks a thousand words of English,
if you peck at it with a thousand fingers.
I have hired a woman. For is this not 1923?
A help who will never seek to comprehend
what I ask her to type.
Today the old typewriter, the desk, and the lady
are all in place.
I pace the floor in my frock coat, mumbling
into a full beard.
“Sir, do you want me to type
that incoherent incantation
you so wearily utter?
“Just type anything, but be sure it is almost believable,"
I admonish.
than this Carolina wren,
my small but confident soul,
hoping purposefully
between mishappen branches.
My backyard is full
of long, uneven grass
and busy, insistent
singers:
birds with
loud, demanding messages
on a warm evening in April,
when everything is green
and thirsty for rain
and further growth.
Where the grass
doesn't grow,
brown bundles
of forgotten leaves
decorate the southern
Carolina clay.
The female cardinals
of duller shades
are full-bodied and eat
greedily from my half-
filled feeders, and the finches
peck at scraps of seeds
like tiny yet efficient vacuums.
The lawnmower lies
dormant by the once blue,
dilapidated
trampoline
that once embraced
four to five children
in a closed circle
of hilarious bouncing.
The windchimes
no longer stir or offer
solace when the heat
has tired out the day
and their parched
metal tubes are
resting.
My middle-aging soul
has yet to find a song
for spring, or worthy
recognition.
A barred owl
kept me up last night
with consistent hooting
and unbroken cadence
that demanded a
wakeful audience, if only me
for company.
It called to me,
in my own mind,
to join him in the woods,
or so it seemed
to my unsteady reasoning.
I lied awake
more wakeful
than this nocturnal
hunter who was born
for anchored meaning
on unflinching branches,
and truer melody
than me.
Yesterday,
another owl stared at me
nonchalantly on a branch
that divided the woods
from our Quaker school.
His nest may not be far
and he was casual in his
unflinching consideration
of me and other things.
The geese squawk
past the woods, claiming
territory with long necks
and awkward fumbling,
breaking the quiet evening,
yet still somehow
a part of things.
This morning, my yard was hopping
with squirrels and rabbits busily shopping
for pine needles, berries, and cones,
perfumes, oils, and sweet colognes,
to entice partners for this evening's bebopping.
The fox said to the wolf in a huff.
"We're making this problem way too tough.
You take that goat, Sandie,
and I'll take that lamb, Randy.
And we'll split Porks, if that ain't enough."
There was some tumultuous to do
in the pouch of mommy kangaroo.
The twins were jumping and springing,
doing summersaults and singing,
making mommy kangaroo ~ so blue.
Tiny birds scooting across the street,
hopping on their three-toed, little feet.
A car misses them by inches ~
they'd be dead if they were finches!
Tiny birds! Get off the street! Tout sweet!
I chanced on a cat as big as a bear
who was all covered in grizzly, brown hair.
He was cornered by a mouse
as big as a house!
And guess who there was trembling in fear.
"You look like a million bucks
in your elegant white tux,"
said the ravenous wolf to a lamb.
"But though you look pretty in it,
don't think for a minute
I'm not gonna eat you, cuz I am."
Two smart crows peck at a road-kill cat,
plucking bits of liver, lungs, and fat.
Crow one inquires of crow two:
"How's this feline tasting to you?"
"Much finer than last week's sewer rat."
A third of the ducklings is three,
waddling behind Mama Shérie.
If a duck is a bird,
and three is a third,
how many birds do you see?
Life in this big old fishbowl
was never quite completely whole,
till Wally the walrus
came to dwell among us,
and gave this fishbowl some soul.
Oh, kiddies, please be alert!
Here live dangerous dragons that squirt
all manner of green ire
and orangy hell fire,
and if you get hit, you’ll be hurt.
The traffic was strident, lanes straight
the cars lined the street and froze rigid.
The cop with a glare of pure hate, directed
a line of gate crashers cutting.
The sidewalks segmented in rows, false
lure more tourists into a queue.
Cowed were young folk and old folks all queued
a ménage which was quite far from straight,
all had come for a peck at the Bard, false.
even a librarian or too, who waited with spines rigid,
and scowls on their lined brows like cuts
their critiques would be most direct.
Teens kiss in a clutch most directly
their faces make braces of queues
Scalpers hawk to the latecomers cutoff,
the elite meet and greet heading straight
for the red road with a rigid
line of bull filled with falsities.
Inside the antiquated theatre under false
the foot lights lining the aisles direct
Mayor and matron, gran and child in rigid
alleys to velvet seats also queued.
The stare of critic and patron glared straight
64 toward the author so pinned and cutting.
A bright white light cut
the chill air so false
and focused on drape lined straight
each fell open as artist directed
and orchestra swells filled their queue
and the author he sat stark and rigid.
His fate would he find in lines rigid
on the page of tomorrows review, they’d cut
make or they’d break his heart’s queue
these piranhas with smiles so false.
No fate could be more direct
this tonic he must imbibe straight.
So like dominoes, they fall lines rigidly, piercing cuts
Filleted be he by queues false,
in the end words directly aimed, straight to death cue.
Crows move in.
They perch quietly
in the coaches looking at us
from their window seats.
For us it’s a strange thing to see
but the crows know.
They are staring, waiting patiently
as if willing us to move on
so that the sky can also move on
and not just hang there
so low, so still.
We tend to the wounded
and the dead.
The crows peck at the cracked windows,
they want the sky to come inside,
and it does
it begins to seep into the coaches
writhing volumes of grey
forming firming spaces,
cloudy forms
between the crows.
The crows
are eagerly facing forward now.
The sky-formed spaces
seem to wave goodbye at us
as everything moves on.
Five Flashes of Crimson
In Agricola, where the late sun lies,
And October's gold is fading from the skies,
A fence post holds a simple, wooden line,
And hosts a sight both crimson and divine.
Not one, not two, but five bright feathered vests,
Have paused their chatter and settled on the crests.
The Northern Cardinals, with coats of fire,
Are drawn by hunger to a sweet desire.
They dip and peck at berries dark and round,
A quiet feasting, without any sound.
The male's sharp scarlet, a defiant gleam,
The female's blush, like an ember in a dream.
They come in kinship, a brief, familiar flock,
To gather fuel before the sudden clock
Of dusk arrives and chills the Mississippi air,
A vivid portrait, painted right there.
A messenger of hope, that flash of red,
A loving soul, the stories have been said.
But in that moment, nothing quite so grand,
Just five bright lives, eating from the land.
Perusing some recently mindless & unlabeled
shelfed works (my recently ancient poems),
benumbed fingers pluck jumbled words;
musings that had much meaning once
but now seem more like
the random scattering of monkey turds.
A thousand keyboards are buried in my brains landfill,
and here come the plucky and ribald seagulls
to peck at the words still wriggling through
unplugged motherboards.
Still and all, there may be a line or two
that have escaped the ravishes
of times disinterest and ennui,
there may be a poem here - somewhere,
its small, quivering spirit still hopefully squeaking:
"pick me, pick me!"
When the sun clicks into place
and miraculous sparrows peck at icicles
and the children let the dew erase their slates
then the clocks will drain themselves of infection
and we will utter stones in the black light
and you will shelter my nakedness under the wings of your mouth
and the wind will be our water
and the sky will be our bread
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Please note that I never have used and never will use AI to compose or revise any of my writings.
A random comment on poetry in general: If all art is political, then there is no point in trying to create political art.
Autumn sheds her dress of glorious gold
I shiver as it drifts gently to the ground
Dry falling leaves cannot be controlled
I adore their crunchy rustling sound
Gold sunflowers bend their heavy heads
as hungry birds peck at their shiny seeds
they once brightened up the flowerbeds
on their bounty the small birdie feeds
Huge pumpkins grow out in the fields
They resemble a huge lumpy tummy
I adore the bounty that nature yields
Eating sweet pumpkin pie is scrummy
I dream of visiting New England
I hear it’s just stunning in the fall
I’d catch a plane it would be grand
Autumn’s my favorite season of all
Fall Into Fall Poetry Contest
Sponsored by Chantelle Anne Cook
9/14/19