Long Rough and ready Poems
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ButtercupShalimar was a cat, that was white
She was fluffy and furry and real girl girly.
One day, in a baskety in the bedrommy,
She had six kittiebabies with big, big loud cries . . .
Mew mew mew MEW! They all cried and, all the time!
And soon they grew grew grew grew and GREW!
There were three girl kitties and three boy kitties, too
The girl kitties were all sugar and spice sweetness,
And their names were SquigglesWigglesGreyKitty,
PebblesFluffyWhiteKitty and TickleCuddlesOrangeKitty.
The boys were called, DoodlesDafferBrownKitty,
WeeblesWonkiSpottedKitty and last PuddlesRascalBlackKitty.
The boys were all hoop and holler, you know boys!
Well, life for ButtercupShalimar was upanddownable,
It was CRAZY keeping track of the six hooligans
but she needed a rest outside, so she left them sleeping,
ZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZ . . .
When ButtercupShalimar came back it was all topsy turfy
in the housedippity with the back and forth and up and down
of six rough and ready kittiebabies all aroaming unsupervised!
She gathered them up and started counting . . .
One kitty, two kitty, three kitty, four kitty, five kitty . . . huh
"OH MY WHISKERS!" Screamed ButtercupShalimar,
"Where is SquigglesWigglesGreyKitty!
So they searched the housedippity, they all marched,
up and down, around and around, up in the attic
and even down in the basement, they yelled,
"Has anyone seen SquigglesWigglesGreyKitty?"
They mewed mewed to the dog, the bird in its cage,
and even a mouse walking by!
"Oh dear, oh dear, OH Dear ME, where could she be?"
And the five all answered at once, "WE DON'T KNOW, know."
All exhausted and dragging their paws they went
to the baskety in the bedroomy for a wee rest,
And whatdoyouthunk they saw all curled upidy
SquigglesWigglesGreyKitty with her head tucked under her paws!
So, if you lose a kittiebabie, look in the baskety in the
bedroomy closetety, FIRST!
___________________________
August 20, 2015
Poetry/Free Verse/ButtercupShalimarCat
Copyright Protected, ID 15-702-352-0
All Rights Reserved. Written under Pseudonym.
For the contest, Childrens Story, Dr. Suess Style,
Sponsor, Casarah Nance
Sixth Place
Ohio is right here, and the rattling gold of
earth-born corn is here.
All over creation the sky is wide open
and the green and yellow stalks are swaying
right here.
Here the wind-songs are rough and ready,
yet they are as holy as any prayer.
Over there a stand of trees
where the olive frocks of summer
sway and shimmy.
The mud and dirt here is as good as any,
all just as rich as anywhere else
and the grubbing creatures in and upon it
are our wealth
These fetched-up farm fields
are sure-enough an atlas,
the roots of heaven rise below us,
time delves and sprouts here,
the sky descends to till the soil.
This is the land beyond the great river,
the sun nests here, and the stars appear
reflected in up-turned eyes.
We are the unrolled map, we are rural Ohio,
come walk over the world here,
rest on a wayside bench, linger long
or stay - right here.
No "FAKE" Fire Drill
Residents at high
land manor apartments
(aside from myself)
got rudely awakened -
by what sounded
like a screaming,
seething, and shrieking airplane
early morning hour
'ere september eleventh
two thousand eighteen
with deafening decibel (at
maximum threshold)
ear piercing shrill alarm
rousing atavistic primal
Neanderthal tapping primal brain
if NOT a atheist secular humanist,
I would aver my linkedin match
(com mon lee) attributed
to Abel and/or Cain,
but whether broad
minded or parochial,
that deafening fire alarm
this bloke doth disdain
but to ears of
volunteer fire fighters,
that unbearable audio
warning tone beloved,
aye need not explain
how appreciative, and
reassure ring knowing
rough and ready persons fain
to selflessly risk
life and/or limb,
when trucking
extinguishing arsenal
with genuine gratitude to gain
demonstrating without
pomp and circumstance
the art of being humane
automatic reflexive
instincts second nature
where breathe, eat,
and live for others
a credo, dictum,
ethos deep ingrain
within every cell
of their sturdy bodies,
sans indefatigable as
Tarzan and Jane
on par with prestidigitation skill
visa vis tricks of the trade
discovered via legerdemain,
yet aside from
power house strength,
another salient trait
needed asper physically,
emotionally, and spiritually exhausting,
grueling, and taxing job,
would necessitate one to maintain
composure in the
midst of pandemonium
gamely, gingerly, and
gloriously fighting infernos
(WITHOUT any mon
key business)
while training, learning,
and exacting diligence
non harried styled
tailored swiftness!
The whole world I can measure in this cornfield.
Why would I need
to go to Indiana or Pennsylvania
or Katmandu?
Ohio is right here, and the rattling gold of the corn is here.
Yes Indiana has its rustic temples also ~
as does Kentucky and Idaho,
all over the world the sky is wide open
and the green and yellow corn is swaying,
but why travel
when this amber upsurge is before us?
Here I can feel the hidden ramparts
of a mighty cathedral of music
here under my feet,
the songs are rough and ready,
but they are as good as any prayer.
Over there a stand of trees
where the green frocks
of summer shadow-dance.
Each stalk of corn climbs to its highest
and my spirit climbs with them,
rocking on that sea of wind-waving luster.
The mud and dirt here is as good as any,
they are just as holy as elsewhere
as are all the grubbing creatures in and upon it.
This field is a sure-enough atlas
it reaches surpassingly deep and high,
the roofs of heavens are below us
the roots of time delve and sprout here
the sky descends to breathe within each breast.
This is the land beyond the great river,
that river brings the world here,
the sun nests here, and the stars appear
reflected in our up-turned eyes.
We listen to the tilling breeze
mapping the whole of creation
in just this well formed,
well farmed forty acres
above and below
but also in Michigan and elsewhere.
I had heard of such historical place,
never realizing that someday,
I would really go there.
I was curious
but cautious and calculating,
feeling very safe and secure.
That is, until my curious mine
Arrested and got the best of me.
I was on the beaten paths,
But turned off the main road
When I saw a sign pointing to
What I would call, a curious place.
I then headed west to satisfy
My curiosity gene, and within
minutes, I was driving through
The little California town called
"Rough and Ready".
She got her name from a gold mining
Company. She even became a Republic,
But rejoined The USA after three months.
I told you 'she had an interesting history'.
It was near a river named Yuba
and a little town named Rough and Ready.
No. It was not dark.
It was the heart of the day.
There were no streets, dead ends, or otherwise.
There was simply a dirt road that led somewhere,
But 'dead-end to me', as per my onboard brain-computer.
The street lights were not broken.
It was rural, and there were no lights.
No. I was not afraid; just concerned and frustrated.
I was looking for 'shortcuts and time savers' but found neither.
In the middle of 'nowhere', I soon turned around and got back
on the main road. Short-cut hunt? Quickly abandoned.
Back roads and back fields? Beware and be weary.
Lesson learned? Not all shortcuts are created equally.
These rugby-playing girls -
or women, should I say? -
are so rough and ready,
dashing down that field,
conveying that oval ball
from this end to that,
gritting their teeth.
Oh, what might! Such a sight!
Or do I not prefer
to behold delicate white frocks
on ladies whose fairylike fingertips
hold their tiny needles,
sewing and crocheting,
or simply sitting in silence and smiling
as we fawn on and fancy their fine, fine faces?
Yet would I not receive a slap around my head
for even daring to dawdle on such thoughts?
It is so easy to spend so much time pondering
before I wake in fright:
which sight might I hold tight in my sleeping eyes
moments before I rise - and rise some more?
(19 May 2023)
Civilisation's got me down
taking me to the tail of my tether
driving me round the bend
I'm not going to stick it out
to see where it will end
I'll do my best to regress
back to the stone age
cook on fire paint the walls
sit on rocks keep my cool
do what I have to when nature calls
humanity gets my goat
making me vote skins no clothes
leading me to lunacy's throes
I'm not going to see it through
to find where it all goes
I want to be a cave caveman
a tough rough-and-ready caveman
and do what cavemen do
and if you feel the animal urge
I'll make caveman love to you
Enrolling as a pirate is much harder than it seems,
You’ll need to speak in present tense and chase your wildest dreams.
Well, once you’ve trained a parrot and been measured for your hook,
You have to plough through pages of the health and safety book.
The pointed end’s the bow, whilst your rudder’s near the aft,
Our crow’s nest has no greenery - that struck me as pretty daft.
We share the seas with submarines, with shipwrecks and blue whales
An’ there be umpteen ropes and pulleys with which to hoist our sails.
If we earn a jug of rum, we treat that as a gift.
The winds are strong and variable, I hopes you get my drift,
You’ll need to bring some cutlery and a deep enamel dish
If you want to get your ration of vegetables and fish.
You’ll have to learn to tolerate some rough-and-ready chaps,
Forget those childhood stories about chests and treasure maps,
You need to wield a cutlass to acquire the upper-hand,
So there ain’t much time for paddling, or playin’ on the sand.
You have to act as look-out when you’re sailing through the mist
But once you’re down the gangplank there are lassies to be kissed,
So be somewhat suspicious when they tries to hold your hand
They might be agents for The Revenue and want your contraband.
We hate the swarthy merchantmen, the Spaniards and the Danes,
We hate them water companies spillin’ sewage from their drains,
The noise of heavy cannon-fire plays havoc with our ears,
But that’s a strong tradition amongst us buccaneers.
Every job has downsides - it’s always been that way
But we get to see the sun go down almost every day,
And when you leave your hammock you may catch the sun a-rising
So sign-on as a pirate and your life will be surprising!
Hawkish angels with golden bows
chase away shawnee and wolves.
A sinewy faith built the rough and ready.
We were pleased to claim this land
for Jesus.
Despite the tornadoes,
we continued to raise
Midwest cities
from a leather flogged bible.
We were conceived in closets
where ancestral bones watched.
Buried in leased plots;
stones marked our lack of,
or notable faith in affluence.
Just past Easter, cracks appeared
in a pink painted sky.
An ethereal plaster crumbled.
angelic limbs hung,
caught in a cracked tableau.
Plastic arrows littered marbled floors.
A mall dream, but the dream had legs
unseen, they kept running
on the spot.
Log cabins transported themselves
to Theme Parks.
The Tuesday after Easter
hope clogged casinos,
took root.
God began to fill
storage units
with all His kids
persnickety dreams.