Long Skunk Poems
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something tragic
happened to the girl
no one knows what
she began to write poetry
no one knows why
bluebirds turned into ravens
ships sunk in calm harbors
men turned overnight
into monsters
she wrote about her daddy
the secret Nazi of Martha’s Vineyard
her mother the drunk
her brother the skunk
dark revelations hammered words
and drooled like Pavlovian dogs
she became famous
for being overwrought
chained as she was
to her poetics arts
of course she had always
planed her ending
old poets are the first
to be forgotten
but the young -
the put upon
they live on
to rattle our cages
through the ages
When I look at the charred plasma
of a bare knuckled wind
I forget yellow
I forget the smeared tone
of skunk cabbage
rising through fog and mulch
or how in Chiang Mai
the river at sunset
transforms a blistered heat
into the stippled gold of temple lamps
After the grey scuttle of urban hours
there is a yellowed drizzle
of twilight in any city
when a chill haze of evaporation
hangs gleaming and electric
I see the mottled leaf of autumn
how gold seeps through
its flamboyant carnage
away from the ruby panic
of fledgling mouths
or the crimsoned wounds of flowers
I seek a tint
an irreducible essence
a yellow, not oxidize like blood
in the light of day
PINE BLOSSOM PAVEMENT
I never left the soft sunshine,
reflected across the satin smooth pond, deep in the forest,
with flowered edges of pink ladyslippers, wild roses and daisies,
to slope old deer trails...... foraging mushrooms, wild garlic and sage,
I'm still in awe as I pass by city trees, reminded of old growth
red and white pine, towering over my humble path,
whispering wisdom.... as their crowns gently sway in the wind.
I pour myself a glass of tap water.... but am refreshed again,
as I drink from the secret spring I discovered
bursting forth, the true 'Source of the Mississippi' a stone's
throw from Lake Itasca.... on Elk Lake
sirens wail, but sleep still comforts me.... with haunted loon lullabies,
and melancholy frog symphonies,
I still eat fast food, but am nourished by line-caught fish
rising to my bait... as fog lifts with the sunrise,
I barrel down the freeway.... while still paddling silently
into sunsets filled with looming shadows of the voyageurs,
all around the city sounds.... yet I hear cheerful warblers and
the midnight bark of the doe, calling her fawns,
gasses from sewer vents confront me.... but I smile!
as the skunk marks his range,
I'm back in the city,
..... but think in the forest
back in the city....
but think in the forest
More Texas Idioms
(that have been around)
“since Heck was a pup”
Composed: by Tom
1/11/2021
Heck was “fat as a boarding house cat” and that’s no bunk,
some thought that he, was “tougher than stewed skunk.”
They said never play cards with this man called Heck,
cause “He’s on a first name basis with the bottom of the deck.”
He’s so crooked, “you can’t tell from his tracks if he’s coming or going,”
and if Heck says it’s hot its “afixin” to start snowing.
He’ll leave you feeling confused “as a goat on AstroTurf” or a dope,
I couldn’t tell if “I’d lost my mule or found a rope.”
The purpose of my visit was just to size up this brawler,
He lived “left past yonder” about “two hoots and a holler.”
I quickly saw that Heck was just mostly idle prattle,
that he was a man “who was all hat and no cattle”.
He was “yellow as mustard but without the bite,”
and “if he was melted down he couldn’t be poured into a fight”.
With visit over as I headed out I heard him say,
“never kick a Cow patty on a hot day.”
I’ve been “From here to there and back again,”
no more am I going, now that I’ve been.
When I look at the charred plasma
of a bare knuckled wind
I forget the ardor of yellow.
Then I recall the smeared tones
of skunk cabbage
rising through haze and mizzle,
or how in the Far East
the river at sunset
transforms a blistered heat
into the stippled gold of temple lamps.
After the grey scuttle of urban hours
there’s a yellowed drizzle
of twilight in any city
when a chill brume of evaporation
hangs gleaming and electric.
I see the mottled leaf of autumn
how gold seeps through
its flamboyant carnage.
Far away from the ruby panic
of fledgling mouths
or the crimsoned wounds of orchids,
I seek a tint, a gloaming yellow essence,
a sun-flowering at the of day.
1
Santa rang our door bell on Christmas day,
Puzzled! we stood did not know what to say,
when we opened the big front door,
he stumbled and fell to the floor,
said he “Need to use your toilet, I pray!!”
2
Thief broke in and hid behind Christmas tree,
Folks woke up but he hoped they would not see,
Five year old saw from veranda,
“Look! look” she cried “there’s our Santa”!
“Thanks for the presents”! she said with a glee!
3
Skunk drunk, home late on Christmas was Kelly,
Quiet! tiptoed upstairs to wife Elly,
in to bed did he slowly crawl,
hoping wife would not know at all,
But soon yelled as rat-trap caught his willy!
1St Placement
Written06/12/2020
sponsor Alexis Y
Christmas Limerick Poetry Contest
"Twas the night before Christmas...
When Mrs. Claus had got drunk
She went to a party...
With a hyena and a skunk
She laughed all night long...
Till, something had stunk
'Twas the laughing hyena...
When he pulled out his junk
Mrs.. Clause had caught sight...
Then, she danced with some funk
Her Jolly old fellow...
Her man, ...with some sp-nk
She thought it was Santa...
But, it was some punk
Disguising himself, with a beard...
Dressed, like a monk
So, she ended the night...
and crawled into her bunk
Then said, Merry Christmas...to all
Now, ho-ho-ho please leave me alone, it's me time :) ...with me hunk!
Whoop-Whoop!
The Night Before Christmas 2 PC
Sponsored by Joseph May
11-21-2019
A woodland path in the dappled sun, hushed and quiet
sometimes straight
sometimes curvy
sometimes up
and sometimes down
but no matter which way it goes
colors displayed go from verdant shades to brown...
along the way mushrooms have sprouted their
white speckled tops over the red hood
and skunk cabbage
blooms
in an odoriferous kind of way
really
it is a most beautiful day -
this woodland path
holds many discoveries for the eye to see
if only one might take the time
to simply be
be one with natures abundance
as the time comes and goes
and as I walk along
there is a pond that from the shadows grows
so calm and so still
my woodland path
takes the edge of the cities chill.
cherilyn fry
contest: a woodland path
done: june 7th, 2011
Thanks to the potters of chop city
for kneading us a keyhole peek
into a new green world dis-order.
Where all colors of the rainbow are represented
except for blue and the color of common sense.
A six block funhouse of
intolerance-
intimidation
rape-
assault-
extortion
murder.
A murder of dregs
descending on the naïve
and ideologues
where perverts and virgins
bump and grind like
dust devils and windchimes
until their weeping cherries popoff the vine..
A Mad land where the grown-ups feed their
feral children to opportunists.
A never-ending fools food fight
where rainbows collapse into
sidewalk crappers.
Many thanks to the potters of chop city
for showing us how to knead a flower
into skunk weed in less than a month.
30 Rolls of Quarters
Miracle Man
1/6/2021
This Pandemic hasn’t been a great morale booster,
but no hill for this stepper for I’m somewhat a loner.
Some days are as hard as “putting socks on a rooster,”
and my parts are all worn out so I can’t be a donor.
The thing about aging is each day’s a discovery,
I’m always finding things I’ve hidden from Ern.
Only later to stagger on them and make a recovery,
My sweetie says I act like we’ve money to burn.
Today I uncovered a previously hidden stash,
which can’t be spent without parental consent,
We’re gifting these rolled quarters, to Daisy & Cash.
now they’ll never be entirely broke, just seriously bent.
This is what this pandemic has done to me. ha
When Ern’s in a “horn tossing mood”
I practice social distancing.
Because “She could start a fight in an empty house”
and she says “he will argue with a wooden Indian”
and is “so narrow minded he can look through a keyhole with both eyes.”
I think I’m “tougher than stewed skunk”
but Ern says I’m “all hat and no cattle”
I’m always accusing her of being tight,
but she says, ”she has short arms and deep pockets.”
but we both know it’s “almost time to put the chairs in the wagon”
but until God calls, “as long as I’ve got a biscuit, she’s got half.”
Tom