Long Slunk Poems
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It was after midnight,
when he slipped out of bed,
careful not to disturb,
the trailing streamers
of dreamers in la la land.
The house held its breath warm—
willing all within its walls
to stay asleep; not be stirred.
The creaks of timber stairs
were never heard, never slurred,
to blurt out their secrets and
break the stark, thin, brittle hush of night.
As he snuck into the kitchen,
the night light came on,
saving a bare-foot snub.
As he stooped to open the fridge,
he saw the note she left on the door,
from the day before, saying:
“I forgot to tell you the milk's a little off.”
He smiled at the crooked charm of the message,
feeling a ghost in the whispered warning.
Fed the milk to the cat.
It purred with delight.
Sometimes he thought, such tiny phrases,
slip in before they're noticed,
curdle before you taste them.
Only to slink away with a sting in their tale.
With that, he nodded and returned.
The fridge door slammed itself shut.
He wandered back to bed, on tiptoe, making no sound.
He left the light night burning,
for the shadows that rose on the landing,
and for the cat.
Both slunk away, back to bed.
Words in the Wind
By Mark D. Stucky
Winds carried away the words
that Jesus, the Word made flesh,
wrote in the dust,
while sitting near a trembling woman,
who was the accused,
who was bait in a trap.
“Adultery! Law! Stone! Death!”
Harsh words hurled by vigilantes,
hushed by the breath of a single sentence,
“Let the person who is without sin hurl the first stone.”
Words from the only one who was without sin,
and the only one who did not condemn.
As accusers slunk away,
he wrote more in the dust.
What were those ephemeral words,
mysteries lost to history?
A list of the accusers’ hypocrisies?
Words of justice and mercy?
Ashes to ashes. Words to dust.
In our dustbins of history,
what do we ourselves write?
What will sum up our lives’ words
before they are lost to the world?
Words of division, judgment, and hate?
Words of healing, mercy, and grace?
Will our words hurled
into the world,
resemble swords to wound
or salve to heal?
Will our words, blown by the wind,
be words written without sin?
(First published in Clay Jar Review, 17 Aug. 2022. This poem ponders the mystery of what words Jesus wrote in the dust as recorded in John 8:1-11. See also my poems “Margin of Error,” “Weapons of Wonder,” and “What Would Jesus Tweet?”)
(Image by HG-Fotografie on Pixabay.com.)
When the wolf applied nicely
If he could come in,
The pigs replied thricely he shouldn't.
Then they scratched at the hairs
On their chinny chin chins,
And tightly bolted the door so he wouldn't.
But wolves, when out shopping,
Are not easily put off,
Even faced with the risks they are takin'.
This one ignored the wheezing,
And the nagging, rasping cough,
In his lust for ham, pork chops, and bacon.
First, he blew down the straw house,
Then the one made of sticks,
But by the third he was straining and grasping.
It was a veritable fortress
Of well-mortared bricks,
And emphysema left him panting and gasping.
With one last mournful howl,
The wolf knew he was done
And lay down in the driveway, embarrassed.
The pigs regained their composure
And called 911,
But when the cops came, the wolf claimed he was harassed.
The argument raged
For an hour or more
'til the cops gave them all a citation.
Still gasping for breath
As he slunk from the door,
The wolf was stopped by a squealed invitation.
"Wolfie, oh, Wolfie, please won't you come in?
We'd so like to have you for lunch."
And he would have gone on and ignored the appeal,
If he only knew that "ragout de loup" (pr. rah-goo duh loo)
Was the entrée, but he had no hunch,
And he was not one to pass up a free meal.
When a wolf's sick and hungry,
He might let down his guard
And do dumb things a wolf shouldn't ought to.
But for pigs, it's expedient
To get the final ingredient
Required for a tasty "wolf stew".
The wolf's huffing and puffing
Couldn't even come close
To the pigs' stratagems and devices.
After seven martinis,
It still hadn't dawned on the dope
That intelligence wasn't one of his vices.
If he'd had more brains than brawn,
This poor wolf might have known
That the pigs never meant to surrender.
They'd no more need to fear or hate him,
They knew the booze would marinate him,
So when they served him up and ate him,
He'd be quite succulent and tender.
If this tale has a moral, I'd like to propose
That "three heads are better than one" be selected.
In this case, not the one who worked the hardest,
But the ones who worked the smartest,
And as the little piggies guessed,
The wolf was the perfect luncheon guest.
Of course, their table manners weren't the best,
So they still made pigs of themselves, as expected.
Matthew Scott, Whar Art Thou *****?
Nobody, but yours truly
bore deeply and countersunk
his spontaneity satisfactorily
lightweight corporeal mein kampf,
didst more than baptize or dunk
cuff, which admirably aided to flunk,
(whereat no universal solvent,
could (kant) kelp dissolve barnacles
of sea sonned gunk),
asper thickly congealed
encasing this laughable
antithesis of hullo kit ting hue man
overweening tricky hunk,
which thought to attempt
skidding row bust humor
as a "FAKE" teetering drunk
ken-pro lit tarry hut overgrown punk
(riotously swinging balled fists
way of course), and mine
feeble insubstantial poetic jabs, where
teenage shadow boxer slunk
tis my harmless recourse to peddle
as sway to escape funk
seriously, Aesop hoes,
this personal mockery
wrote for no rhyme nor reason junk
bonded really gluten
free self deprecating
playfulness of course as chipmunk
makes any sense, neither kerplunk
emanating from atop
me notched noggin
swishing with grade A klunk
emasculation par excellence, asper
out thee talking head of this lunk,
whose earlier "talk therapy"
every Monday at 2:00 p.m. with preshrunk
kin shrink finds tarnished psyche resonating
analogous to reverberation while spelunk
king in an echo chamber futilely
questing, searching, rummaging...why I trunk
hated living when merely thirteen
this admission honestly haint no bunk!
"Oh, hi!"
"Uh, huh?"
"Sorry did I wake you?"
"No this is my resting tree face."
"Oh thank goodness. Did they tell you I was coming?"
"No one tells me anything. Will you please stop doing circles around my trunk?"
"Sorry, I'm a skipping stone. It's kind of my thing."
"Is disobeying Newtonian laws of physics also your thing?"
"You sound like my mom."
"Why are you here?"
"I need to interview a dying tree for my school project. I picked you!"
"You go to school?"
"Pebbles Academy, can you believe it? They said it was based on my application essay. Do you wanna know the title?"
"No--"
"Stuck Between a Rock and Unrealistic Expectations of my Family."
"Title's too long."
"Can we start?"
"Start what?"
"The interview."
"I guess. I do have a nail appointment at 5."
"Oh."
"I'm just kidding! I can't move to make an appointment and I don't have nails. Fire away."
"What do you admire most?"
"Flexibility. I used to be flexible. Not so much anymore."
"Hm. Fascinating. What's you biggest fear?"
"The sound of a chainsaw. And department store vans filled with furniture."
"Favorite movie quote?"
(Austrian accent) "I'll be bark!"
"If you were stuck on a deserted island what 3 things would you bring with you?"
"A copy of Pyramid of Success by John Wooden, a copy of the The Wooden Bible, and a DVD of Castaway. I'll figure out how to watch it later."
"What is you biggest regret?"
"I never took a chance in life. I'm just too grounded."
"My last question: in 5 words or less, what advice would you give to a young sapling?"
"Leave it to beaver. Honestly beavers do most of the work around here."
"Thanks again, old tree."
"Anytime, skipping rock."
With that the rock skipped away and into a floating stream.
Left in the quiet, the trees branches swayed in the breeze.
The old tree sighed, a slow groaning creak.
"Anyone else need help finishing assignments?"
At once fawn and fauna crept out of the grassy shadows,
With tiny notebooks and miniscule writing utensils they slunk.
They crept to the edge of the old trees roots,
as many had waited for this moment their entire lives.
I woke up very early this morning, restless and bothered, itchy for the day to happen. As dawn broke orange, the city was revealed. I’ll never get tired of watching that. The snow was gone but a gloss over the city streets indicated ice. I scanned the landscape for movement - for life - like a predator.
Lisa and I are headed back to school today, at 11am, by air, which our parents feel is the best way to avoid our old, holiday nemesis omicron (doesn’t that make us sound like secret agents?).
Once everyone was finally up, Lisa and I got our busy-on, doing the last load of laundry and final packing. Lisa, packs a suitcase, by throwing clothes in without bothering to fold them, while I meticulously fold and roll my clothes, like a marine headed for deployment.
As Lisa and I worked, Leeza (12) was lying on Lisa’s bed, on her back with her head hanging over the edge - watching us pack upside down. Her red hair looked like a thrown plate of spaghetti.
Leeza was talk, talk, talking and gnawing on a toasted bagel at the same time. “How do you feel about going back to school?” she asked us. “OH, feelings!” I gasped, “A free therapy session!” “No, really,” she said, grown serious and rolling right side up.
Leeza is cute as a button and vulnerable - I could almost feel her anxiety. As the youngest sibling I’d been left behind too - you don’t want the holiday to end and your big sister to leave - it’s a singularly lonesome feeling. I wanted to grab her, like a puppy, wrestle her and tell her I love her and I’d miss her - like my sister used to do with me. I decided that as soon as we were done packing, I would.
“My GOD,” Lisa said to Leeza, “will you PLEASE shut up! I have to think.” Leeza blushed and shrugged “I’m just making conversation, grump-face, you’ve packed a million times before haven’t you?” “Does counting to 10 make murder premeditated?” Lisa asked the ceiling.
Suddenly, Lisa dropped the blouse she’d been holding and pounced on Leeza, tickling her as she squealed with delight. In a second they’d become a ball of flailing arms, legs, hair and playful noise. I slunk out of the room to give them their sister’s goodbye.
Besides, I smelled bacon.
I have almost never heard such a racket as this
The snakes slunk off down the alley with barely a hiss
The rats ran away, the instant the cacophony began.
“God preserve my ears!” yelled an early milkman.
Yes it was the cat band, with horrible screeching and all.
We heard it often in the wee hours that no longer tranquil fall.
Who sold them instruments? I asked the guy next door.
He turned and pointed to the silent music store.
Of course this place did not open until ten.
These caterwauling fools would be asleep by then.
I ran into my house and put some bright red earplugs in.
Tried to sleep but could not do it thanks to their awful din.
Dhramn Diet Pill
I took a pink diet pill.
The blue ones had stopped working.
And I stopped drinking all that stupid water.
I do not have time to go to the bathroom hourly.
Thought about it and realized I probably needed two diet pills.
Shook out another pink, and downed it happily.
Turned to see crackers and peanut butter.
A little taste would not hurt. Made them into sandwiches.
My husband had brought home my favorite coconut cake.
I stomped out of the kitchen, irritated.
Slunk back five minutes later and cut the cake into sixty-four pieces.
They were so small, I ate thirty-two of them.
Dhramn diet pill did not work.
Paint By Numb -brrs
A picture was there, all cut up with
lines forming strange shapes. I
seldom knew what the picture was
or if it ever became what it was.
“Take the blue pencil and color all
the shapes with the number 5 inside”.
Sort of an artistic “Where’s Waldo” game.
I was never good at “hide and seek”, so
the numbers often escaped me.
Somewhere around, “Take the orange
pencil…blah…blah…..blah……,
I had already left the reservation and
was creating a mosaic of leaves, sort
of a bad day in an autumn alleyway.
Then the voice of the six foot tall
Penguin Lady announced, “Put down
your pencils!” Somehow there was
a warning in that tone meant to alter
my plans for the day. The black and
white shadow loomed over me and
my Autumn Alleyway. The idea that
I was allowing my innate creativity
free expression slunk away like a
cur dog in defeat. Escape into the
colors, the mystery, the joy of
just playing with the colors,
I found, came at a price. This has
been a recurring theme usually
followed by the query: “Was it
worth it?” The answer was, and is,
always the same: “You bet your sweet
ass it was.” This answer was sometimes
less audible than at other times
when it was answered loudly,
confidently, with power and
conviction. With time, came power,
courage, and respect for the colors.
Respect for the invitation they offered
those many years ago, respect for the
lessons they taught me. Respect for the
pencils, the colors, the spaces,
and the numbers that I made my own.
John G. Lawless - 9/19/2014
for PD's - A poem you have not entered in a contest #13
sheer confidence oozed out of the queen of red
her enemies cowered, some slunk off in dread
her super power abilities were known throughout the land
She could throw lightning bolts out of her right hand.
What is the deal? She asked the wizard of mean.
He scurried away like a rat, fleeing from this queen.
Two other villains discussed how to take her on.
I’ll distract her, said a gargoyle named Simple Don.
Simple Don got tossed sixty-two feet up in a tree.
He screeched and wailed, for she had torn up his knee.
The queen of red had skin that began developing red hearts.
Like symmetrical, tattoos, flashing about two inches apart.
What is she doing now? An evil ogre wondered, scared to death.
Before he could get away, she renamed him Dead Man Seth.
He wailed and screamed, getting away, with both of his ears.
As he left the forest, the good animals clapped with cheers.
Moral of this story is to always keep hope from the start.
For inside of you may reside a Queen of Hearts.