Long Tahiti Poems
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He was a Professor of Difficult Sums,
Always kept a writing pad near,
Just in case of instant revelations,
With pencil parked behind one ear.
He could quadrate equations
With consummate ease
And quantum mechanicals
He found just a diverting tease.
He won the Nobel Prize so often
They let him keep the cup,
And he wore designer braces
To hold designer trousers up.
A benefactor of mankind,
Which used his flowing skill
To perfect better weapons with
Much more efficient ways to kill.
He lived in academic obscurity
Until the people learned his name
When he made the perfect mouse trap
Which brought him worldwide fame?
He was sent back into obscurity
When he just went a bit too far
By inventing a pollution free
Everlasting peoples motor car.
He beach combs now in Tahiti
Fitted with a silicon chip link
To wipe his mind of such thoughts
At the speed of an eyelid’s blink
For business is business
And everyone should know
The worst kind of fool is he
Who disturbs the status quo
It’s fall of 1888, the south of France,
In the verdant fields of Arles,
Two artists shared a single dream,
And so began their quarrel.
Vincent paved the way for Paul
With bold sunflower sprays.
Paul dissembled, stating plain,
“More practiced effort pays.”
“Don't smile before December,”
Said the mentor to his charge.
And the student pegged his better
As a bon vivant at large.
So, their tenure at the Yellow House
Grew troublesome and dark.
Their artists’ shared collective
Strayed a long way off its mark.
Dry and cold, the Mistral winds
Spread madness like a plague,
To infiltrate poor Vincent’s mind,
Whose memories grew vague.
Mania, delirium, anxiety, and fear,
Climaxed when the voices told him,
“You don’t need that ear!”
He’d heard no praise, regardless.
Dr. Rey used his sorry portrait
To fix his chicken coop.
Then Theo got engaged,
And Paul sailed away to Tahiti.
Now time’s become history,
And that paint smeared canvas,
Nailed to a chicken coop
Means to claim a hefty sum.
And Le Fou Roux lies cold in his grave,
Unmindful of the legend he’s become.
THIS SPACE RESERVED FOR
STARRY NIGHTS AT SAINT REMY
"The forest is my loyal friend A Delphic Shine to me."
Ralph Waldo Emerson, Greek Poet
Who is always there, through the good times and bad?
Who welcomes me when I'm happy, when I'm sad?
It's mother nature, my wise and trusted friend
Who teaches and comforts me until the end.
She's a philosopher - look and you can see.
She shows the world how to live in harmony.
Oh, wise and trusted friend -
When will people begin to comprehend?
A psychologist, she gives me peace of mind,
Swaying grass and leaves my troubles far behind.
Oh, wise and trusted friend -
Will you console me, to my mind, attend?
A mathematician, so brilliant and keen -
Renders symmetry in flowers to be seen.
Oh, wise and trusted friend -
How do Fibonacci numbers ascend?
An engineer, who will make things work just right,
Giving owls big eyes so they can see at night.
Oh, wise and trusted friend -
What can you build, from mankind to defend?
A fashion designer who sure invents with flair,
From fish in Tahiti, to birds in the air.
Oh, wise and trusted friend -
If printed on a dress, what would my wife spend?
An artist, she has skill no man can surpass -
The beauty of a lake from a mountain pass.
Oh, wise and trusted friend -
Your creations, can Van Gogh not transcend?
A poet, she gives words to a frog who waits.
This creature, who says "jug-o-rum" when he mates.
Oh, wise and trusted friend -
Have humans, a better word, ever penned?
A musician, she made the sweet nightingale
And creatures up and down the musical scale.
Oh, wise and trusted friend -
Who weaves a better symphonic blend?
A magician, she takes a bug that likes to squirm
To make a gorgeous butterfly from a worm.
Oh, wise and trusted friend -
Who else could cause my mind to bend?
A love coach, who tends to all the heart encloses -
Meadows of swaying grass, beautiful roses
Oh, wise and trusted friend -
Will you still be here if my heart should rend?
Dear mother nature, my wise and trusted friend,
I know you'll teach and comfort me to the end.
Fruits of Labour
Sometimes I dream
Of where I’d like to be:
Far away from nitty-gritty chores,
Enjoying the fruits of my labour.
Happy and nonchalant,
Swaying in my hammock,
Sun tanning, and feeling the ocean breeze
Gently sweeping over me.
On a shore of golden sand
On a South Pacific island,
“Que ce soit ma maison”
(and let this be my home),
My island paradisium,
Distanced from criticism
On the beaches of Tahiti1
With a tiare2 behind my ear.
***
Notes:
1 “Tahiti” (Rising Sun) is the largest island in French Polynesia, and its capital is Papeete.
2 The “Tiare” is Tahiti’s national flower. A tiare behind the right ear signals single and available, while a tiare behind the left ear indicates married or dating.
I was so looking forward to my trip to Tahiti
this was to be my panacea, a sure cure for all my ails.
For once there I could forget the dregs of big city life
and swim the opal sheen of a chatoyant sea, in tranquil peace.
Arriving in my loudest vacation garb, I felt at ease
in my role of cynosure, strutting like a movie star.
All to soon I was whisked off...to the glamour and opulence
that awaited me at my ineffable, unbelievably posh hotel/palace.
There I was royally greeted, by a true ingénue beauty
the epitome of grace, she exuded a gentle demure and friendly manner.
She was like a gazelle...swift and yet lissome
with an indelible smile that seemed sempiternal, and omnipresent.
And in the sweetest, mellifluous song like voice
she softly whispered...“welcome to paradise.”
Sometimes writing poetry is my mistake,
Better to embark on a large cargo ship,
Which will take you to Tahiti or Honolulu,
Better give candy to a blue-eyed schoolgirl,
Sometimes writing poetry is my mistake,
Better to cook a chicken with lime,
Better to read the confessions of Saint Augustine
Or spend the afternoon at the movies with people,
Sometimes writing poetry is a strange mistake,
Especially never think that we have talent, genius,
Better to visit Lisbon or Patagonia,
Listen to fado with the Big Dipper.
Parfois, écrire de la poésie est une erreur,
Mieux vaut embarquer sur un grand cargo,
Qui vous conduira jusqu’à Tahiti ou Honolulu,
Mieux vaut offrir des bonbons à une écolière aux yeux bleus,
Parfois écrire de la poésie est une erreur,
Mieux vaut cuisiner un poulet au citron vert,
Mieux vaut lire les confessions de Saint Augustin
Ou passer son après-midi au cinéma avec des gens,
Parfois écrire de la poésie est une erreur bizarre,,
Surtout ne jamais penser que l’on a du talent, du génie,
Mieux vaut visiter Lisbonne ou la Patagonie,
Écouter du fado en compagnie de la Grande Ourse.
"It’s Raining, It’s Pouring"
It’s raining, it’s pouring
The old man is snoring
He bumped his head
And went to bed
And didn’t get up till morning.
Shivers 'me Timbers
truth be told tune's like old
day had grew night he knew
possibles here unfolds.
I'm Popeye the sailor man
fought Brutus a former friend
was sent up the Big House
and fought with a Big Mouth
he ate all hamburgers then ran
I'm Popeye the sailor man
got lost in the jailhouse can
I flushed myself down
I'm the new man in town
I think I'm now in Japan
I'm Popeye the sailor man
lookin for food in this land
asked a theater house
they had a Bigger Mouth
Kabuk got spooked and he ran
I'm Popeye American
at food house saw Kabuk man
before I could get 'im
he ate all the saimin
and then he ran off to San Fran
I'm Popeye American
hungriest man in Japan
got a bowl of seafood
that stood and walked for good
still hungriest man in Japan
I'm Popeye kabuki man
I'm lean like a boogeyman
my muscles turned mussels
mid chopstick smiles--hustled
so quick boards I on sampan
I'm Popeye the kidnapped man
got Shanghai up to Thailand
there I met King Kong
who took me to Hong Kong
to ship's dock fast as I can
we passed the Meridian
we dropped anchor in ocean
as history stood still
herstory went on till
mid BC & AD timespan
the ship I was travelin
I met this young Hawaiian
his grandpa's Maori
and grandma's Tahiti
he called me the comeback kid
home, my yard--friend waterin'
said he changed my Tax Map Key
helped him up he'd told me
he'll fix things be golden
then showed news I'm lost at sea
I'm Popeye invisible
I will change impossible
and I'll be a name-changer
from Popeye the sailor
to Eyes-to-die-for the yachtsman.
Behold Beatrice, Pitcairn
the paradise sunsets lie in Tahiti
sunrise, the folly of Easter
islands, sanitoriums, deluded, denuded
limbos and purgatories, the never evermore
Polynesian metaphors transmigrate my mind
O to graze with the deer, dear
the tree never falls silently
lizards scatter, birds scurry to flight
i could never buy into falling silence
let alone fate of Galileo's descending weights
church theologians preferring an atheist Aristhrottle
forgive me for being sententious dear
no pity for Cyrano
the hidden Darcy
in another failed Benedick in port
without Dante's delusions
love with no embrace
Service, woman, a slightly tainted saint
Tennyson's wound that never heals
Petrarch, Augustine, it grows insane
ah the vicissitudes, where was i
yes, leaving metaphors and literate men
your laughter starts in those ignescent eyes
ignition, brush fires of rippling ballerinas
facial muscles lost in abandonment
to some elfish music i see, never hear
lips widening, bursting rubaiyat pandemonium
i adore your infectious risibility
it is your amatory smile i love most
demure, candles gamboling in the moonlight
i am a moth lost in the flames
of your demanding timidity
it is then i see in your eyes
the dove gracing your hands
the beast who serves your lust
this is why the Norsemen
fear nothing but women
swords once ready, berserkers, Odin
now lie silent volcanoes in my heart, Freya
the seas are without headstones
and i am wondering again terricolous
all of this are the clouds overhead
it is the heavens i see in your eyes
not the red dawn i fear
we see the jungle, its' song, inevitable war
the struggle to stand in the light
possibly besotted, erratum
the seas have long not cared
with you, i learn, heal
we are undeniably humanity
we are paradise lost
the hells of yesterday
need not rule the heavens of today
your arms gravid with red sunsets
fill my deepest hopes of all morrows
its' ultimate price is gladly paid
Miramar 94 The Patient Stones
Revised 5/22 OKC
see on Youtube
Shakespeare's Sonnet 116 Is Not What It Seems
there are certain words in here common in 19th Century literature that always remind me....besotted with Jane Austen
Bronwyn the Barbaric was a buxom lass
the envy of all her peers
She spoke with unrivaled swashbuckling sass
her pirate-ess fashion was fierce
She could charm off the arms of the most hardened men
how they'd swoon at the sight of her swagger
She ruled over cutthroats with a dangerous grin
her hand ever over her dagger
But her smile was so lovely, her style was so vogue
that she had little need for such violence
With a wave of her hand, she could tame ruthless rogues
with a look she could cause utter silence
So, peacefully she plundered (with minions to pillage
and devotedly obey her commands)
Until a shop window caught her eye in the village
and she made a bad purchase, unplanned
There she acquired the most dashing high-heel boots
custom made (according to her wishes)
But the pain that they caused was something acute
and it made the 'old girl' act quite vicious
She kidnapped the cobbler and tortured him so
she was in quite a terrible temper
She dealt him such cruel and merciless blows
the crew could hardly handle his whimpers
She became a tyrannical, treacherous wench
terrorizing from Tahiti to Tangier
Leaving in her wake only ruins and stench
with a reckless and wicked sneer
And 'though her crew were not a cowardly lot
they dared not get on her bad side
The last scalawag was both stabbed and shot
before she tossed him into the tide
But one rakish mate had an interesting offer
her vanity couldn't refuse-
If he could, just once, get those stylish boots off her
a better set he could produce
So eyeing him, slowly, she peeled the boots off
and immediately felt such relief
Gone was her bitterness, her angry scoff
gone was the source of her grief
Seeing their pirate queen herself again
the crew gathered 'round and they cheered
Those bloody boots were thrown overboard
and their mate was quite revered
Now a barefoot buccaneer, she still
struts across the deck
And if they don't bend to her will
she'll see they're put in check!
The plague knew my infinite hulk
in 1769, crept through the Polynesian crystal
onto my outstretched archipelago
black sands and white sands and volcanoes
speaking the purple language,
the queen’s English to the farmer’s French,
and drank from the palm tree
to drain the lagoon its persistent innocence.
I called that man under white skin elbows
unhinged to finger length arms
planked ‘cross the wishful shore to the sun,
drunk with ambition for Elizabeth’s glory,
tracing the black dot of Venus
across the infinite grapefruit horizon
from juvenile tree-house forts
to play science on God’s paradise, James Cook.
By definition Cook is defined by mine.
A century more defined another
defined by my natural beauty
and native Polynesian simplicity alive in artistic
assembly, though darker skinned
than acceptable at that period before the end
of a dry English sentence,
a man with a watering eye called Paul Gauguin.
Had Gauguin’s father surpassed his flesh,
he might have said his son taught van Gogh
the artful act of goat-fed attrition
through blurred lines of lacked definition
which persist to define impressionism.
And had his father been a poet, not a journalist,
he might have taught his son that an island,
at its core, is a man, defined by his own accord.
Date: 12/21/2018