Long Yapping Poems
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Reading Poem 3
"Ode to Nicolet Lane"
There I saw green visions,
and a young boy of 9 years running by,
As I stood once again upon the aged asphalt.
Last time I stood there was 58 years hence;
I recall the sun was sinking
like a ship into a gray gloom it seemed,
and summer was breathing its last,
as 1961’s national celebration
of labor and the getting of goods, commenced,
with the flaying and cooking of
pig, bovine and crackling fowl,
our thick smoke arose
like a geyser of giddy anticipation
of all things worth working for,
and worth dying for.
Our thoughts turned to the times
of slowing down the stringent clock,
of attempting to lasso in
the final minutes of faint freedom,
when beneficent windows will exhale at last,
issuing the perfumes of time and closure.
One’s childhood never really dies,
when it is possible to return
to these old mind streets.
I turn on my heels and see
the green trees of Nicolet Lane,
continuing to give a widespread shade
58 years hence,
and I can see Tyke the ghost dog,
chasing yet another chevy impala down this road,
barking and yapping incessantly
at a pair of white-walled tires,
escaping once again this mad dog running amok!
And look. I see Time way down the lane there too,
limping along with a walking stick,
testing the sediment and the feel of autumn’s touch.
We both know supper will soon be served yet again,
and we will exhale at last,
while unfolding our napkins
to receive the soup tureen.
The Reich is
on the rise.
Implementing
Project 2025.
Time to focus
in reality.
Time to seek out
Commonality.
The ANGELS
stopped singing.
The alarm bells
are ringing.
Trump has
Destroyed
democracy.
With his
Outlandish
Prophecy.
A true blue
Narcissist.
It could be
Deadly if
you resist.
The deportation
of Americans.
Plucking them off
the streets
in Maryland.
The rich eating
the poor.
Until there
are no more.
America's great
Empire crumbles.
He keeps on yapping,
Mumble Jumble.
A sad time to
Live in the US of A.
It is painful to,
WATCH IT DECAY.
Turbo1904 ?
All at once I understood
Because I heard the sound
Coming from the distant woods
Dogs yapping just like hounds
Endless barking on the path
Fearlessly chasing prey
Guided by no words or math
Howling to show the way
I could not help but wonder
Just how this chase would end
Keeping hope that no blunder
Listening with my friend
Mighty canines came in sight
Not one was resting still
One path only would be right
Perhaps their fate to seal
Quitting was not thought of now
Resting would not be sought
Simple instincts show us how
The troubled victim’s caught
Under thick, and captured quick
Victim of the tracking
Wounded dogs begin to lick
Xenial copse lacking
You know now the race is done
Zapped, resting in the sun
I’m a ‘bar-back’, I stack,
I pull up the crates, unpack and rack.
I hump boxes of glasses in,
then I hump them out again.
I roll barrels into a hand-cranked elevator,
then roll the empties into the club cellar
where they now lay stinking.
The dude who’s supposed to hose them out,
has skipped. In this town
a citizen was chopped up,
and left in a pub barrel;
folks are naturally a bit sensitive
to beer related cleanliness. I’m fired.
Hours later I’m washing dishes
at the Canton Buffet…
the perpetually angry manager
starts yelling at me in Cantonese.
There’s a phone call from the guy
who is supposed to be hosing down
the aluminum beer barrels.
He’s in a motel
shacked up with the redhead bartender
from the ‘Gentleman’s Club.’
She’s a skank,
but I see where he might have been tempted.
The buffet manager is standing next to me
by the wall-phone,
his arms are folded, he’s
impatiently tapping his toes,
while this guy (who I hardly knew),
is yapping to me like we are best buds.
I can hear the ‘skank’ giggling loudly in the
background, the ‘hose guy’ is snickering also,
he’s obviously jacked-up on snow.
Later, I am fired by the manager
of the ‘Cantonese Buffett’.
It’s then that I decide to get a real job,
and maybe write a little poetry -
should have known that was B.S.
I find a job,
but I’m still hunched over a splatter of words
that should have first been hosed down,
and despite the choices I could have made,
I’ve got to move on to
the next unpredictable shift
with that redheaded skank
I call my Muse.
When are you going to fix the garage door?
He had just gotten home from an eight-hour-day.
Was barely in the house when she began harping.
Can I please put on my comfy clothes first? He wondered.
She followed him into the bedroom.
You said you would fix it this week, she said.
He shut his eyes, trying to shut her words out.
She yipped like a dog when she was on a little roll like this.
Can I get a little snack first? He asked.
You are going to sit in that recliner all evening, she accused.
He said “I might,” and sat down with his remote.
Her mouth was yapping like a swim pool filter cover.
She was a professional hound. She could never have silence.
He had no idea of this when he fell in love with her.
Could I have just a bit of silence tonight? He asked her.
They ate their supper, and his eyes began to close.
What about the garage door? She asked him.
I don’t have the right parts, he said. It was a quick lie.
Then what is stopping you from changing the filters in the furnace?
He thought back to their dating days. She was never like this back then.
If she had been, would he have fallen in love? He did not know.
Or you could clean off that work bench of yours, she suggested.
Why did she want him to constantly do something?
He thought of the couch out in his garage, and he made his escape.
"I saw some road kill on my way over," she said.
She had a horse laugh. "Just a dumb raccoon," she added.
I leapt over the sink and slapped her, hard.
Leaving my entire hand print on her cheek in pink.
Her prissy stuck-up lady face looked stunned.
She stood up, and ran off without any more incessant yapping.
My husband walked out of his man-cave just in time to
see her running flat out past the picture window, clutching her purse.
"Playing with the new neighbor?" He guessed.
I glared at him.
"The woman pushed her way in with a 'yoo hoo', She was not invited."
"She doesn't share your love for animals?" he guessed.
Oscar Opossum pushes open the cupboard doors under the sink, wanders out and chomps noisily from the dog bowl.
Sophie, our most spoiled cocker spaniel growls.
Reggie Raccoon runs over and slaps Sophie.
"Look what you are teaching them!"
My husband says to me, horrified.
"Reggie is a raccoon," I inform him. "She TAUGHT slapping to me!"
I doubt this nosy neighbor will be back,
Which is a perk because I truly and deeply
Like my woodland creatures much more than pushy humans.
Yikes, all I feel is attitude with zero Christmas mood.
Blessed am I for Jesus’ birth and sacrificial rood,
but Santa and his deer had best just skip our roof
or I might very well rage out on every furry hoof.
All my Christmas feel of unique is long past its peak.
Do color me aloof, uncouth if you choose, or bleak,
but my entire entirety still feels yuletide fatigue
from the Christmas I’m sure we just had last week.
Makes no mind to me if stuffing that gleeful day
stirs relatives into a finger wagging, yapping say.
I’ll show critics red and green done fist proper,
Christmas-awe land them on their tree topper.
I would rather hang with the Grinch and Scrooge
than endure another round of Santa subterfuge.
Aint no way I’m buying, baking, craftily stressing
while wrapping, decorating or glee impressing.
Ho, Ho, Ho can ever so jolly just blow, blow, blow.
I flat out dare Santa to plan to show, show, show.
(For my father)
It was ahead.
The tight path lead there,
tangled with arms and boughs,
leaves and veins.
He heard the dogs
yapping, swirling, exhorting-
The Brittany, he ran with as a child when his father hunted.
The Cocker Spaniel, with him on teenage nighttime missions.
The Setter, waiting for him to come back from Korea.
The Lab, his confidant as a newlywed.
At its edge he stood.
There was no sound now
just still air
and smooth black water.
The dogs were off,
again. Quiet.
Where shall I leave my shoes?
he thought.
I will leave them, here for you.
A far bark. Another.
A nothing.
once upon a mid-flight weary
my mind wandered in a hurry
as to he who sat beside the door
suddenly there was a yapping
as of someone's internal scrapping
t'is just a nut i thought and nothing more
quite distinctly then i remembered
my headphones were not in the bag upon the floor
as he who sat beside me began to snore
the sounds did chill me of his napping
a darkness dreaming of thunder clapping
as his voice kept repeating 'please....no more'
finally appeared the steward for just a minute
and watched he who slept beside loudly snore
mumbling and snoring noises and nothing more
then a microphoned voice announced we were landing
and the passenger beside me snapped out of his sanding
as the voice on the speaker announced 'leave by this door'
stan sand
The dead want to talk to me about stupid things.
like, does ‘Chick-Fi-A’ still make spicy sandwiches?
I thought the dead could walk through walls
and see our thoughts;
apparently they are all in a dark room
watching old documentaries,
trying to find stuff they now miss.
I want to ask them about the big questions,
like how the afterlife is better than this one,
or how worse than this one it is - at its worst?
They though want only to reminisce -
jaw about which muscle car was the very best,
what team last won the Super Bowl,
do they still sell purple jelly beans,
or how the Kardashians are doing?
Seems that stupid stuff is infinite.
Seems like human nature is irredeemably silly.
Dead seers, gurus, and prophets
now only want to caper about like village idiots.
I tell them there are few village idiots
in the wider world anymore,
they’ve all moved to New York and California,
then they giggle like little girls
demanding more details.
I try to meditate on higher matters
but the dead burst through my mind,
looking for that rare ‘Kiss” album they once had,
yapping about can be got the finest craft beer -
the most effective liposuction work
or wrinkle creams,
In that after-life theater
where they watch our long-running sitcoms,
passing the popcorn, still dreaming up
more silly questions,
while patient angels wait for them to renounce
all thought of purple jellybean for good.