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Mystery of Pumpkin
One upon a time, not far back,
Grew in my small backyard garden
A pumpkin, size of a tortoise,
A monster, with weight of a ton
And had to be chopped with an axe;
Friends wished to have its seeds to plant,
Alas, it was a seedless male;
News spread fast in the neighbourhood
Leading to police enquiry
For concealing information,
But after investigation
Turned out to be a mystery.
They came in packs,
shoulders knotted with gym weight,
smelling of Axe and iron,
boys who scraped knuckles on lockers
just to feel something slice.
At lunch, they stalked the quad like wolves—
every joke a blade,
every girl a mirror they wanted to crack
or crown.
One leaned too long
on the freshman in geometry,
his eyes doing the talking his mouth
was too full of teeth.
They had trophy girls,
not lovers—prizes they unwrapped
with grins in the backseat,
then showed off to each other
like kills in the forest.
Behind it: the need.
To be taught something gentle—
to understand fractions, how to read a face
without splitting it.
One, behind the field house, cried
when I read his paper aloud.
He said don’t tell,
and I haven’t.
Until now.
Okay then, I’ll admit it. Yes, I’m lazy.
Not quite the hardest worker ever known.
My talent is a Motorola phone:
to drink the colour of a mountain daisy
or taste a mirror (doesn’t that sound crazy?)
I need to keep it charged: I have to hone
those Pasolini “pentals” of my own
(“that’s mental petals”, says the Bolognese).
I enter things without the least compunction:
no sooner enter, than believe I’ve won:
no sooner win (excruciating pun)
Narcissus-like, than find the photo-function
to say that, on reflection, it was fun:
like playing chicken at a railroad junction.
Fanning his tail is the male’s trick
Beautiful colors prove he is a Mick
Trying to impress a plain brown peahen
His feathers better be thick, not thin.
When Joe was young he had tonsilitis
In grade school he developed bronchitis
Later, elbow bursitis
And Colitis, Neuritis
Now that Joe’s old ~ he aches with arthritis
Little wonder Joe’s gender-conflicted
It could easily have been predicted
Sick of sports injuries
Joe made some inquiries
Plays dolls injury-free ~ he enlisted
He was lilliputian size
Which works for some women
Never for a man
He is rather diminutive, his blind dates are warned
Teensy-weensy would have been more accurate
His arms are the width of yard sticks
He never found love
Because he never met a faerie
her boobs and caboose
got him so horny turned on
same size and same curves
Female mosquitos live forty-two days
Feeding on our blood in brutal mean ways
Causing itchy bumps on our tender skin
Healthy male mosquitoes die ten days in
A flash of shiny blue silk waddles into view of the bamboo stalks
a distinct crown and Egyptian painted eye; his beak is golden
Male peacock, shows his glorious feathers,
his symmetrical design gorgeously done
He courageously wanders onto a cliff of gray shale,
The moon is not any shinier than his magnificent feathers;
Other creatures are in awe, marveling at his unique costume
A feathery concoction that his wife does not dare wear,
Her muted browns help her keep their eggs in hiding.
The male weaver bird is inspired to make a beautiful nest
Female weavers choose their mate based on whose nest is the best
nests are intricate and fine, delicately and artistically made by this guy
excited male hangs it in the sun to dry, waiting for his lovely to glide by.
red cardinal eats
suet with his white beak....
in late December
greasy white on his feathers
even in misting cold rain
Male Voice
A altogether highest grown male voice to be
spoon fed to
not high ambient temperatures, at least once a
week, and
we’ll see
what happens.
The cock also sweat
Sweating beneath the undaunted hair
Though unseen, untethered
Unnoticed yet vulnerable.
The male lion also weep
Weeping gently and silently
With insignificant traces
Though galloping and parading
In confidence which left creatures
Marvelled and tender.
The virile also feels
They also go through pains
Pains seen and unseen
Though eye catching faces
And beautiful faces are worn over
Should the Bull go begging when in awe of death?
Should the mighty cry ?
Should the Cheetah crawl ?
Should the Tiger be afraid?
In street, the virile is left alone
Detached, chastened and stranded
Moving to and fro
But no place to call home.
Even when he wants to be known
And cherished, he is deprived.
Should humanity be switched?
Even when switched, will he be known ?
Will he be recognized?
Or will he be appreciated?
He is all alone
Longing to overcome
Though no hope of winning
But hanging on till the driver arrives
And all is left behind.
Male stag beetles fight, fight, fight
Winning their mates into the night
Pinching each other with bravado big
Beating enemies with pinchers that dig
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