He was a man that knew the word ‘monster’ well
though he never quite spelt it out.
My dad told me that he had seen stuff.
He had a Meerschaum pipe, you know
like Sherlock Holmes,
and he knocked it out
on a battle scarred wooden table.
As an inquisitive child, I had to ask.
“What’s a monster Mr.?”
(in my young mind
monsters were kind of furry and cute,
they had googly shaped bodies
like the cartoon ones we see now.)
He sighed and thought a while,
then said:
“See that little sparrow pecking at crumbs
on yonder windowsill lad? I nodded.
"That creature is a monster to a worm."
The smoke went straight up to the stars.
Who would have left an expensive Meerschaum pipe in the garden?
By light of the stars, she could tell this was one of the antique ones.
She knew her father did not have anything this expensive.
A white glove on the ground next drew her interest.
Was she following the white rabbit? She heard a deep cough
Had it come from the shade trees in the shadows?
She suddenly felt threatened, all warning signs full tilt.
Why are you out here alone at midnight? An inner voice queried.
Too late, however; she was devoured in minutes.
I see into my future in this land
And there's great things for people of my type
Maybe I'll become an educated man
And scratch my nose, smoke me a Meerschaum pipe
Never know what future's in store for me
Only God knows, He holds it pretty tight
Lately I've been thinking 'bout what I'll be
Doubtless it will be something of great height
Maybe I'll take me a brunette to bed
And we'll have children, three or maybe four
No one knows, she could be a blonde instead
Nights will be blissful, I won't ask for more
Outside the box is where I should settle
"Way outside", said the pot to the kettle!
1/16/2017
For contest Message In An Acrostic
When the snow is deep and wet enough to pack
I look out my living room window to watch kids build a snowman
Wouldn't you know that old felt hat is gone from the closet and
My meerschaum pipe (this will never do) gone from the rack
Robert has given his own red scarf
While little Sue with not another thing to do
has stolen the black lids off our plastic coffee cups
Never have I seen those kids work with such love's labor
The man is rolled and packed together before I can tire
It is just noon and typical Denver
The sun is out thermometer way up!
So before the kids can sigh the melt
I pop out the door and cry, "What a wonderful snowman!
This calls for a reward!" Then I ease on him my favorite tie
A crescent of geese sickles toward the forest.
No one will notice the hallelujah chorus
Singing claret and briar at evening's crest,
Changing to cherry wood in the West.
It is dark molasses time, the seasons run.
Air like frosted glass is melting toward the sun,
Swooping up barn swifts now ready for the sea;
Scrawled like scrolls, unfurling, rolling free--
Spilling to the hills now moving toward meerschaum,
Catching the clockwork of the snow so calm
In its conception; a storm of silver bees
Scratching season's scrimshaw on the milk glass sky with trees.
Your eyes have gone empty as earthenware.
There are no more tragedies, no selections,
no decrees. There are just faces numbed
or edged to laughter: old stories of expediency,
slow dancing to mechanical music.
All things turn ocher and eggshell.
It is hard to believe in anything, yet
we persist, honoring stones
crumbling to the hug of weeds.
We are akimbo in the night, afraid
of silence; locusting ears with noise,
choosing not to remember the abyss,
the waking or the lack of waking.
You are reaching for cords and falling,
arms spreading to parachutes but catching
death - its cold face caught at the window,
meerschaum, smiling, fresh through centuries.
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