1.Gertrude Jekyll
garden artist
Showers
of silhouettes,
rookery in the rain-
Springtime just around the corner
Again
2.Gertrude Stein
Poet Gertrude Stein
had a staccato style quite fine
She also became a Cubist
& with prose poetry for a while did persist
the news the news I found a twig they caw dark joy against the fresh light
Coal tar zombie mouth leaks town gas syrup
Meat hook telegraphy indicator cameras hypnagogic
Liverwurst elegy beneath the frosting
Cinderblock reverie churns with mildew
Manus? Grilled cheese sandwich.
Cantonal enchantress, covered blossoms.
Necropolis euthanized, springtime salad.
Rhinestone rookery smothers loquat
One day I'll drive there.
On the way
I'll tell my wife about the Modoc woman,
who lived outside the city,
above a sea lion rookery.
She taught me a Klamath-Modoc prayer:
“I want you animals to know, open your eyes,
a hungry man has killed one of you.
One day we will find out
what happened to its spirit
then we will go meet with it,
for it was my brother.”
She rowed a boat on the spume
of the wild cove waves.
I knew her, she had the way of truth in her.
When I get to the Redwoods,
I'll visit her clapboard home.
Look for her twelve year old Ford truck,
her briny patch of hand-reared garden,
her small surf-riding boat.
The sheriff reported her, `missing in transit.'
Maybe she went off
with that son-of-a- jailbird
who had twice tried to kill her.
I'll take the back roads, getting lost
until we reach the ocean.
When we get to Crescent City,
we'll sit by the harbor and watch the sea lions
savoring their deep throated funk.
I'll tell my wife I love her,
and she will taste the salt of my words.
A man with horn-rimmed glasses
knelt in the sand
thinking: "my office just got a whole lot bigger."
He had just flown from sea to shining sea
to survey the sea lions.
He walked barefoot to a rocky outcrop
to count the creatures (for he was an accountant),
the counting took many days -
he was engaged upon a sea lion census.
The sea lions would dive into the tossing waves
and so deplete the sea lion company or rookery,
other's would arrive with unaccounted-fore friends,
The rest yelled all day long or grunted huffily.
it was a rowdy crowd.
The accountant took off his glasses and wiped his brow.
The sea lions continued to bark at him
while scratching their ears with distaining flippers.
Reluctantly he turned to fly back to New York,
where sea lions are parked carefully
in a funky concrete compound.
Each one of those aquatic New Yorkers
could be counted upon
and they were
as they swam moodily in the small oily pool
generously provided for them.
You are a lustful Pharisaic shark, who feeds voraciously from the sea of corruption.
You turn your soul away from the righteousness of God's ordinance, and now your head is sick with greed.
Your flesh burns with desire.
Your heart becomes laden with iniquity.
You wear an integument crimson as you let the tide of immorality navigate you to an equable rookery.
You are trapped in a world of get rich, stay rich syndrome.
So, at will, you summon your false devoted mien when you assemble the sheep.
You are a rhetoric genius.
You are brilliant in systematic explanations of the biblical text with theatrics and thematic expository narratives.
With an unpurified soul, you instill in yourself the force to be personable and charismatic as you sink your articulate fangs deep into the throats of your faithful sheep.
You gave birth to yourself and you live in a realm of narcissism.
You live with no prickling stings of regrets.
January 16, 2023
1 Timothy chapter 3 verse 8
2 corinthians chapter 8 verse 21
canopy uproots
lies upon the undergrowth...
breeding rookery
© Harry J Horsman 2022
One day I'll drive there.
On the way
I'll tell my wife about the Modoc woman,
who lived outside the city
above a sea lion rookery.
She taught me a Klamath-Modoc prayer:
“I want you animals to know, Open your eyes.
A hungry man has killed one of you.
One day we will find out
what happened to its spirit
then we will go meet with it,
for it was my brother.”
She rowed a boat on the spume
of the wild cove waves.
I knew her, she had the way of truth in her.
When I get to the Redwoods,
I'll visit her clapboard home.
Look for her twelve year old Ford truck,
her briny patch of hand-reared garden,
her small surf-riding boat.
The sheriff reported her, `missing in transit.'
Maybe she went off
with that son-of-a- jailbird
who had twice tried to kill her.
I'll take the backroads, getting lost
until we reach the ocean.
When we get to Crescent City,
we'll sit by the harbor and watch the sea lions,
savoring their deep throated funk.
I'll tell my wife I love her,
and she will taste the salty truth of my words.
He calls me over to the park bench:
Wanna see something?
It lolls from his open fly
partly erect. The dark ,
almost silvery in its salt and pepper
rookery.
Your willies come out Mr.!
As I stare, it rears
as if to threaten the entire city
with a bold cyclopean gaze. A monster
only Superman (my other half),
could battle against.
I’m telling mum, I fling over my shoulder,
as I run,
all my heroic-powers gone.
winter
turns to spring
high in the trees-
the rookery erupts
in noise
NOTE:A cinqku is an 'English language 'version of a tanka with 17 syllables 2;3;4;6;2
no title and last two(or three) lines being a surprise/comment on the first three
lines &was created by American poet Denis Garrison
My memories took flight from Spring's rookery,
Nurtured by Summer's warm seas and
Trade winds steady under dynamic skies,
Reinforced by Autumn's harvest and happenstance
Pray my memories remain deep within me like a
Fortress securely established on a rock mass,
High on golden hills, impregnable,
As Winter's cruel seas and merciless winds approach
When I get to the Redwoods,
I’ll look for her clapboard home
above a sea-lion rookery.
I will seek out
her twelve-year-old Ford truck,
her briny patch of hand-reared garden,
her small surf-riding boat.
She’s native,
she taught me a Klamath-Modoc hunting prayer:
“I want you to know,
that a hungry man has killed you.
We will meet once more,
for you are my brother.”
I knew her by her seasoning.
The sheriff reported her, `missing in transit.’
Maybe she went off
with that s.o.b. jailbird
who twice tried to kill her.
I’ll take the back roads, getting lost
until I reach the ocean.
When I get to Crescent City,
I will sit by the harbor and watch the sea lions;
savoring their deep throated funk.
I will maybe say a hunting prayer;
a self-hunting prayer.
light
frost whitens
the frozen verge-
inert below,summer
awaits
under
the hedge a
welcome haven-
down my neck raindroplets
trickle
dozing
on the lawn
St Swithans day-
large round spots splash into
my lap
missing
in action-
his memory
clipped to a bedroom
mirror
a kiss
an affair-
separation
drowns into memory's
abyss
the elk
cub misses
the herd's retreat-
a lone wolf howl calls to
the pack
splendour,
luxury
and much fine art-
in abstentia-the
gentry
a school
of dolphins-
on the starboard
a synchronised swimming
display
winter
turns to spring
high in the trees-
the rookery erupts
in noise
Roasted
chestnuts on
bonfire embers-
forties recollections
alight
smitten
by a smile
the warmth of love
engaged and now lives on
engraved
five toes
and a pad
imprint the snow-
hunger brings a stranger
at night
more often than not, a knightly surge
combs a pawn me,
especially after the stroke of midnight, when
hermetically sealed in my rookery,
where bats in the belfry
flap their wings at the speed
of sound times ten
thence, this king heads to his counting house
(which doubles asthma
Perkiomen Valley bishopric)
to economize on space,
especially during tax time
(as April fifteenth slowly approaches,
me heartbeat doth) quicken
though becalmed, when imbibing
idyllic, fantastic, and bucolic kingdom
Americana paintings courtesy, sans nomen
Percevel Rockwell, thus jitteriness pacified,
particularly speaking
on the telly phone with Ken
Burns, whose trademark documentaries,
particularly War between the States,
where even roosting hen
got into the frayed scrimmage vis a vis, even
chilly being egged on to surrender as Ben
a fit to this American
Civil War Yankee incarnate,
whose doodling word
ya probably don't give a hoot -Amen!
Hark the skylark sings o'er meadow.
Sings or fights to let rivals know;
the robin claiming territory.
Sings his claim, his sincerity.
A blackbird cock sings his claim so.
The rooks in yonder rookery.
Caw, peck and claw in mockery.
To let their life mate, their proud beau.
Hark the skylark sings.
To pursue an act, thievery.
A double act of mockery.
South, a copse borders the meadow.
Come the noon, it's all in shadow.
West, east, north, dry stone rockery.
Hark the skylark sings.
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