Hippopotomonstrosesquipedaliophobia
An irrational fear of large or long words
Well, you might say that’s for the birds
And it’s your right to have your say
A hippopotamus for most of us
Is an Artiodactyla, an even toed ungulate
While monstrum in Latin means: unnatural things
A monstrosity, a warning from the gods
While as showoffs, sesquipedalians use long words
So don’t scare them with your Titan Arum
But say to those with Ithyphallophobia
Or to the megalophallian “Nostrvia!”
And don’t be calloused towards
What happens afterwards
Or averse to what happens after “words”
In the post coital spooning
Don’t let your creative inhibition
Be the condition of wrestling with tabula rasa
And don’t let coitus interruptus
Or a caudal Janus face give you writer’s block
(I’m trying to be a gentleman
by calling it a phallus and not a rooster)
So, you won’t find here this fear of
Supercalifragilisticexpialidocious
spooning atmosphere
dust off you, lilac
eyes with you again
and the water's tight
urges in your hair
rain's attaching
us cheek to cheek
we are the same
tears as flowers
forever
drops; though a
christened fall,
raincoat,
scented
song
While we're spooning under the moon,
Hotsie, your kisses make me swoon,
Planting smooches on love's face,
Old as the whole human race,
Your kisses spark my hand,
Well met upon this land,
Lip syncing me with such flair,
Love kissing Mr. Debonair,
Not really quantum physics,
More of lover metaphysics,
Romance blesses each kiss,
Dear Hotsie, keep our timeless bliss!
As we descend into our togetherness
There are her tears and whispers of "be gentle with me"
As she condescends into our passion
We hold each other firm with messages of skin and heart
We fall deeper into each other
She has hesitance to fully surrender her body
But is caught up into thoughts of his piercing blue eyes
Which can seduce her when her clothes are on
She shivers and the articulation of gentle kisses
On nape and notch (And why now am I thinking of hop scotch?)
"Hey! No!" "Kisses, focus on the kisses"
As we are warm for each others form
And the smell of mahogany in this cabin
(In which just moments ago we were both enjoying a good book)
And in each other we smother as inhibitions
Are now falling away (and the smell of French Toast)
Why French Toast when I am enjoying the interrogation
Of my lover lips? Oh sweet lover who has gently and caressingly
Wooed me into a chase of orgasmic finality
And into the afterglow of post coital spooning
Wow and whew (with a heavy sigh)
Maybe now the French Toast
Spooning my love, my kin would be proud
But, we're beginning to draw a crowd
Our dog began to cry
Then our neighbor dropped by
If two's company, then three's real loud!
Reading a poem about a horse
with a stain
on the author’s page. Patron
ate something saucy,
as he read of a war statue,
forking or spooning
probably pasta or slurping
poetry, precariously, I ponder,
as I wait for the oven timer
to deliver dinner. Deviled
ham quiche - the aesthetic
embodiment of
eggs & cream, cheddar,
onions & cayenne
firmly held in its shell.
I’ll eat in the early afternoon
and get a lift
to see Cheap Trick &
Rod Stewart. Not the cheap
seats, but the special ones
saved for the limo driver’s guests;
he will be chatting it up
behind the stage or
just standing by.
I can’t get past a couple
pages, having stopped
at the blot. A library lie
that these hard-covered words
are all mine, well his;
a-muse-d at a blank page,
how I’ve filled its plate,
and how
I will separate
my pie from my eye.
I began playing this game with myself
So at any moment you are holding something
How would you kill an intruder
I mean some of them are obvious
Throw the tea then use the cups like enamel
knuckle dusters
Deodorant like a spray
Handy flame thrower if you have a lighter in your hand
Toothpaste takes some thought but if you can squeeze it onto your hands and go for the eyes
Hairdryer and plug
Like a pair of Noon
Chucking blades as I charge towards them
Sometimes good to share
Pen would get the wickedness treatment
Spooning eyes out on stalks
Balloons depends on what they are filled with
Tell them
I will
Not one psychopath in here
There is definitely more than
Took me eons to work out
Mainly tricks in may
A brill
I ant ain’t an auntie
Started working on scenarios on stairs in water
Has anyone ever been xylophoned to death
Trauma has wrapped me in its slimy tentacles
Tightening, till my depression becomes clinical
Man with yellow pad listens obligingly
Then into my happy place he is guiding me
I imagine my beautiful tropical island home
All is serene and I am finally alone
Turquoise waters pet the shores sand
Oh so ready to rest from life in this land
With long hypnotic strokes, newness is washed away
Carried into the Icy depths of ancient days
I sit, contented for once, on the hot white grains
Coconut in hand yet taste of... oatmeal remains
I cannot tell the time, nor anything truly measure
In my island retreat, alone, I will stay forever.
*the nurse continues spooning oatmeal into the patients open maw
Wiping his chin after each bite and closing his jaws.
Hey, diddle, diddle, the cat and the fiddle,
The cow jumped over the moon--had no fiddle,
The little dog laughed, got smashed as a Poodle,
the cow laughed a little, and found the fiddle,
The cat played to Nero, a pal and hero,
yet smelled things burning while playing the fiddle,
The cat Roam'ed about, thought it was the griddle,
though the cow saw Nero play fire--did fiddle,
Caught in a piddle, while cat Roam'ed a riddle,
dish sought by a poodle, as cow plays fiddle,
the taste of kumquat, the dish adds a riddle,
as things come short, the cat loses the fiddle,
ponders a poodle, a true diddle, diddle,
noise sought--found, twiddle, a dish and a fiddle,
To see such sport--the poodle in the middle,
the dish ran away while spooning the fiddle.
The day you passed
Empty is my heart, full is my mind: filled with what ifs the Shoulda Woulda could have been. Cold nights now, no longer enthralled by your raw essence saltiness after shave and metal. Just thinking of it sends Shivers up my spine, and drives me mental.
The shenanigans twinkling in your eye, the shape of your lip as it traces on my thigh the touch of your hand caressing my shape and back up again.
Sensing your breath upon my neck, callused but soft are your hands, as a mere whimper escapes my mouth.
Now all I see is your death and not your member or our sex.
Your pecs Where it connects to your chest the place I would lay my head and rest there’ your gunshot wound.
In that spot as I lay listening to the pounding feeling you throbbing harder.
Now thoughts of unpleasant thoughts, atrium cardias to rigamortis spooning on me in our bed.
Nighta full of Terror and torture I'm now a mourners with PTSD and anxiety disorder.
The rhyme "Hey diddle diddle"
For me poses a riddle:
What possible need
Has a cat for a fiddle?
A cow might jump over the moon,
So I'm told,
If a milkmaid's hands
Are unexpectedly cold.
Which could make a dog laugh,
Or anyone, for that matter,
Just as funny as cutlery
"Spooning" a platter.
This rhyme is so silly,
Raises so many questions,
But as for solutions,
Not one good suggestion.
So I'll add here my own sage advice
To the muddle
To prevent boys when peeing
From making a puddle:
When you need to go piddle,
Think "Hey diddle diddle",
Keep both your eyes open
And aim for the middle.
I had been driving for decades.
A yellow Buick, deluxe convertible circa '51',
the model with the three-speed manual transmission -
8 cylinder.
A deserted desert diner. The door creaks
as I enter,
green tomatoes fry on a skillet.
I throw my fedora,
feed bread into a counter toaster.
A woman appears, drying her hands.
"You've found me in my old age -
how impolite of you."
She says between disapproving lips.
She is indeed old, her face lined and
yet lovely.
"Is that your Buick"?
Before I can answer, she asks,
"is that your hat on a rack at the back"?
I answer, "I think this is our date."
"Only this time you're the pitiful figure." She interjects,
spooning tomatoes onto a plate.
I remember how badly I had treated her,
making my excuses, leaving early in the evening.
"This is it!" I exclaim.
Our second chance!."
A withering look.
"In my story," she says, "you die young on the highway,
in a ball of flames."
I imagine my black charred hand
on the big white steering wheel
as may horn honks impatiently.
Green tomatoes sizzle
as I disappear.
I'm just an old shovel, who loved spooning around
Scooping up and over again, the same old ground
I’ve handled jobs, few others would call profound
Always piling high, and patting down a big mound
Some folks leaned on me, if no seats to be found
Then gave me a shoulder, when homeward bound
When on the scrap heap, I never made one sound
Got shafted damn good... but, I’m on the rebound
"bedtime snack"
your boxers
my panties
silverware
spooning
do you
wanna
fork
"Bag o’ sweets"
like fantales chewed slowly
the concept of what’s left
sucks on the sweet marrow of it
sticky caramel pages
stuck in between flowers pressing
the parallax pollen view of it
never hallowed
the wrappers flimsy, quaint
short stories unwrapped
violet crumbles
pollinated footprints
left like scorched fingerprints
melting moments
spooning the soothing
of deep thinking honeytraps
candy years
worn like necklaces
loved and worshipped like crucifixes
(LadyLabyrinth / 2023)
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