Pensile clouds of a new Truth loom.
With them are selected versions of
Extinct grief.
Looking through the yellowness of a
Dog’s eyes, this aura of Truth, pervasive,
Sours my palate.
What say the bulletins and tabloids
In their speech potency?
Have they recoiled on the sudden encroachment
Of stale seas
Or have they rolled out drums for Haley’s ROOTS?
Between Kamby Bolongo of watery essence
And the forested, warm plains of Juffure, ROOTS!
And drums fashion themselves out for Kinte,
Who must tap gently the face of the drum
For earthly summons.
From sinuous, valleysome frontiers backward,
We yodel loud,
Fronting bands of ROOTS.
A Tribute to Slim Whitman
He led his horse towards a pool,
Near a lovely large cotton tree.
Far away, he heard the hooves
Of a thousand bison as they crossed
The dusty prairie in search of food.
Near at hand stood a large tepee
From where his lovely Indian emerged.
Dark hair, dark eyes. a beauty beyond compare.
She smiled but stood erect at the doorway.
Instantly, he lifted his guitar.
And in a yodel tune, he sang his love.
How oft he repeated his refrain,
"You belong to me,
I belong to you."
Finally, he put down his guitar.
Slowly, he approached her,
Tilted her lovely face up,
Their lips met in a sweet, lingering kiss.
Edelweiss
Edelweiss, a mountain child,
High up in the alpine wild;
Learned to yodel in his youth
Serenades climbers -hikers, too!
.
so sweet
eve
cantillating
softly she yodels
even softer
the salty wet
sliding netherward mine
cheek
i whistle
eve singz
close
ourn throats
mine roarz
hern purrz
*Sunday's testimony ;)
"Sung to the tune of Disney's song: 'Cruella DeVil'."
Diddy DeVil, Diddy DeVil,
No little green Martian,
Is not who you kill,
You like to yodel, yodel,
At will,
Oh Diddy, Diddy, Diddy, DeVil.
Oh Diddy is mean,
Oh Diddy is fast,
The White House is calling,
For Diddy at last,
The President is dropping like a pill,
Oh Diddy, Diddy, Diddy, DeVil.
When Diddy is caught,
When Diddy is cruel,
When video is shot,
Of a one-sided duel,
The Martians may be fighting for a thrill,
But no one is a draggin' like DeVil.
Oh Diddy, you gambler,
Is Vegas your thing?
Did you spend your money,
To hear Tom Jones sing?
The Martian Menace fighting us is still,
So yodel, yodel, Diddy DeVil!
It’s taboo to be lonely on Valentine’s Day...
I’d love to come over and cook, if I may.
We can eat lots of noodles
and make apple strudels,
and musically, tunefully yodel, ‘Ole’
Yucca moth small white
Feeds upon yucca
Quite unique sight
Could say pure pukka.
'Pon tea, did alight.
Right in my cuppa
Quite a unique sight
Sails of felucca
A moth so white bright
But blends with yucca
Quite a unique sight
Blended in plica
A form called Yodel.
Pukka meaning excellent or high class
Felucca a sailing ship
Plica folds of a plant
From the Sages of old
came an ancient ruse.
They named it a Yote.
But it's not a fluke.
Cause they're in the know.
Won't, refute the scrolls.
Yotes, wear sneaker boots.
And Yodel in Tune.
The Mockingbird sings out his misleading best,
in hopes to attract a dupe with a nest,
where the squatter believes mate’s eggs should belong;
so mimics and jabbers uncountable songs.
Catbirds and Thrashers, related critters,
both grey North Americans sport throats of a twitter.
These gifted Warblers mock tricky bird tunes,
deceiving, deluding as feathered dragoons.
In fairness to balance the Tweeters’ intent,
creating, demanding a need to invent
a song to attract a new or lost mate:
so, a beacon to follow and commitment to state.
EXAMPLE MOCK SONGS
whistling, hey-hey yip pittie-yap
frog gurgle, snarf-chickie claw-saw
peep peeping piccolo-staccato bleat
sniftering chit-chat, yodel-do do
snerling, rat trap, blah tat-tat-tat
crunchy nasal chirp, coo-coo-coo
With the window of the mind opened;
Birds yodel, and solemnly reveal,
All universal secrets...
A difficult musical challenge :
Play seven instruments in balance...
at once...play the enormous trombone,
piano, double neck guitar sole,
triangle, zampona, harp,
battery and on top sharp
sing a final yodel imbalance...!
I had a brain like an old motorbike,
I rode it back and forth
just to get laid by whomever, and that strange one
who kept cats under her long skirt.
Truth is a marmalade calligraphy.
I yodel blood-songs
prophets have stitched to my flesh.
Truth sleeps under a stone.
No one can number the stones.
I dream of Macadamia and Muscadine
of pretty girls all in a row.
Truth throbs.
Marimba music and matchsticks,
Why all these M sonics?
Mango
mildew, marmalade ghosts.
Why not?
Miss me mother?
The bike ended up in a heap -
Its motor whines on.
Truth is whatever’s left over
after the counting of things.
Little lemmings,
beware of the Yukon yodel
Don’t ear swallow the Arctic shiny yellow
Fake eureka disclosure: It’s jingle hollow
So, enamel blowflake please,
place not your panhandle hope
in Ivory Boast fool’s goad
I, ebony breath beg of thee,
be not glutton belly-button led
by a cold, glittering scold
Don’t covetously follow down that
moral bankruptcy road
In pocket phantom search of
the vapor Mutter lode
Me true mouth reveal
You con artificial treasures,
lip sin-thetic as can be
Buried deep
in hidden veins of avarice,
a fraudulent rush of pulse greed
Little lemmings,
has your metallic lust minds
been pricked
by the spiked-tongue,
prospector stick
Well, that illusory discovery
is sho’ gonna make you
empty riches sick
You’ve been mine shaft collapsed warned:
With an amber hair air of wavy mirage con-fidence,
scratch not shiny pockets of leper loins
Don’t dare hoard collect
pubic counterfeit canary-colored coins
This project Private D be
pitch black ink hurling free,
five-star ingot spit
Can you dig it!
Rare Darkie wisdom uttered
be Ghetto parable
Nugget knowledge unstuttered —
Sambo Spade told
What the fox says I cannot declare.
Some might say it's the fox's affair.
Does it yodel or purr?
Does it bark like a cur?
To be honest, I don't really care.
The truth is –
mango
mildew, marmalade ghosts.
I have a brain like an old motorbike,
I ride it back and forth
just to get laid by you, and her, and that strange one
who kept cats under her long skirt.
I am mildew on a mango. A marmalade calligraphy.
I yodel blood-songs prophets have stitched to my flesh.
Truth sleeps under a stone.
No one can number the stones.
I dream of Macadamia and Muscadine
of pretty girls all in a row.
Truth throbs like an idling engine.
Marimba music and matchsticks.
Truth is I am whatever’s left
after the counting of things.
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