The Cat and the Cow: The Lion and the Bull

The power of prediction
no longer resides
in mystical lands

The art of contradiction
where truth often hides
with red hands

One guess is good
a stab in the dark
betting it all on black
the sun will be back
                                tomorrow

Then there are facts
seasons in tidy groups
Again with the loitering Indians
                                  of Summer

We map the lines
plot blocks of time
to build with, tiny day squares
                                  not one cloud cares

What month is it now
Does the sky show us how
Where to get where we
                                  should be by now

A stampede of March storms in
lions guard the gate
unable to keep the thunder and rain
                                   high and away

Moody March cedes to the Sun
with a Spring in her step
Leo moves over after having his
                                    pray fun

Bleating lambs in cowardly shear
flocked in wool coats
Bah-hing about the verdant green grass
                                     over there

Aprils cup is too full
Slushing, spilling about into stream
slurping the porous sky

Is there a pattern
Do you see one
Is it almost summer

Even the water moves
the matador toward Taurus
trapped in the ring, circle, cycle
                                          of seasonal bull.

                           

Feature image by By Desptop (Own work), Macedonian Lion [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Leave a light on

Haiku III
Enlightenment glows
brightest in dimly lit rooms
refracting in-sight.














Pruszkowski "Falling Star" via Wikimedia Commons

Fishin' Ain't Catchin'

Here's a silly story 'bout
somethin' I gone did quite a while ago
that was un poco-No!
Mucho loco!
I tried to try on another state
as though it were up to me
deciding my fate
You see, sometimes I feel restless
like I'm always late

Taking only what I could fit
I rode the black steed
like that Don Quixote that many read
I was headed for Texas
on a trail for new exes
So cliche,
to put it that way
but I was looking for my soul mate

Holy Longhorns that state is so BIG!
and those hairdos ain't no wig
either way
it was plain as day
I ain't from around those parts
of achy breaky hearts
but I shore did get the hang
of trying on some Southern twang
an essential part of wearing the state

A church on every street
BBQ's and malls, all to escape the heat
But I have a thing for a handsome horse
I stayed on golf course
started a divorce
and let life take its course
and there were lots of miniature deer
running rampant like my timid fear
caught in the headlights of fate

My feet hurt after not too long
Only eight months, enough to see the seasons
and gather my reasons
affecting my gate
those boots don't fit me
And from my own slang
anyone could plainly see
This little Jane Doe
needed to get to walkin' and go
on living it couldn't wait

There's loyalty in love
not a necessity but is necessarily
better, letting the butterfly be
Every place
like a profile has a certain face
as happens to be my case
without wearing a mask
life lived honestly is an arduous task
just like heat and hate

Fondly I think and remiss
about the temporary bliss
of being someone else
seeking desperately
a cowboy in boots with a sweet southern drawl
a sprawling ranch estate, a man that calls me "doll"
Dressing up is fun at any age
leaving the comfort of your cage
Fixin' to find
a fish in a lake
hookin' myself as the bait
but I got no more patience to wait
I'm done dallying in this state
I was running late
on catching up with my fate
dwelling in my hometown state.


Image of painting by By Stanley L. Wood (1866-1928) (http://www.wild-west-art.org/Texas-Cowboy.html) [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Before this Pine is Done

When we moved here
there was a plain picket fence
and a giant pine tree

We painted the fence white
then the tree got sick
its tips tinged with red fever

Kids walk by
on their way to and from school
every day, so I made it special

I added a sprinkle of magic to the mundane
tacking up, installing a little elf door
or for fairies and dreams

All ages stop, to wait or knock
all ages smile, at her shade and hope
all ages now notice the tree

They came early one morning
parking the wood chipper outside our window,
waiting for the hour

They've claimed two others
on our street, but ours stands
in defiance and sheer self-reliance

If I could only bottle the woodsy smell
of that dripping syrup, her savory sap
it makes me drool too

And I too feel like one of the children
when I smell her sweltering bark, perfuming in the sun
making me want to simply play and run
(just for fun)
before this pines perishing time is done.

"Obsessed by a fairytale, we spend our lives searching for a magic door and a lost kingdom of peace."-Eugene O'Neill

The Fertile Fields of Eliot

'Tis not a formal invitation
To attend to these notes
With aggressive condemnation
Yet I stress
As futile as the clean is for mess
That I shall drain the sludge
That seals the gaps
Seals holes in his Glory

Upon entering a sacred wood
We may safely venture unarmed
In these wasted lands
Led guided by a master,
a verbal maestro
The Snob Elitist,
a.k.a. T.S. E.

I blame no one name
But if it's all the same
It is he alone who is to blame

Erecting dams for prose
Guardian of the flood
By constraints,
All knowing but not telling
The river which way to flow
Noah which way to go
The momentous movements
Hidden in the mire of man

Suspension bridges belief
Spanning the poetic license
Taught and timbered, framed and inflamed
The blue fire of Philosophy's stone
Which scalds a heart hidden in darkness
Smoldering with the stench
Of discontented plumes
And disconnected assumes
The heavier weight of the world

Mixed tonic of iconography
Solipsism of stoic strategy
Affixed in unclaimed expat geography

So sweetly I've savoured
Those tasty tactile delights
Morsels of decadent bites
Poetic assent of form
Lingering aftertaste of the warm
Acceptance of a well
Balanced diet, of moderation
Passing on the idealistic
Proposition of disillusionment

Little boy Eliot seeks parental
Pride, approval, worth, and weaning
Of need
The last child walks heavily of graves
Mortally detached and eternally tethered.

A bull is stubborn and simple
we expect it so
Do not punish the fox for being sly
Do not resent the elephant
(because he won't forget)
Do not play circus tricks
As a lyrical fix
Escalating your idleness into entertainment
About a metaphor matador,
Even Hemingway
Had nothing would say
You see red too.

Compulsive insecurity that showers
With spiders
Forgetting to rinse the fear
Of knowing it's there
Outlining the shape of influence
Tracing is not art
With my one free hand to draw
Upon the influence
The way our souls talk to our body in music
It breathes unconscious life
Resuscitating rigid forms

Your critical eye watches over
Eternally skeptical
But resigned to accepting submissions
Of only blind faith
The eye turns, the shoulder ices
And the nose responds
To the stench of stale judgments
Enshrined and knighted into law
Affixed in the time of the critic
Preacher incarnate of the Great Hermetic

I attended this sermon, I've listened from the pew
And after this rhetorical confession is through
I'll forgive your moral platitude
Replacing judgments and spiritual certitude
With reverence and esteem
Cropped from the cream de la creme
Piping hot, or saying not
What isn't there
Your moral discrimination didn't care
Honesty is surrounded by pungent air
This is what it means to be a critic that's fair
Expressing your opinion
Over your self-proclaimed poetic dominion.

To date I must admit
I shan't comment on certain merit
I have yet to tour your Wasteland
It is among the trips I have planned
I suspect your poetic tour
Has a certain Eliot-ian lure
But with all the sour and cynical criticism
A creamy dose of witticism
Can take off the negative edge
Or positively push you over the ledge

Though this poet won't- I shall never yield
To the pessimism of you, T.S. Eliot or W.C. Fields
Both of whom are safely dead
The latter of which once so aptly said
"If you can't dazzle them with brilliance, baffle them with bull."

Constrained in my words I think I did neglect
Despite all the decent and mediocre words I reject
I am unable to honestly reflect
My sincere gratitude and eternal respect.






Image of T.S. Eliot by Lady Ottoline Morrell [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Sprinkles on my Sunday

I like sprinkles on my Sunday
slathered with syrup sticky in grey
dripping in melted sleepy-eyed gloom
sliding down panes of my room.

It turns me rainbow gay
not to be taken the wrong way

In its darkness- I sneak a smile,
life agrees, Its been awhile.

The pungent scent of pavement
emitting its stench of sealed fragrant
plumes of sweat
musty and wet

Dissolving salty sugared beads
Once barren earth now growing weeds

Is it
drizzling a bit?
Was it
just some spit?

I think felt it on my nose
(I hate it squishing between my toes)

As though the leaden sky
releasing a bitter sigh
drools in premonition
soothed by heavy submission

Rushing she pushes a bitter wind
Herd and gather inside the thin-skinned

She peaks on her progress
breaking clouds to see her mess

sinister rays
threaten the sprinkly days
this restless phase
an extra scoop of praise

A hazy solemn Sunday treat
A lazy indulgent guilt free sweet
On a day of cleansing and forgiveness
Weather (or not) blessedly religious.




Image of painting by Paul Cornoyer (1864-1923), "The Plaza After Rain",[Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Olive to Fly

The ship sailed West on Sunday

The wind was too wild on Wednesday

Our arrow plane rips the paper sky,

severing space for itself, its edges unfrayed.

Flapping fabric waves airily

sewing smooth loop-di-loops

prepared with packed parachutes.

Cruising like a Caddy,

on the wide open highway of the sky.

Her name-I love,

“Olive” was her name.

Born in barnstormer days,

used in crop-dusting ways,

coasting through a Navy phase.

Aloft over land and sea,

thirty owners later,

she took us up for a spin.

By plane of bands, poles and holes

Her martini body knows the sky.