The mystical smoke entwined itself
Around the gnarled boles
Forming the legs of the vast giants
Which towered above the leafy floor
Of the timeless forest.
Eminating from three gold braziers
Intricately and craftily carved,
The mist and odor of incense
Wafted through the boughs
Of the ageless forest.
A leaf free triangle
Marked at each point by a bowl,
Set in the midst
Of a seemingly vast
And endless forest
A plaque is centered
Within this magical glyph
Untouched by nature or time,
Or mankind’s speculative laws,
Within the ancient forest.
Upon the plaque
Is written one simple word
Understandable by all
Bounded by nothing
Within the antique forest.
Peace.
Archive for March, 1987
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Nitrous Oxide, Nitrous Oxide
N2O, N2O
Great hallucinogenic, great hallucinogenic
Fry brain cells
Fry brain cells
[sung to the tune of “Frere Jacques”]
The wind goes round and round the earth
Never slowing, never stopping
Seeing millions of people and millions of places
And rushing by, always in a hurry.
Always exhilarated and fresh, rejuvenated;
A harbinger of weather to come
Or a refreshing feeling, stirring the heat
Rounding the sphere we call home.
Moving, shifting, changing, revolving
Don’t you wish you could hitchhike?
A wallet lay upon the ground
Should I return it to the Lost and Found?
Open it up, is there ID?
Visa and Mastercard! Oh lucky me!
One hundred in bills, non sequential.
A driver’s license – quite essential.
A bunch of pictures and gas receipts
A pair of tickets for ballet seats.
But alas, I am still in a bind
For this wallet I found still isn’t mine.
I know how stupid this may sound,
But I returned that wallet to the Lost and Found.
Demon
Posted: March 17, 1987 in PoetryTags: Clouds, Dance, Demon, Fire, God, Monster, Mountains, Night, Satan, Soul, Sound, Universe
From a fiery plateau in the midst of hell
Where all the fabled monsters dwell
Came a sound which split the night
A noise issued to God in spite
On the mountaintop within the inferno
Dance a supreme demon by the name of Mephisto
Or Satan or Demogorgon or the Father of Lies
By whatever name, he is one to despise.
Atop the mountain he gleefully pranced
And it was a mocking dance that he danced.
Below him on the burning plain
Writhed tortured souls without identity or name
Up, up, up towards the heavens they swirled
Lashed onward by the demon way above our world.
Towards the Lord’s throne, up within the clouds
While the universe shook with dreadful sounds.
But the Lord was forgiving and blessed each soul
And tore from them, sin, which kept them so cold.
The more Satan called, the more were rescued
And Mephisto’s stupidity cannot more be eschewed.
For the Lord is supreme, he made me and you
And not to be forgotten, he made Satan, too.
Sleep
Posted: March 16, 1987 in PoetryTags: Beauty, Cat, Dreams, Elf, Flowers, Friend, Frog, Grass, Imagination, Knight, Maiden, Prince, Princess, Rainbow, Sea, Sleep, Tom Sawyer, Unicorn, Witch
Sleep
Dreams
White picket fences
Knights of the Round Table
Picturesque cottages
By a blooming pasture
With a lake some distance away
Away over a patchwork quilt
Of grass and poppies
And lilies and daffodils
And snapdragons and
Dandylions and petunias
And myriads of colored flowers
Like a living rainbow.
A silver-maned unicorn
Prances through the colorful sea
With an Elf princess on her back
Wading towards an unknown goal.
Shall she stoop to kiss a frog?
At the edge of the sparkling lake,
Unicorn as guardian, companion, friend
An entire land
Filled with knights and maidens
And emerald cities and Cheshire cats
And evil witches and giant beanstalks
Nottingham castles, Tom Sawyer’s clubhouse,
Sleeping beauties and handsome princes
A land whose boundaries are imagination
And not worldly restrictions and rules
Every land is different
Unique to that person
And this is what
Dreams
Are made of
How does it feel to be so transparent
An object made to be looked through
Unseen and
Unnoticed.
The only physical evidence that it is there is
The small pieces of
Fly and dirt and scum
And water spots
That wouldn’t have happened if it
Had Cascade sheeting action
But no one cares.
Sometimes it gets cleaned!
But only to make it more transparent
And ignoreable
And featureless
And it takes away its personality,
What little it had.
Does a window silently scream when it’s broken>
Maybe that’s what the crash is for.
How would it feel to have a hole through one’s middle?
But there are always those few, special, lucky windows;
They look out over a peaceful countryside
Or sparkling, sunny waters
Or cloudlessly blue skies.
Not streets full of pollution, misery, greed
Poverty, homelessness, helpless,
Prejudice, suffering, chaotic, infernal,
Religious, lunatic, morbidness, rape,
And other acts of intolerable crime.
They are very thin partitions…
Chris Feher
Should have purple in his hair
Because it is unfair
He didn’t do his share
Of picking up TP
Out of four there were three
Make him pay a fee
For avoiding penalty.
Linda is pissed
With her mousse she missed
Knocked out of her fist
The ground it kissed.
Bobby got shafted
His jacket was blasted
Ironically purple’s casted
The effects have lasted.
Alex missed out.
Wendy will pout.
No doubt
They’ll shout.
Bur Chris we will get
Not yet
I’ll bet.
Don’t fret.
Without any humor
You’ll get a tumor
In your head
To make you dead.
Without any fun
You’ll get nothing done.
Your hair will go grey
And in bed you’ll lay.
Without any riddles
You’ll get round in your middles
From not laughing enough
Boy, that must be tough!
Without practical jokes
We’ll be boring folks.
Excitement we’ll lack;
You will live in a shack.
But without any humor
I’d make such a furor
So you’d put it all back
Intact.
There was an old lady
Who lived in a shoe.
Had so many children
She didn’t know what to do.
But if youse think that’s bad,
Better nawt tawk
‘Cause there’s a man down the street
Who lives in a sock.
A single red mitten
Lay upon the new fallen snow
Freezing.
Without the inner warmth
Of a radiant child’s hand
Lonely.
So I rescued the glove
And off to the lost and found it goes
Recovered.
A little girl inquires
And receives her lost red glove
Reunited.
A big fat unabridged dictionary
Sat upon the shelf
Thinking and cogitating
Upon the nature of itself.
It knew what every word meant
Its knowledge was its might
But this ability did the book no good
For it had no power to write.
Slumped by the wall
Trampled by feet
Too dirty and too obscene
Sign around its neck
In big block letters:
LEPER OUTCAST UNCLEAN
In sixteen different languages.
Missing one wrist and
About half of its face
Splotches of purple and green
It silently speaks
Through rotten teeth
LEPER OUTCAST UNCLEAN
But no one hears him.
It has no feeling
In its arms or legs
As it watches them turn gangrene
With dull eyes it sees
An uncaring world
LEPER OUTCAST UNCLEAN
Alone.
Its entire body putrefies
Right before his face
But his senses still are keen
It’s completely numb
And stone cold dead
LEPER OUTCAST UNCLEAN
The flies feast at noon.
[obviously influenced by Stephen R. Donaldson’s Chronicles of Thomas Covenant the Unbeliever]
Seadreamer
Posted: March 11, 1987 in PoetryTags: Captain, Child, Dream, Green, Hero, Imagination, Lightning, Love, Maiden, Ocean, Sea, Ship, Sky, Tears, Water
A little kid sits in a corner with a dunce cap on his head
He’s being punished for something someone else has done and said.
A single tear runs down his cheek, yet he still shows no emotion
For his mind has carried him away to a deep blue boundless ocean.
A captain and his trusty ship, he sails with imagination
Outside the world is stark and harsh as compared with his creation.
By wondrous people in wondrous ports, he’s beckoned to the shore
But landing his ship realizes a goal, and his fantasy will be no more.
So he sails along, taunted by faces that he has never seen
Past vibrant cities, rural towns, and verdant hills of green.
Impassive at the prow, wind in his hair, and sea salt on his tongue
His is the story of a Seadreamer, a tale of a hero unsung.
Stoicly standing, resisting temptation present in every stream
The captain knows the fragile state of his precious dream.
Also in this world is a pretty maid who can never touch the sea.
A similar fate as the captain has vice versa curses she.
Gleaming water, teasing depths, voices within the surf.
But as the captain, the maid is strong, and strives to show her worth.
The Seadreamer sailed across the sea until it met the sky
And there on lonely island was the young maid, rather shy.
Yet Cupid’s arrows impaled them both and turned their hearts to love
Blind inspiration struck each one like lightning from above.
The captain turned his ship to shore and the maid ran down to meet him
In their haste they each forgot they’d end each others dreams.
But love overcomes all obstacles, for now and ever more
The maiden’s foot touched the ocean as the captain’s hit the shore.
Though their dreams were disrupted, it came to no great harm,
For the captain sitting in the corner awoke with the maiden in his arms.
Poet Slashings
Posted: March 10, 1987 in PoetryTags: Byron, Chicken, Coleridge, Dickens, Shelley, Steel, Swift, Wordsworth
Pope, Byron, Blake
It’s a piece of cake
For my sake
To make
A mistake.
Shelley, Coleridge, Wordsworth
I think they’re worth
Their weight in Nerf
For surf
And turf.
Swift, Steel, Dickens
They are all chickens
If I had my pickins
It sickens
My lickins.
A wastebasket is unloved
Unwanted
Unfeeling
Useless
‘Cept for holding items you don’t want anymore.
Like pencil stubs
And old candy
And unhumorous bumper stickers
And Superman Underoos
And bad poetry mistakes
Like this one.
Maybe it isn’t so bad
Because you get to meet many different things
And you get to love and cherish each unique object
Until someone empties you with a flick of their wrist
Only leaving you with a small remnant;
A trail of greasy saliva or
A hardened piece of gum but
Mostly nothing.
And when you get old
And your plastic’s weak
And your wicker is sagging
And your metal is corroded
And your shine is gone
And your color is faded
And you refuse to let go of that one last bit
Of stuff you have held in your confines
For a long, long time
Maybe all of eternity
They’ll throw you into an even bigger wastebasket
And you can truthfully say
I know what you mean.
There once was a man named Kotter
Who’s occupation was that of a potter
He was perturbed one day
A fly got in his clay
And he sat down and invented the ‘swatter.
He thought about a ping pong paddle
And with pen in hand he would dabble
Such time it would take
For a paddle to make
To be practical for all kinds of rabble.
Tennis rackets were too large to use
Even though the shape Kotter did peruse
The strings were so taut
That useful it was not
Because it just cut the insects in twos.
The baseball bat was too thin
In frustration he scratched at his chin
The ideas he’d tried
Had come from outside
And this one must come from within
So he gave up on the idea for the day
Saw another fly not too far away
A spatula he got
The new fly he sought
And behold there the dead fly did lay.
The moral of the story is this:
When there’s a fly buzzing, don’t be amiss
Pick up anything
And just give it a swing
And hopefully you will not miss.
The cockroach may be sentient
Possibly impertinent
One thing we know,
It likes to go
And hide in your…dessertament?
The contents of a girlie’s purse
Are many, sundry, and quite diverse.
Lipstick and makeup and lots of things
Gum and candy and classy rings.
Jewelry, mascara, Vogue and Elle
A little black book of their clientele.
Wallet full of pictures, numbers, and dates
A list of loves and a list of hates.
Bottles, books, boxes, and cans
Liquid paper and rubber bands.
Advil, cookies, extra pens,
Millions of notes from millions of friends.
Mirrors, brushes, hair spray bottles
Earrings and brochures to look like models.
Keys, matches, undated green passes
Used to get friends out of their classes.
Credit cards, bracelets, maybe a comb
Everything they need while away from their home.
Nail polish, eye shadow, liner and blush,
Packed in their purses ‘cause they’re in a rush.
Watches and perfume, a pack of breath mints
Nickels, dimes, quarters – about fifty cents.
Thank God there’s only so much space in a purse
If bags were in style, it would be that much worse.
What is it like
To be a piece of French toast
A half a club sandwich
Or a grade B roast
Sitting on the plate
With someone looking down
A bit of parsley for a brain
An orange peel for a crown
As scrambled eggs
Or a hamburger bun
Waiting to see
Of what end they’ll become
A fat lady or a kid
Or a man with ready cash
Or the ultimate rejection:
To be thrown in the trash.
Ode to a Saddened, Overwhelmed, Depressed, Lousy, Poor Old Guy in a Sleazy Bar
Posted: March 8, 1987 in PoetryTags: Alcohol, Blue, Cosby, Madonna, Night, Spirit, Van Gogh, Weird Al
A saddened man
Will boost his spirits
By having a can
Of Coors or Schlitz
He tries to thik
Of something else
Not armpit stink
Or prison cells
Not the fourth dimension
Nor Madonna’s navel
Not stress or tension
Or record labels
Not impending doom
Or space invaders
Not business boom
Nor prancing satyrs
Not greasy bacon
Or Motley Crue
Not movin’ and shakin’
Or a shade of blue
Not stuffed animals
Not the Cosby Show
Not new Weird Al
Not old Van Gogh
Not the E.R.A.
Not the Price is Right
Not yesterday
And not last night
So the saddened guy
Sets his glass down
Clears his mind
And has another round.
The Ballad of the Coffee Stirrer
Posted: March 7, 1987 in PoetryTags: Blue, Fly, Grey, Life, Love, Memories, Nature, San, Sound, Trash, Wind, World
Upon the dusty linoleum floor
Lies a discarded coffee stirrer.
Weak and useless with a hollow core
Its memories only a blur.
It lies in wait for something new
Stepped on is a way of life.
A bottle cap with stripes of blue
Joins it in its strife.
Upon the ground, unnoticed by us
They stay without complaining.
Surrounded by motes of dirt and dust
Dents are all they’re gaining.
Lost and lonely, sad and forlorn
A plastic tube is all
What respect it ever had is shorn
In a world where all else is tall.
A bottle cap, just useless trash
Carelessly thrown away
It still feels humility’s lash
It’s chrome is dulled to grey.
Cap and straw, sitting together
Upon an unforgiving ground.
Hoping to love each other forever
Without ever making a sound.
But wind and nature will have their way
No matter what you can try.
The hollow straw was blown away
And a kid let the bottle cap fly.
So now among the piles of refuse
Present in all the world
A bottle cap’s silent tears break loose
And a straw is broken and curled.
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