Poems?
I used to not know how to spell poet, now I are one, maybe. Judge for yourself from the following.
My first book of poems, pictured here, was published several years ago. My next book is in the works. Recently, I submitted three poems to the Marin County Fair. They will be, if found by a jury to be without injurious subtext and
incomprehensible metaphor that could be dangerous to babies and small school children, on display at the fair from July 3rd-7th.
SAID THE CENTIPEDE TO THE COMMON BIPEDAL
Don’t just sit there, class, staring at my feet.
Of which, I realize there are numerous.
Or any other-where, more or less humorous.
And please, class, don’t ask; what, when, why, how and where,
Which color of socks, on rainy days, in
Mud and slush and snow and sleet, in my opinion, are best to wear.
My head hurts today . . . I tire.
I don’t want to think thoughts about my lower attire.
And please, class, please . . . don’t anyone ask:
"When climbing on a rock, up with which foot do first I put?"
Doesn’t that seem a bit obtuse?
Ending a perfectly valid observation with a prepositional caboose?
I cannot elucidate so well on Fridays.
That’s the day that’s only fit for slowing down.
And that sometimes takes me hours.
Sometimes, though it is my fervent wish to do so,
I cannot even stop to smell the flowers.
My rushing along train of concentrational tending–
Of foot and feet and mental thoughts–
Though seemingly a simple thing,
Sometimes, as I said before, takes hours.
A centipede is what I am, or may be.
But I call myself a Centipoet,
So . . . about those stupid questions
That I know you want to ask about and hear:
Is it to much to think, and not ask of a poet, especially a Centipoet,
If he must—in the act of creating a poem—switch his brain hemisphere?
And in so doing, lose his sense of balance and/or well being?
The tiny voice, innermost in my head, is serene but most commanding,
And not at all remote in understanding.
What difference can it be if the left foot
Is put down before the right? If, in the act of putting,
I do not stop and ask, but simply seem to know where to light.
Why must we question, or quantify the putting.
Or bother to put the question to the brain and thereby lose our footing?
You seem to be going about it all the wrong way, dear class.
All clustering yourselves about the learning of the methods of
Creating a poem into being.
I suggest you try it another way. You and your brain get together
And jot down the random commands your conscious mind demands.
The after a little while . . . just maybe; a poem will be born.
Here’s a Hypothetical:
Suppose the drill sergeant fell by the wayside five miles back?
Just shrug off your khaki back-pack and put one foot down.
The rest, I assure you, will simply follow.
Never, never ask, or question: where each foot is laid.
Then you will know, and easily understand,
Just how a poem is made.
Never bother to choose!
Do you realize that a hundred feet,
To put the plural to the game,
Equals a hundred working left foots?
And as for the feats of the right foots,
You can figure just about the same.
Then you will always know when,
what the right thing to do, is doable.
And if you think you have one,
have faith and rely upon your Muse.
That’s all for today, class.
I have to go now.
Has anyone seen my shoes?
I used to not know how to spell poet, now I are one, maybe. Judge for yourself from the following.
My first book of poems, pictured here, was published several years ago. My next book is in the works. Recently, I submitted three poems to the Marin County Fair. They will be, if found by a jury to be without injurious subtext and
incomprehensible metaphor that could be dangerous to babies and small school children, on display at the fair from July 3rd-7th.
SAID THE CENTIPEDE TO THE COMMON BIPEDAL
Don’t just sit there, class, staring at my feet.
Of which, I realize there are numerous.
Or any other-where, more or less humorous.
And please, class, don’t ask; what, when, why, how and where,
Which color of socks, on rainy days, in
Mud and slush and snow and sleet, in my opinion, are best to wear.
My head hurts today . . . I tire.
I don’t want to think thoughts about my lower attire.
And please, class, please . . . don’t anyone ask:
"When climbing on a rock, up with which foot do first I put?"
Doesn’t that seem a bit obtuse?
Ending a perfectly valid observation with a prepositional caboose?
I cannot elucidate so well on Fridays.
That’s the day that’s only fit for slowing down.
And that sometimes takes me hours.
Sometimes, though it is my fervent wish to do so,
I cannot even stop to smell the flowers.
My rushing along train of concentrational tending–
Of foot and feet and mental thoughts–
Though seemingly a simple thing,
Sometimes, as I said before, takes hours.
A centipede is what I am, or may be.
But I call myself a Centipoet,
So . . . about those stupid questions
That I know you want to ask about and hear:
Is it to much to think, and not ask of a poet, especially a Centipoet,
If he must—in the act of creating a poem—switch his brain hemisphere?
And in so doing, lose his sense of balance and/or well being?
The tiny voice, innermost in my head, is serene but most commanding,
And not at all remote in understanding.
What difference can it be if the left foot
Is put down before the right? If, in the act of putting,
I do not stop and ask, but simply seem to know where to light.
Why must we question, or quantify the putting.
Or bother to put the question to the brain and thereby lose our footing?
You seem to be going about it all the wrong way, dear class.
All clustering yourselves about the learning of the methods of
Creating a poem into being.
I suggest you try it another way. You and your brain get together
And jot down the random commands your conscious mind demands.
The after a little while . . . just maybe; a poem will be born.
Here’s a Hypothetical:
Suppose the drill sergeant fell by the wayside five miles back?
Just shrug off your khaki back-pack and put one foot down.
The rest, I assure you, will simply follow.
Never, never ask, or question: where each foot is laid.
Then you will know, and easily understand,
Just how a poem is made.
Never bother to choose!
Do you realize that a hundred feet,
To put the plural to the game,
Equals a hundred working left foots?
And as for the feats of the right foots,
You can figure just about the same.
Then you will always know when,
what the right thing to do, is doable.
And if you think you have one,
have faith and rely upon your Muse.
That’s all for today, class.
I have to go now.
Has anyone seen my shoes?
FLORAL FLIRTATIONS
Here at this, the end of an acidic tasting day,
As is so often, my often wont to do,
I wearily entered my home.
And shut the door on the world outside.
And as I looked about.
I found the tiny ivy plant: the one I recently rescued
From the Orphanage for scruffy, short lived flora,
Holding hands with our resident spinster, Miss Schefflera, the II.
Miss Schefflera appreciated the II added when she was
Addressed or spoken of.
I pretended not to notice the flirtation,
And went on with shuffling off the cumbersome, daily
Conventionalities I so disdain to wear.
And began making toast and tea.
A repast only for old ladies you say . . . ?
Nonsense, It’s my favorite meal.
As Miss Schefflera went on with her knitting;
She did not seem to mind
This new trifling flirtation and familiarity.
But the slight fluttering of her leaves seemed to say
She was pleased with having a new friend there beside her;
Just to the left, yet not too close.
Sometimes the littlest things can rescue the day:
Toast and tea
And the flowering of domestic greenery.
A SUMMER REFRAIN
I sometimes tearfully refrain
From walking in the summer rain.
That sweet and gentle time of year
When birds all twitter and kitties litter.
For the park is wild and fraught with dangers.
There are vicious squirrels and total strangers.
There are crude and muscley guys with acne
Who always follow and attack me.
But one must be brave and bare his breast
To see Mother Nature at her best.
So forth I'll go, facing menace and meanie.
But first I'll finish my martini.
* With apologies to the late, great, Percy Dovetonsils.
MY SWEET LUCY
Beside a lover's babbling brook
I and my sweet Lucy
Sipped some sassy Saki
And composed some naughty Hikushi
Here at this, the end of an acidic tasting day,
As is so often, my often wont to do,
I wearily entered my home.
And shut the door on the world outside.
And as I looked about.
I found the tiny ivy plant: the one I recently rescued
From the Orphanage for scruffy, short lived flora,
Holding hands with our resident spinster, Miss Schefflera, the II.
Miss Schefflera appreciated the II added when she was
Addressed or spoken of.
I pretended not to notice the flirtation,
And went on with shuffling off the cumbersome, daily
Conventionalities I so disdain to wear.
And began making toast and tea.
A repast only for old ladies you say . . . ?
Nonsense, It’s my favorite meal.
As Miss Schefflera went on with her knitting;
She did not seem to mind
This new trifling flirtation and familiarity.
But the slight fluttering of her leaves seemed to say
She was pleased with having a new friend there beside her;
Just to the left, yet not too close.
Sometimes the littlest things can rescue the day:
Toast and tea
And the flowering of domestic greenery.
A SUMMER REFRAIN
I sometimes tearfully refrain
From walking in the summer rain.
That sweet and gentle time of year
When birds all twitter and kitties litter.
For the park is wild and fraught with dangers.
There are vicious squirrels and total strangers.
There are crude and muscley guys with acne
Who always follow and attack me.
But one must be brave and bare his breast
To see Mother Nature at her best.
So forth I'll go, facing menace and meanie.
But first I'll finish my martini.
* With apologies to the late, great, Percy Dovetonsils.
MY SWEET LUCY
Beside a lover's babbling brook
I and my sweet Lucy
Sipped some sassy Saki
And composed some naughty Hikushi