Category Archives: poetry

There was once

Old Maggie.
You lived here, and to this day it stands, guarded by posterity. A testament, at least, to the spring steel backbones of your times. Not a curve to its roof, or a lean to its timbers. As upright as you always were, I reckon.

I’ll be seventy next year. When I was one tenth of that, my mother took me to see you for the first time. There were no smiles or caresses, only a stern sizing-up with your raven-like gaze. At mother’s instructions, I was not to call you Granny or Grandma or names of such ilk. And certainly not Maggie. It was to be Grand Mother, and that was the end of it.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
While Mum and Grand Mother spoke in quiet tones, or went out to the garden, I was left to play with the ancient piano, and was told not to touch anything else in the house. Grand Mother had one of those little yappy dogs, and when it wasn’t vocalizing, it was doing circuits of the house, seemingly trying to get me to follow. I did take a curious look around the place, avoiding the touching of anything but the floor. Lots of small dark tables with doilies on them. Pictures on the walls (all straight), of Sons in the Army and Air Force. All of perfect posture and grim aspect. Curiously, an old rag doll sat on the kitchen counter. And, in the back mudroom, some animal skins tacked to the walls, next to a rack of rifles and shotguns. Grand Mother was a widow by that time, but Grand Dad’s effects were never disturbed.

[Why was Mum afraid of you? My little boy’s instinct told me that, right away. In our short time there, she seemed to always be wanting your approval, and your stern expression never changed.]

We stayed long enough for a silent dinner, and then Grand Mother went to her bedroom and brought out an old leather change purse. I remember it being heavily bound with elastic bands. She took from it a rolled wad of paper (more elastics) and gave it to Mum. And then, it was time to go home.

When we got to Toronto, Mum solemnly gave me the first paper money I had ever had of my own. It was five dollars, on the instruction of Grand Mother. A fortune to me. The last time I saw her was three years later, at her funeral.

Upon Mum’s death, some forty years later, we had to clean out her apartment. In her old trunk, wrapped in tissue, was Raggedy Ann.

 

Miss Maven and the Raven

MISS MAVEN AND THE RAVEN

Sweet Maven was handsome,
and worth a King’s ransom,
but headstrong and haughty was she.
She spurned all her suitors
and mastered her tutors
in matters of lore and Faerie.

Now, her father and mother
and soldierly brother
were vexed with her contrary ways.
And they thought if they let her
alone, t’would be better,
to do what she willed with her days.

In a willow she fashioned,
with whimsical passion,
a cradle of moss for herself.
And, in comfort exceeding,
she took to her reading
of the land of the Fairy and Elf.

But too long did she tarry,
alone and unwary,
and the treacherous moon cast a spell.
In her mesmeric sleeping,
the darkness came creeping,
and followed her down to the dell.

Maven woke to a flapping
and a curious tapping,
and in the moon’s glow she could see
with an aspect malignant,
and blackest of pigment,
a raven had perched on her knee.

The willow was creaking
when the bird began speaking
with a sweet and a buttery tongue.
And he sang all her praises
and told her of places
in want of a princess so young.

His Maven, said he,
as a Queen she would be,
and the people would bow at her feet.
(As he spoke, she came near.
She had lost all her fear,
and his flattering spell was complete.)

So she bent down to listen,
and her wild eyes would glisten,
but an ugliness came to her face.
And what once was so merry
and bright as a fairy
A countenance grim did replace.

‘Twas a sight to behold,
for she’d grown very old,
like a visage had come from the tomb.
But the Raven, he rendered
a spell that would send her
to the land of bewitchery’s broom!

***

Art by http://janaheidersdorf.com/

25: Go ask Alice

mmm..
was it that hot dog I had off the coffee truck?
wrapped in plastic
smelled a little funky
ate it anyway
found a peanut, found a peanut
found a peanut last night
dee leery
del eerie
delirium I am in, that’s it
-why are my toes so far away?
cords of gristle connecting to ankle pulleys
oh man
gotta gotta get outa bed
I have too much juice
-where’s the floor? there’s only an escalator
always a scared of those things, no confidence
-does my Auntie dote on me?
-hahaha what is the antidote?
step on the steps, fool
move your legs in the proper rhythm
oh geez here we go-
but I am too speedy
the escalator must be stopped for repairs
and I do a smashmouth on the doorknob.
oh momma momma this is real
one tooth too short, the rest is up my nose
bright blood on two of my hands
take away take away show in the light
this must be the antidote
it is a technical knockout
bye bye

74

Elle’s verse , remembering a life left behind.

ELLE's avatarelleguyence

standing out on the back porch
looking out on the suburban sprawl I
called home my whole childhood,
imagining all the quiet moments of
what I swore I wouldn’t miss:
cookie dough and street hockey
and whispering on the landline

I imagine all the time that has passed
years and years and years
stacked like pancakes my father
used to burn on the stove.
time came and went,
the stove was replaced, gone
and my sweet tooth, gone
and suddenly I was gone, too

I hear a voice call me back inside
to come back to bed
I see the sidewalk split in two
from all I remember and all I wish I wouldn’t forget
and for a split second,
I smell the sickly sweet of pancakes
and realize
memories are never kind, they
remind you of what you left behind.

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These aren’t the ‘roids you’re looking for

hey!

I just got back from pikkapak

and I don’t know why I came.

It’s an asteroidy bric-a-brac

like in the viddy game.

It’s big enough to have some fun

but you gotta come out early

(just before the morning sun)

to catch the hurly-burly.

Their party time is two-four-seven,

and no one ever sleeps.

And nobody will go to heaven,

but no one ever weeps.

Now, if you’d like to visit there

to wash away your worry,

well…brush your teeth and comb your hair

and get dressed in a hurry!

The next conveyance leaves at five.

Be waiting at the station!

And try your best to look alive

to pass examination!

No rush, no rush.

On the old dirt road,
all is calm,
all is bright.
A stand of cat-tails recovers from yesterday’s bent,
telling me which way the wind went.
Browning fronds dip down,
drawing degrees of their deaths from the snow.
Nothing here for anyone, really.
Nor for feather, fur, or fin.
Here I stopped for an insistent bladder.
With that taken care of, I turn to go,
but stay instead, for a moment or two.
If my party friends could see me now,
they might say
“there he goes with his mooning daydreams”.
It’s a peculiar time, a pausing time, a settling time.
All that has been, and all that will be
seem to have met at this nexus.
A thing, put off through doubt,
is affirmed, and I nod,
to no one in particular.
From my backseat toolbox, I grab some scissors.
Cat-tails.
She always liked them.
But these are not the pencil ones.
And they are dead.

Dream twenty four: in the funnel

I lean in from a cloud,
spying this lake of slate,
in the never evergreen bush.
The sunny side has big boats three,
yachting this shiny blue day.
Merrymakers loll on the decks.
Shapely girls lean out on the prow rails,
icons of the Titanic.
I hear their cries and laughter
over the gulls.
In my monstrous vertebrae I feel,
from southern climes,
the approach of electric grey,
with green barely seen.
No weather master am I,
and so I take a lungful of fluffy steam,
stadium-sized,
to blow a Southwind warning.
On deaf ears it falls.
They jeer at the momentary gale,
for I cannot blot the sun.
And then, the sounding storm.
The waters riddled with rain.
They scurry like aimless ants,
furling sails.
The stormfront’s infantry:
three vacuum funnels,
all of contrast sharp,
all of bright chrome.
Slowly they revolve at the outset.
Then, of a sudden, they part ranks at speed,
like silver balls released in a trice
by pinball plunger.
I fear for the fate of the four score on deck.
The spouts harass the boats,
like bothering bees,
and there is much terror and clinging.
They do a devil dance,
then congregate, as if by design,
at the North’s sandy shore.
Stay, they do.
The mile long lake they suck and spew,
into the clouds, as fine as dew.
And the sailors of the weekend?
Their upright ships do gently rest
at lower elevations.
Stuck in the mucky silt of centuries.

This thing

He waits for me, each night,
of late,
in the cottony caves ‘twixt longer dreams.
The script:
I’ll be born once more from ectoplasm,
and flutter down on nightwings,
like settling leaves in the cease of the breeze.
He knows I come.
That I can’t stay away.
But I always wish to startle him,
so I slide,
a form of translucent grey,
across his stalactite ceiling.
But he smells me
and smiles a slow smile.
Bovine, feline, canine by turns.
In the voice of The Rock Biter, he says
PULL UP A CHAIR.
Of what form will he be tonight?
Sometimes, we play the name game.
Threenight ago, he was ratlike, but stood erect.
In his black top hat, he spoke sneering syllables,
saying he had eaten five pies and I was to guess his name.
His scaly tail twitched and whipped,
and his sharp yellow teeth champed at the bit
until I said
nimmy nimmy nit not, your name is Tom Tit-Tot.
His eyes grew wide and bloodshot,
and he reached forth with chickenfoot hands.
Screeching in the rat language, he ran about,
like a balloon let go and blubbering out its air.
And impaled himself upon a stalagmite.
I went home.
Just last night, he was all in white feathers,
and was duck-billed.
He wore a blue vest with brass buttons,
and had a sailor’s cap.
I said Where are your pants, Donald?
Whereupon he let out a loud quaaaack,
and pounded on the table.
Whereupon all things bright and beautiful winked out.
And tonight?
Ah yes, tonight.
I must tell you this, writing as it is, from the Seventh Circle.
Tonight, I parachuted as usual, down from his spiny ceiling.
All is damp dripping darkness,
but, in a far corner, there is a golden light.
I hear a rhythmic squeaking, and someone hums along with it.
There sits a small creature, sitting on a stool beside a spinning wheel.
Piles of gold surround him.
PULL UP A CHAIR!  it says.
We’ve much to discuss!
Topics of import, like
is tea better than coffee?
is an apple better than an orange?
what happens to a bubble if it is left to float undisturbed?
if you collect the powder from a moth’s wings,
can you be made to fly?
We mull it over.
Prevaricate.
Debate.
But, it is tiring, discussing such worldly things.
There are no clear answers.
We begin to yawn widely, ready for the second sleep.
I say By the way, you look a little rumpled tonight, Stiltskin.
Whereupon he takes off his pointy hat, throws it at me,
and stamps with one foot on the stony floor.
Our world bursts asunder, and our feet go from under.
Into abyss we tumble, grabbing and grappling,
but all is gossamer.

Pie face

Don’t go out tonight, 
my little man.
Oh no, don’t.
Especial, not behind the broken barn
by the woodpile
under the crooked elm.
I seen him there last night
when I was takin’ a pee.
Buddy kilt ‘im.
Cooked ‘im up in a pie.
It’s he’s ghost, I tell ye.
Got lips so horble.
He’s eyes drippin’ blood.
He grab me,
says “Yer not the one”
“be bringin’ me the younger fer a bite”
“Oi wait tomorrer and then the night”
“If ye don’t come, then yer the one”
Don’t go out tonight,
little man.
I love ye so.