my eyes were growing furry coats
i peered through layered lashes
and thought i saw some billy goats
with peppery moustaches
from out my mouth came rabbit teeth
just like my younger sister’s
and to the South (just underneath)
some honorary whiskers
my nose was flat and wiggly
i snuffled in the dirt
just like that little piggly
emblazoned on my shirt
but, now it’s time to say goodbye
to wooly-minded thoughts
and think, instead, of pumpkin pie
and bubbling coffee pots!
Father, please deliver us
from precipice and pit.
From devil spawn carnivorous
that eat us, bit by bit.
Pushing as we’re slipping back.
We hear the mad refrain.
The landscape of the tamarack,
the black and inky rain.
You’re like that.
A nimble soul.
A twilight firefly,
pausing to each.
Lighting our stubby black wicks.
The paraffin glows once more.
It’s nothing personal,
I know now.
I’ll see you sometime, maybe, eh?
How much spark have you left?
head upon the downy pillow
underneath the weeping willow
by the bubbling river’s greening bend
the filtered sunlight slanting down
you brought to me a daisy crown
I wished this merry moment not to end
the leaves a-flutter, summer snowing
sleepy syllables of knowing
our sundering and silences to end
and now, we’ll pick the periwinkles
and walk home in the starry twinkles
the nightingales and whippoorwills attend
I’ll cradle your endearing face
you’ll swear to me, upon this place
we’ll stay until our hearts will fully mend
I sometimes sit on a hill
I am silent, but not wise
All of my money is gone
If I represent myself
I have a poor client
I am prone to rush in, and
For love, I lose all reason
I am of the species who is born every minute
I awaken, humming, in obligatory madness
We represent the lollipop guild.
Is of the bluebottle ilk,
genus Calliphora.
Morphing from its languorous larva,
it preens for first flight.
Fanning flattened wings,
combing black bristles.
Oiling the swivels of eye clusters.
Born of a legion in festering heat.
Leaving its poor shanty and dry patties,
it does fly.
Directionless, it wants but a tailwind.
On this steamy smoky night,
There’s a sad house
with a peeled and flaking window frame
seized and stuck.
Yanked and slammed shut by impatient hands,
the speckled pane breaks.
There are loud yells,
and the cry of a little one thrown into bed.
Soon her sobs are muffled in the dirty pillow.
There’s a pea-sized hole in her window screen.
A blue buzz gets through and circles,
landing on the lamp stand.
By some fate, it’s chosen.
The sobs subside, a thumb is sucked.
Under thrall, the fly nimbly knits
a dream of lasting peace.
as I was sipping Sleepy Tea
A little birdie came to me
And settled down upon my very head
It was a sight, all blue and white
It seemed to grin, the little sprite
Its crowning crest was fire engine red
I tried to catch it with my eye
But it was slippery and sly
And made its home the wrong side of my neck
Its Velcro feet were pretty neat
And when I looked, our eyes would meet
It stuttered “Nighty Night”, and gave a peck
Now, I was wanting for my bed
A chance to lay my weary head
To hum a lullaby, perchance to dream
But it just gave a crazy trill
And started in to peck and drill
And me, I tried to grab it, with a scream
It fluttered with its stuttered cry
And floated like a butterfly
And all at once it pecked me on my nose
Then finally it flew away
And, at the fading of the day
I slipped into a deeply deeply doze
I woke too soon, not feeling good
With achy breaky head of wood
And sawdust shavings all about my pillow
I cursed his name, and little game
The mighty mite I couldn’t tame
And blubbered like a weepy weepy willow.
We gathered that night, impromptu.
Music was rumoured,
by the bush, secluded.
There was a small fire, falling to embers.
Things brought were guitars, harps, a fiddle, a beatbox,
and a voice or three.
Over the hum of the generator,
we plugged in and played.
In my given spot, I stayed.
Faces filtered in.
Some i knew-
there was shy Sandy, who asked if she could play-
twelve bar blues on her harp,
and she was transfigured.
We were joyful, and egged her on.
A man who was eighty came into the glow with his fiddle,
etched into the night’s tableau.
A fellowship, more than fleeting.
We who played and sang
smiled brightly at one another, with a knowing.
What can one love, more than this?
Down the stairs for the laundry.
Each step more slow and ponderous than the last.
The good hand slides smoothly on the banister.
The other dangles with barbed wire pain.
Tomorrow, once promised, is a bleak and blank page.
Mechanical now, robotic.
There is the thought: Is this all there is?
And then:
Will it be soon? Why must I wait?
Often thinks about the ending.
Impoverished soul. Why so?
Brain sees itself as a walnut.
Exactly that size and that texture.
Ripe now, and dried.
if opened, you’d find
compartments still true to the model.
One or two infected with mould,
causing cross-wired circuits
and blameless mistakes (it thinks).
But the black box is still intact,
the pilot still in charge.
Holding tightly, with left arm,
the Artist.
All else matters not,
but a true imitation’s a must.
Image credit to: http://www.drsyrasderksen.com/blog/seeing-narcissism-in-the-brain#sthash.DPwSw5vl.dpbs
Aremyfeetofftheground 