April 8-15

April 8 It Ain't All Fireworks and Barleycorn

What happened when I came back?

Did I come back?

Did I erupt?

Or was it just a rupture--

some plumbing gone wrong on another plane.

There was a rapture, now less sure.

The dam didn't burst, but leaked--

a flat car tire on frozen ground,

no hole in the soul,

just escaping the membrane.

Trying to turn the motor over,

getting fat instead.

Alas, lost lizared tail,

something's got to mend.

Walked upstairs too fast,

Got the bends.

Phone was dead

when I tried to call a friend.

Blast it all, but the cap won't blast.

Cat just growled, "meow."

Dog scowled.

No foul on the window.

Cat patters downstairs.

Dog curls and sad stares.

Bird ain't anywhere's.

Happy as a clam, I am

Felling dumb and humdrum,

But satisfied. Hummmmmmm.

April 9th Untitled

I stood back and saw the world

as a ball in a ball--

The cloud currents rolling

'round about the globe

and the water that's in Ecuador

could be Florida's drinking fountain of youth,

to later settle as dew on a cypress in a garden

lapped up by a golden frog

eaten by an -- I don't know--

a larger sort of bird that eats golden frogs

who journeys on her spring flight up the coast.

And now, don't you see, I've done it:

Set up a situation that

might or might can't be.

But this poem excludes Google searches,

and my feet are on the desk,

so you'll have to find out for yourself:

One: If there's a bird that eats golden frogs in Florida.

Two: Where would it fly if it flew North in the spring?

and Three: Where might it be sitting now with that drop of rain from Ecuador that became the frog licked dew in a world still spinning around under an ever-spinning sky?

April 10 There's a Name for That

Everything has a name,

an obscure term we needn't know:

The plastic tip on a new shoestring,

The clumps of birch tree seeds

waving like scarves in the breeze.

The glass bump on an old car headlight,

The shadow a tombstone casts in the moonlight.

So what do I call this

mix of sadness and hope

or the slight pressure behind my eyes

that make dew without tears,

return of curious shadows without cause

cast at midnight.

They say that when you shudder

or shiver for no reason

someone is walking over your future grave.

Now, what's the name for that!

April 11 On Not Being Terribly Clever

Be still my soul.

You're not an owl.

You yearn for brains,

but thoughts fall out.

You leaky sieve,

You've not much luck.

You're left to grieve

and sit and pout.

The joy of wisdom

you've not got--

a shining gold plum

left to rot.

It is not luck,

less is it chance,

to learn to think,

you silly pants.

April 12 Patience Grasshopper

The distracting screen is distracting,

because it is not reacting.

Frozen programs won't shut down.

The disc spins round and round and round.

This is not even mundane.

Grey skies promise rain.

This is not of the earth.

Dead electrons don't give birth.

A human being, I curse the cursor,

but must be patient or make it worser.

The disk it spins a different scheme,

I've got my Prozac, I don't scream

But write my poem, and sneak a glance

and click and close when there's a chance.

The frozen windows on the screen

give time to be a human being.

Open apple alt escape

I try again, tempt cyberfate

and now it's speeding up a bit

apps are closing with force quit.

So back to what I planned to do

on my computer, good as new.

April 13 Untitled

I'm thinking about social justice,

reading about the Holy Spirit,

looking at a funny penguin,

wondering what he would think--

if he could think.

I know I don't need more schooling,

but I'm not sure what I'm doing.

Wonder if poetry's a valid venue,

want to check out the opportunity menu.

Don't give up, Calvin!

Help is on the way.

Strike out for brighter pastures,

with larkspur and raptures.

Dig bright yellow jonquils,

diving birds, rich manure,

cold Spring nose tingle,

tack on a shingle.

Break that last strand of mental floss,

tell resistance you're the boss,

get off your ass, regurgitate

the latest first draft that you ate.

Odd rats and bats and stinky snails,

to charm the socks off boys and gals,

create new rhythms, sing new rhymes,

break loaves and dishes without trying.

Sing blister feet and chillblain ear,

and booger nose and dead pig eye

that squints a little as he grins.

The pig can't hear; he's in a pie.

Eat cat tail stew, get furry lips.

"Oh dear! those tails went to my hips!"

I shoved a jumbo shrimp up my nose,

I pushed it further with my toe,

until it dropped into my throat.

I spat it at a nanny goat who said

"I don't like shrimp" and

"I'm an apostle" and

"I don't eat food that's been in a nostril."

So I kicked the raw shrimp in a creek,

and it swam away, the little sneak.

And the goat looked down at me and said,

"Do you have a tin can in your head?"

"I thought goats don't eat tin," I replied.

"We just like the food remnants inside."

"Baaaaaaaaaaaaaa!"

BUMP!

April 14 Joy and Suffering (Suffering Succotash)

A lacquered young snail

swept past a pucker-billed quail

and asked her, "Why aren't you aloft?

Why don't you soar?"

And the quail bent down and bit him,

and she stuffed him in a mitten,

Saying, "Don't ye come a-questioning me nae more!"

Then she got up off her eggs,

'cause she had to stretch her legs,

and that's the reason she was sitting for.

And the snail started to shout,

"I am sorry. Let me out.

I thought birds like to fly and to explore."

"Well, we do, when not a-nesting,

or we're tired from flight, and resting."

and they parted ways,

now that he knew the score.

April 15 Upon Hearing a Siren and Saying a "Hail Mary," a Practice I Have Kept Ever Since I Was Seven Because Whenever There's a Siren, Someone Could Use Some Prayers.

Hail Mary, chock full o' grace

The Lord is with thee, by thee, at thy place.

Blessed are you of all the women,

and blest is your fruit,

your egg with life given.

Holy Mary, best saint in heaven--

First to know Him, God in the womb,

Last to see him, God in the tomb.

Pray for us sinners;

Pray for us skimmers;

Pray for us slimmers,

the dim ones and dimmer,

Now and at the hour of our death,

at the hour of our breath,

at the hour of our grief,

when we hear the police.

Sometimes I see you

in my mind's eye,

hovering ghostly,

O'er the bluffs, in the sky,

towering greater than eye can see,

holy and ghostlike--a mystery.

Reminds me what Gerard Lightning Hopkins said,

"Got those old bright wing blues inside my head."

Mother of Comfort, Mother of Joy,

thanks for your fiat,

thanks for your boy.

Guide us, protect us with the Spirit, your friend,

Undoer of Knots, take your thread, help us mend.