Pardon, Me!

Like the turkey who gets off this
Thanksgiving, I want my pardon
Even if it is only temporary. I am
Aware the time will come when 
There is no reprieve as time is my
Judge. Those turkeys will not be
The centerpiece of any table this
Holiday. Lucky birds. There were 
Two this year. Is it always like
That? I need to pay attention to
This annual event. It holds some
Balance between life and death.
It's no joke, at least it is serious
Business to the pardoned turkeys 
Whether they are aware or not.
Hope they use the time given well.

Bon mots

Now, there's a man who's had a
Lifetime of language on his tongue
Still playing with the words he 
Finds buried deep and sometimes 
Hard to unearth; after all this time
He has to dig deeper these days
To use just the right one, the 
Funny one that will please him
And amuse his listener, the one
That pulls a laugh from his 
Audience. That's the language 
He wants to share from a life
Of speech and conversation
His best tidbit, an amuse bouche
For the ear, the remembrance 
Of just the right thing to say

Punctuated

I noticed something today.
Where and how I punctuate 
My lines helps me shape the 
Lyric of my poems. Sometimes 
Nothing. Other times I throw
A comma your way or find a
Final period holds the place;
If I want the thought to carry
I might need the aid of a dash
Or a semi-colon! I err on the
Side of caution in refraining 
From exclaiming with points
But emphasis is from time to
Time artificially induced and
Needs assistance. Emboldened
Words and letters in caps or
Ital can move an idea through.
I noticed this just today, and
Thought I would let you know.

Babel

Reposted from https://wp.me/s8jzUa-babel

Today, I envision a poem written

In a language I cannot speak

Or understand, so it may be just

So much nonsense, so much sound

Signifying little or less than the

Bard envisioned in a language he

Manipulated so grandly and eloquently

My poem is cacophony, rhythm and perhaps

Rhyme, but it is a language I cannot speak

It is a poem both glorious and misconstrued.

Where do I begin speaking in tongues?

Who will repeat my words, memorize my

Message when this project ends with a

Simple finis? Will it just be the end?

What if

What if 
When we landed
Behind enemy lines
No-one seemed to notice

And when they finally saw us
They waved a mild hello
Fingers fluttering in greeting

What if

    When we waged war
    No-one engaged with us
    But just shrugged and
    Walked away, carrying
    Bundles of wheat and stacks of corn to market

And when they passed us
Waved in salutation
Nodding as they went by

                        
   What if
We practiced the fighting 
Alone on a field of battle
And when they saw us
Grunting and struggling with cannon and gun
They stood and watched
Gathering around us 
Like a crowd of cheerleaders
Applauding our efforts as if for show
Waving a small flag
Not theirs but ours
In acknowledgement





Reprinted from https://wp.me/p5XJvt-4t

Cat eyes

Nothing will kill this cat
What with her nine lives
And electric fur and the
Deep green-brown of her
Eyes. She is as  invincible
As the breezes of the night
The ones that fan desires.
She is sultry and sinuous 
As if her bones could melt
Into the corners of a room
Or enter the chambers of
Your mind. She knows a
Little more than her eyes
Reflect off the fire-light of
The moon. She is by nature
Sensuous, her soft purrs call
For mischief and pleasure.
There is no one here to judge.

The curious qualitues of the cat

Softly landing on its pads, the cat is 
Sensuous, slinky, its furry rotundity
Clinging as it presses to us, on its way
Elsewhere. The cat's indifference is
Sexy. It calls for seduction and art.
There is no easy in maintaining her  
Attention or keeping her favors close.
She knows what she wants but may
Not want what she knows. Softly,
She will land by your side and move
Quickly away, suddenly disinterested.

https://wp.me/p8jzUa-4O from 2013 included this A footnote: Over 50 years ago, I wrote a poem in which
desire crept quietly on little cat feet, and the steamy heat
is all that remains of the original in my mind. This attempt
to reconstruct completely misses but it’s fun trying!

Grandiosity

https://wp.me/p8jzUa-1U. A reprint from 2015 

I have begun to emulate Blake in my scribblings 
With no clear idea of what that means, 
No sense of original sin or even unoriginal sin, 
Except the ways in which men and women behave 
Hurting each other, allowing their terrors to frighten the children 
Not facing life responsibly                     
With joy and gladness for every day 
But letting the things that haunt their dreams 
Destroy their waking

Who do I think

Ferlinghetti, Ginsberg, Blake
Is poetry order or chaos? Is my
Own a way to invite mayhem
From all around into a new and 
Precise pattern I can control 
And calibrate. Who do I think
I am? Do I dare put myself in
Exalted company? Hubris is
Not a sin. It is a condition of
Mind that rather overreaches
Than stay earthbound. Stars
Are perfect but chaotic things.
I crave order but love chaos.