Friday, May 12, 2006

Little by little, when I can find the time, I'll be uploading my NaPo and MaPo poems here, ande trying to match photos to them if possible. So, from where I left off we have

April 9

Becoming a Figment

Swift hands progress around times dial
yet I fritter the hours with mundane chores
that could wait for another day.
My feet feel like pails of wet sand as I trudge
on my overcoat, lock the door, head west.

Too soon the forty-five minute ride deposits me
on the shore of his ward’s great room. I notice
the dinge of dust has yellowed the walls
and windows; tinted the balloon valance curtains
from blinding white on a sunny day
to today’s low tide brown.

He sits with new friends, forty-two in all,
head slumped towards the table
like some post-modern statue
napping from summer’s heat,
invisible to me as I scan the room;
the attendant must point him out
before my mind blushes recognition.

My hand on his arm springs his jack-in-the-box
awareness. His tongue stirs and jumps
into overdrive as he remembers and says my name,
then blurts that he was once embalmed
and buried alive. I am startled
by the metaphor he makes.

He gibbers on as I observe
a surreal rendition of the movie Awakenings;
there is the hunched over, white headed lady
who shuffles from chair to chair non-stop
muttering nananananana and grabbing wrists;
the dark-haired woman who ambles about
pulling the diaper out of her pants; the black man
who stands facing a corner preaching a sermon
to a stain on the wall that looks like a face
and everywhere the smell of pine sol and urine.

The hour passes like the sap that seeps
from a maple tree. I grow saturated
with my pathetic quota of discomfort.
The urge to run leverages my internal tug-of-war
and my conscience tumbles into the mud
as I stand, pull on my overcoat, say goodbye.
He rises to go with me, dull eyes suddenly fire-worked
with cognizance. He thinks he is going home
but I must tell him he cannot come.

I leave quickly so I will not see him
sag down, close his eyes and hunch over the table again
as though I was never there.

April 10

No More

I’ll have none of it. No more
will I bare my neck or be knackered
by your champagne bubble promises.

I’m fini with reaching for golden rings
and grasping at wraiths in the air
while your carousel spins to circus music.

I’m kaput with crossing invisible bridges;
and before I offer to cup your tears
I must remove the patch from my eye
and look directly into your fun house’s mirror.

The ride has stopped, it’s timer’s run out;
now let me by
while I still have enough moxie
to disembark.

April 11


She is like a whisper of taffeta,
sensed rather than heard; a water sprite
skimming over a sunlit lake, her thoughts
rippling into my own.

She is a minx, a feminine Marquise de Sade,
this Mona Lisa of the mind; a woman of moods
as fitful and mysterious as the ocean’s
breath over the moors

she slips like a fog bank through my mind;
heavy and wet, then gone with a kiss from the sun.
She is a quicksilver stream of elusive thought;
an ethereal nymph who knows she’s brought

much beauty into this world.

April 13

The Raven

From a distance he is a mere smudge
of kohl on the sky’s blue lid.
Closer up his quills look prismatic,
like an oil slick risen from rain
on tar. Sleek and patient as a snake,
his onyx eye is drawn to glint
and unprotected nests.

Clownish hops and raucous caws
proclaim his imperial presence,
his black intent to rob and run.

Better lock your doors little sparrows
and guard your young!

(for maximum effect read with a strong French accent AND an attitude)

April 13

Le Chat

Bah! You infidels, you sorry pictures
of foul felines with brains of soiled
kitty litter! You’ve no idea
of my spectacular charms, you sons
of ugly whores, you’ve no stinking
brain the size of a baby pea
idea of what it takes to be

Le Chat

forever on the hunt for tasty snacks.
I am she cat extroadinaire, follower
of none, possessor of a champagne tongue
and sparkling wit of which you fetid
clumps of flea-bitten fur have none.

I am Le Chat!

Merde! You’ve no conception
of how to woo a prissy puss
or turn a tail, and lack the balls
to steal fresh bacala from beneath
a fishmonger’s nose;
you’ve no design for keeping
your stupid bellies full of fresh rats
while I can easily do all that, for

I am Le Chat!

You are all born of lecherous lineage,
you randy rogues who stink like fish water,
you foul possessors of guinea pig faces;
none of you are worthy of the grass
I squat on.

I am Le Chat!
She cat extroadinaire;
you’ll not hear me mewl
after the sad likes of you.



Blogger dick jones said...

I like in particular No More, with its circus imagery, its use of slang phraseology & its overall tone of brisk asperity.

I look forward to the accompanying photos.

2:51 AM  
Blogger Cookala said...

thanks, Dick! it may take awile to find appropriate pics, though. well, that and my crazy, busy schedule. it shows, too. I've neglected my blog terribly for months now!

4:54 PM  

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