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Tag Archives: poetry
CONFESST?ON
I’m painting on our housebricks
even though I’m not allowed.
But I don’t think Mom or Dad will mind,
they’re gonna be so proud.
Why I do things like this sometimes
I guess I just don’t know.
But tell me, have you ever seen
a better brick rainbow?
APPLICABLE EVERYWHERE
The same code deciphers furniture making,
taxidermy, pastry baking,
the bassoon,
chemistry,
tumbling and
astronomy.
Yes, success in anything
from jumping rope
to mathematics,
is unlocked by the same
old three-word key:
Keep At It.
BELLY, BELLY
Dad had many sayings:
By George!
By Jove!
Great Scott!
and
No matter what you think,
There is a lid for every pot!
But we knew we’d really boiled
His patience into jelly
When with wide eyes he whispered,
By Roosevelt’s horse’s belly!
We don’t know where it came from
We don’t know what it meant
Except it was time for our
Misbehaving to relent.
T.R., I bet, would dig the line
Most likely, too, his horse.
His horse’s belly would think it
Poetry, of course
Even better than the classic
One-worder of Ted’s, “Bully!”,
Its cousin, Dad’s much longer fave,
“By Roosevelt’s horse’s belly!”
THE LOOKS AROUND
There are almost no places
Where there are no faces
Even in the cases
Of in-between spaces
Like the Frowning-Big Tree
His acting has no range
Which isn’t so strange:
Bark expressions don’t change.
Or the Tractor-Wheel Elf
While his view always spins
That strong rubber chin
Won’t let sickness set in.
Perry is the given name
of Snowy-House Face.
While the world to summer always wants to race
He for hot weather forever must brace.
Yes, even while you
sit at work thinking
The-Face-In-The-Drop-Ceiling-Tiles
is blinking.
Take it from me
the Garden-Stone Grump
I may look like a rock-headed chump
But I’ve gathered perspective here from my rump:
Ungaze from the obvious, like Mr. Moon,
Don’t let on the foreground your focus last
And slowly at first but before long fast
Will appear all the faces you used to rush past.
NOTE: To see this poem with photos in the STELLER STORY format in which it originally appeared, click here.
PRECORDED HISTORY
A caveman carved a photo
With a lens of stone:
Of a bubbling tar pit,
Of brontosaurus bones,
Of a running horse
In a French cave drawing,
Of a sabretooth with
His t-rex neighbor, jawing.
Then going “MOTION PICTURE”
He shot two glaciers racing,
The footage looked like still shots ;
Blame the racers pacing.
Capturing the land before time,
His stone Nikon in hand
A photog Missing Link he was
The Caveman Cameraman.
CLEMENTINE WHO
To the tune of
“O, My Darling,”
did a Mama sing sweetly,
to her girls,
Rose and Mary,
when they were just
one and three:
‘Sissy Ro-Ro,
Sissy Ro-Ro,
Sissy Ro-Ro,
Sissy Mare!
Sissy Mare-Mare,
Sissy Mare-Mare,
Sissy Mare-Mare,
Sissy Ro!’
As they grew up
Rose and Mary
Agreed Mama’s words were fine.
So not ‘till now in
this here story,
did they hear of
Clementine.
WALKY TALK
TO SEE THIS WALKOPHONOUS POEM & COLLAGE AS PART OF THE #STELLER STORY IN WHICH THEY WERE ORIGINALLY POSTED, CLICK HERE.
If my footsteps,
(Fall crunch: over leaves)
Were able to talk,
(Winter crisp: on snow)
The sound of their words,
(Spring slosh: through puddles)
Would depend when I walk.
(Summer scratch: sandy toes)
OUTPOWER THE HOUR
For a doctor,
For a bus,
If a junkyard,
then for rust.
For a letter,
For a sign,
Several times a week,
in line.
It may take minutes,
It may take months,
But the only unbeaten
wait lifter is patience.
SCOOP
Dad says what we got’s magic snow,
That somehow made our driveway grow,
That somehow made him say words that
He swears he doesn’t really know.
Dad says that each new inch that falls
Lengthens the driveway by ten feet,
That if we left right now, perhaps,
Some time next year we’d reach the street.
Dad says the thing we need most now
Is a summer-style-sun,
To melt some of this magic snow
And make our driveway a walkable one.
Mom says that sounds great but while we wait
A pass with the shovel may be in order.
Dad hears and looks nervous before blurting out,
“But I can’t! Don’t you know? I’m a magic snow hoarder!”
NO EXPRESSION
Working so hard
That his days had no end
Dear old Alex Zandle
Burned his candle at both ends.
He worked in his shop
Then outside he toiled
He used hammers, and griddles
And extractors for boils.
In every subject
He mastered his lessons,
Well, all except one,
The Subject of Expressions.
We learned that one day
When the poor chap looked tired
And after his physical state
We inquired.
“What say you, Alex,
Are you feeling alright?
Your breathing sounds sniffly
And your steps don’t look light.”
“Why thank you for asking!”
Said dear Alex Zandle,
“It seems this time I’ve
Burnt myself down the candle.
But you know what they say:
Drown a cold, parch a fever,
And soon you’ll be purring
Like a Golden Retriever.”
On his head cold, soon after,
He did get a handle
But a grip on Expressions
Still eludes Alex Zandle.
THE ZEN HEN: On Self-Awareness
Whatever you are, be a good one,
Unless you’re a cottonhead,
Unless you’re a Q-Tip.
THE GIRL WHO CRIED POTTY
One day we were driving
When Sister yelled, “Potty!”
So off-road Dad drove,
Then Sis whispered, “Nah. Sorry.”
One day Sis cried, “Potty!”
So Mom hit the brakes.
At the next gas station,
Sister giggled, “Nope. My mistake.”
Then one day Sis screamed, “Potty!”
This time Mom and Dad both said, no.
Only that time, we soon learned,
Sister really did have to go.
SPOILER ALERT
Andy asked Angie
nicely one day,
“Would you mind
if I borrowed a book?”
Angie replied,
“Of course you may.
Here’s my library shelf.
Go ahead. Take a look.”
Andy chose a volume
and inquired
“Have you read this?
How’s this one?”
Angie answered,
“I’ve read it but
won’t spoil it ‘cause
Spoilin’s no fun.”
So Andy borrowed
the book and began it
But he didn’t want
to spoil it either.
So when his head
wasn’t stuck in that book,
Andy stored it in
the Refrigereader.
NOT POSITIVE ID
When she brought home
my new kid sister
Mom said,
“Say hello to Carrie.”
I thought that’s what Mom said,
but am I certain?
Well, no.
Not very.
Because Dad calls the kid
“L’il Chicken”
or
“Queen of Sheba-Geneeba Sleuth.”
While Mom says to her,
“Just look at you,
My Sweet Precious Little
Houndstooth!”
Gramma sings
“Hi Boo-ga-loo,”
while strolling baby
‘round the block.
Grampa asks Dad
for pictures of
“My favorite l’il
Cuckoo Clock.”
Me?
I’ve learned:
forgetful silly tongued grownups
can be scary.
Lucky for my sister
I for one
will be sticking with her real name:
Carrie.
DRAWING > BORED
Scooter Scutter, scribble junkie
drew lions, tigers, bears and monkeys,
speedboats, tractors, unicycles,
Sallys, Stevies, Mindys, Michaels,
In pens and ink, paint and charcoal,
marker, crayon, colored pencil,
on paper, plastic, ceilings, walls,
cereal box tops, basketballs.
His friends asked once, “What is it, Scoo
about drawing that soooo grips you?
The lines, the shapes, the shades, the faces?
The capturing of things and places?”
Listening, Scoo kept his eyes on his pad,
his tireless stylus moving like mad.
He said, “Not sure I have an answer for you,
‘cept I draws ‘cuz not drawin’
colors me blue.”
WHO HAS THE FLOOR?
“Kids, grab your picks and shovels
and come along with me,
We’re headed on a voyage
of thrilling discovery!
It’s been so long since we’ve seen it,”
Dad with excitement said,
“And this will be like a safari …
Quick!
Let’s tape flashlights to our heads!
We’ll set out like explorers
Who knows what is in store?
On this adventure quest
For the Lost Family Room Floor!
We’ll search beneath the pillows,
The building blocks and blankets,
We’ll push past all the heaps of dolls
And mountain range of trinkets!
And with hard work and good luck
If we persevere
If through drums and balls and train sets
We’re able to steer,
Maybe we can find it,
That myth from days of yore,
That deeply buried, long lost treasure
The Fabled Family Room Floor!”
A MAN IN A TREE
Look hard,
Do you see?
The Man in the tree?
Way up high
Looking wee
A bark scaling flea.
Saw in hand has he,
Hanging from two or three
Ropes, hooks, pulleys,
And the squeeze of his knees.
How he must feel free
Part man,
Part leaf,
Like a branch in the breeze:
Breathe in sky,
Exhale glee.
That is, at least,
Till he gets company
In the form of some bees,
Who appear suddenly.
Nothing about them
At all unfriendly
These makers of honey
Always aiming to please.
To the hive they’re returning
As they do normally,
But that’s not what the Man in the tree
Thinks he sees.
So he waves and he flails
And he clings nervously
Contemplating a way he can
Flee gracefully.
From here it appears
(perhaps you’d agree)
he cannot speak even
a few words of Bee.
If he could
It might change things,
Presumably
The Man might agree:
He does not need an
Exit strategy ;
That the bees are no bother ;
If he’ll just let them be ;
And enjoy the beauty
At the top off the tree.
Mmm, Mmm. Good.
M is the camel of letters
recognizable for its two humps.
Without them both, m would be n,
as in neasles,
conputer,
and nunps.
M comfortably takes on the task
of being the milestone
halfway on the road
through Alphabetowne
‘tween A’s aura and the Z-zone.
And though M sounds like
M starts with an e
– eh-hem –
that isn’t the case.
M is his own man:
A pivotal camel shaped pal
Midway through the race.
DON’T LOOK CLOSE: Look far. And you May just see an M in this iMage from
the Mellow Mushroom, Oak Street, New Orleans. YuMM.
WHAT IF
I asked,
“What if I blew my teeth?
What if I brushed my nose?
What if I ironed the leaves?
What if I raked my clothes?
What if I clipped my ears?
Pierced my nails?
Flossed my shoes?
Shined my hair?
Climbed my bike?
Rode the stairs?
Took a bed?
Went to bath?
Added letters?
Read my math?
Swam a jog?
Ran a swim—”
“Well,” Mom cut in,
“Eventually folks might ask
‘Sooo…..What’s up with him?’”
SWEET DREAM
If like their pine cone cousins
ice cream cones could grow on trees,
think how many forests
would serve happiness for free.
And if on nature’s dessert
rainbow sprinkles like snowflakes fell,
the world might no longer
have a need for wishing wells.
ONE SUMMER ROADMAP
Collected from May to today
From New Orleans to Albany
These shots together form a
FlyIreWerDelis.
Buzzing, brightening
Petals, pavement,
Earth, sky, shining sea:
A mashed-up summer roadmap bouquet,
The FlyIreWerDelis
For more photos, check out my Instagram gallery at tweed_typewriter
TOM BROWN ROAD
Old Tom Brown
Was a very slow man
Who crawled when he walked
And walked when he ran,
But when a name was needed
For the slow road through town
The inspiration came quickly
Thanks to Ol’ Slow Tom Brown.
CORNER OF WORD
Not quite as far out as
Where the sidewalk ends
Is where Word Street into
Other Word Street bends.
And at that intersection
Is a Dutch French Horn
And a squirrel swirl
And a torn acorn,
And a Bizarre Bazaar
And a big clinched couch
And Dorian DeLorean
In a crazyman crouch,
Holding over his head
A zydeco xylophone
To play a song for Aunt Cake
Louder than a cyclone,
Or a superbomb blast
From an Arctic typhoon
Howling over the surface
Of a baboon lagoon.
And inevitably when
That sound causes debris,
What acceptable receptacle
Will there possibly be?
Well that stripe of insight
Might be too great an onus
To expect even from
Wizened Old Bonus Jonas.
But there where Word Street bends
To Other Word Street
The junction’s real function’s
Clear as a snare beat:
To be a place friendly
to sound percolation
And weird letter unions,
night, day, and morn,
A magic locale of
twinkling tongue twisters,
the spot on the map
where poems may be born.
BEHIND THE BEARD: A #ShowYourWork Story
Beginning:
Middle:
End:
From the barber’s chair Abe leapt,
Tall with vigor and pep.
Someone yelled,
“Hey, Sweetcheeks!”
On the inside, he wept.
And forevermore a beard Abe kept.
Tweed Typewriter 