mike-2 - Hello Poetry

Twenty seven hares for stew, 46.5 kilos Eight half lambs for roasting, 148 kilos A measure of grade A *** roast, 3.5 kilos One hefty order Happy Easter, indeed

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Apr 13, 2025

Apr 13, 2025 at 9:15 PM UTC

Butcher

Twenty seven hares for stew, 46.5 kilos Eight half lambs for roasting, 148 kilos A measure of grade A *** roast, 3.5 kilos One hefty order Happy Easter, indeed

5

From layers deep below the surface Come jell-o forms of ancient men Children, women, girls, acquainti Shimmering in and out once more Reverse fade to gray, The Twilight Zone's Serling speaking With words no ears can elucidate Fog-whisp memories of profundity A steadfast churchbell, carillon thick Unrung through gale force winds Whence askance the bicycle tin bell soldier Hush brush clap damper softly shpings They appear unseen but, lo, discerned From interior canyons' shallow glide Sallow but fervent, unmistaken in mead Reminders that wilted wormholes can resuscitate A person you once were, or were you yet So light my heart-mind barely brushed the derm Always playing on a rehearsal stage in preparation for act three Too broad to stop, too sharp and quick But that was now. And now is . . . when? Come back. I implore you to rekindle What was lost when I crossed the last bridge It was there. I knew it then. Please, let us move forward.

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Feb 28, 2025

Feb 28, 2025 at 10:28 PM UTC

Reincarnation's Lament

From layers deep below the surface Come jell-o forms of ancient men Children, women, girls, acquainti Shimmering in and out once more Reverse fade to gray, The Twilight Zone's Serling speaking With words no ears can elucidate Fog-whisp memories of profundity A steadfast churchbell, carillon thick Unrung through gale force winds Whence askance the bicycle tin bell soldier Hush brush clap damper softly shpings They appear unseen but, lo, discerned From interior canyons' shallow glide Sallow but fervent, unmistaken in mead Reminders that wilted wormholes can resuscitate A person you once were, or were you yet So light my heart-mind barely brushed the derm Always playing on a rehearsal stage in preparation for act three Too broad to stop, too sharp and quick But that was now. And now is . . . when? Come back. I implore you to rekindle What was lost when I crossed the last bridge It was there. I knew it then. Please, let us move forward.

25

I went to see Dweezil Zappa At the Plaza Live in Orlando The pre-show music reel Played a song by Iggy Pop I didn't recognize the song name So I opened Shazam on my Android phone The image of an old Iggy With "The Passenger" appeared When I listened to the words (Because the music was familiar) He said " . . . and I ride, and I ride" But how and when and why, I wonder That was one night There have been others. Most with No activity. No endeavors. Indoors. Take a walk, have some ice cream People gave them a lot of credit Frank Zappa and Iggy Pop Frank said ". . . is it the wave of the future? "Oh, spare me. Please" If Iggy spoke about Frank It was of a lonely guy But Iggy had other demons He was to overcome And I ride, and I ride.

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Jan 31, 2025

Jan 31, 2025 at 8:29 PM UTC

First World, Yeah

I went to see Dweezil Zappa At the Plaza Live in Orlando The pre-show music reel Played a song by Iggy Pop I didn't recognize the song name So I opened Shazam on my Android phone The image of an old Iggy With "The Passenger" appeared When I listened to the words (Because the music was familiar) He said " . . . and I ride, and I ride" But how and when and why, I wonder That was one night There have been others. Most with No activity. No endeavors. Indoors. Take a walk, have some ice cream People gave them a lot of credit Frank Zappa and Iggy Pop Frank said ". . . is it the wave of the future? "Oh, spare me. Please" If Iggy spoke about Frank It was of a lonely guy But Iggy had other demons He was to overcome And I ride, and I ride.

25

Familiar enough, they live in the same flat Sleeping on the other side of paper walls Phone calls muffled. Or clear as day When nighttime drama has been peaked Passing when scurrying Off to work, out for a walk Gone to the beach for a breather. They politely nod with pleasantries and smiles The flat is surrounded By invisible but ever-present Life forms Who arrived recently The three sages, the visitor, the novice In the novitiate all strangers We try hard. To be civil, kind, pleasant We would do well to have a warm relationship Sitting at breakfast on Tuesday morning Master encounters the viejo leaving “oh, hi” Frequently those would be The only two syllables to pass Each of their lips “We are here to guide, protect and educate”. The disembodied women and children Steeped in ages of tradition Have found their way here. Or were they summoned? Rising slowly the Master stops the flow And cuts into recognized routine “I have something for you, I made it last night.” That evening, Tuesday, another chance encounter The docent, el viejo and the Master Chat comfortably, alone, without the others A quiet and peaceful cabal The building was a shop Or perhaps, a parts supply warehouse Which Upon installation of sacred statues Became a sanctuary. With a loft Do you practice in a particular way? Are you comfortable in the expectations When your inevitable death arrives Are your wills stout and resolute? You have heard of Kabbalah, of course The concepts strange to me Numerology I’ll stick to what I know, goodnight. Let them go to slumberland Attend the special space Where they can see A Pure Land

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May 19, 2019

May 19, 2019 at 9:13 PM UTC

The Roommates

Familiar enough, they live in the same flat Sleeping on the other side of paper walls Phone calls muffled. Or clear as day When nighttime drama has been peaked Passing when scurrying Off to work, out for a walk Gone to the beach for a breather. They politely nod with pleasantries and smiles The flat is surrounded By invisible but ever-present Life forms Who arrived recently The three sages, the visitor, the novice In the novitiate all strangers We try hard. To be civil, kind, pleasant We would do well to have a warm relationship Sitting at breakfast on Tuesday morning Master encounters the viejo leaving “oh, hi” Frequently those would be The only two syllables to pass Each of their lips “We are here to guide, protect and educate”. The disembodied women and children Steeped in ages of tradition Have found their way here. Or were they summoned? Rising slowly the Master stops the flow And cuts into recognized routine “I have something for you, I made it last night.” That evening, Tuesday, another chance encounter The docent, el viejo and the Master Chat comfortably, alone, without the others A quiet and peaceful cabal The building was a shop Or perhaps, a parts supply warehouse Which Upon installation of sacred statues Became a sanctuary. With a loft Do you practice in a particular way? Are you comfortable in the expectations When your inevitable death arrives Are your wills stout and resolute? You have heard of Kabbalah, of course The concepts strange to me Numerology I’ll stick to what I know, goodnight. Let them go to slumberland Attend the special space Where they can see A Pure Land

50

Before my first day of school I knew how to read and write But mom thought it important That I memorize Our home phone number. In retrospect She worried that a stranger Might sweep me up and secret me away. How cute. That one’s deepest fear Would be kidnapping And how sweet That her dearest friend The one she couldn’t bear to lose Would be her five-year-old Good times

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Jul 1, 2018

Jul 1, 2018 at 4:10 PM UTC

How Cute

Before my first day of school I knew how to read and write But mom thought it important That I memorize Our home phone number. In retrospect She worried that a stranger Might sweep me up and secret me away. How cute. That one’s deepest fear Would be kidnapping And how sweet That her dearest friend The one she couldn’t bear to lose Would be her five-year-old Good times

16

It was raining on Sunday morning They left the house and got into the van It smelled like stale cigarette smoke Spilled beer and nylon glue Travelling over the bridge From north to south Then slightly east to bell parkway A constant drizzle The row house was typical The driveway big enough for only one car Sloped downward toward the house From the street level above Introduce ourselves Remove the gear Observe the task Oh, great. This will take a while. They worked in quiet. Not in silence. Sleepy, groggy. Tired and cranky. The basement was damp Unlit, as a cost saving measure There they worked efficiently Today would have been a day of rest for the help With the grand mixture of cultures Yesterday was the day of rest for the buyers But we knew it when we signed up. It was raining on Sunday morning And they made a few bucks The elder said things like “daddy-O” and “now, we’re cooking with gas” The younger held his tongue.

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Jun 17, 2018

Jun 17, 2018 at 5:41 AM UTC

Untitled

It was raining on Sunday morning They left the house and got into the van It smelled like stale cigarette smoke Spilled beer and nylon glue Travelling over the bridge From north to south Then slightly east to bell parkway A constant drizzle The row house was typical The driveway big enough for only one car Sloped downward toward the house From the street level above Introduce ourselves Remove the gear Observe the task Oh, great. This will take a while. They worked in quiet. Not in silence. Sleepy, groggy. Tired and cranky. The basement was damp Unlit, as a cost saving measure There they worked efficiently Today would have been a day of rest for the help With the grand mixture of cultures Yesterday was the day of rest for the buyers But we knew it when we signed up. It was raining on Sunday morning And they made a few bucks The elder said things like “daddy-O” and “now, we’re cooking with gas” The younger held his tongue.

29

The memories have always been there I never observed When work matters dominated my world order The thought of one low-level bully Repeatedly appeared Guiding me slowly to the self- referential argument. Never decided. Where did my mind cling While I reverently shaved? Infrequently, did I nick my phyllo flesh And blame the dough roller razor in my hand While the hell of razor-leaved tree- Jungles surrounded my mind But now Now a torrent of important memories Tied to love and loss Yearning Bake the leavened dough Of my empty existence

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Mar 17, 2018

Mar 17, 2018 at 5:41 PM UTC

Shaving

The memories have always been there I never observed When work matters dominated my world order The thought of one low-level bully Repeatedly appeared Guiding me slowly to the self- referential argument. Never decided. Where did my mind cling While I reverently shaved? Infrequently, did I nick my phyllo flesh And blame the dough roller razor in my hand While the hell of razor-leaved tree- Jungles surrounded my mind But now Now a torrent of important memories Tied to love and loss Yearning Bake the leavened dough Of my empty existence

20

Come, come you avian darlings You hawks, gulls, wrens and turkey vulchers Lo! I have a sacred place Where mountains are made From unburnt debris longing to be ashes Come, come you airborne circlers Wafting up on heat streams unseen Your kin abide on Jealousy Lane Thinking you are satisfied. All your needs met Without having to scour the ground Those careless human benefactors, wry and grizzly Poking fun at the sight Of so many black shadows Flies in swarms Gnats attacking the pitcher’s mound in August in the swamp Bees. Caressing the Queen. Delicate, Loving, Caring How can we not anthropomorphize the cackle, They arise out of curiosity And stay out of satiation When do the bats revivify the seeds of waste? Why are there no jackals? Who built the fence? That glorious victory mound Miccosukee burial ground Green seeded with local grasses Humbled with railroad trances We, your dancing gymnopedies Bow down. Constant motion In your service Thank the wasteful trash purveyors, May the dump rise high!

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Mar 3, 2018

Mar 3, 2018 at 4:34 AM UTC

Garbage Dump, Bird Sanctuary

Come, come you avian darlings You hawks, gulls, wrens and turkey vulchers Lo! I have a sacred place Where mountains are made From unburnt debris longing to be ashes Come, come you airborne circlers Wafting up on heat streams unseen Your kin abide on Jealousy Lane Thinking you are satisfied. All your needs met Without having to scour the ground Those careless human benefactors, wry and grizzly Poking fun at the sight Of so many black shadows Flies in swarms Gnats attacking the pitcher’s mound in August in the swamp Bees. Caressing the Queen. Delicate, Loving, Caring How can we not anthropomorphize the cackle, They arise out of curiosity And stay out of satiation When do the bats revivify the seeds of waste? Why are there no jackals? Who built the fence? That glorious victory mound Miccosukee burial ground Green seeded with local grasses Humbled with railroad trances We, your dancing gymnopedies Bow down. Constant motion In your service Thank the wasteful trash purveyors, May the dump rise high!

32

There’s a tree in the road Not in the middle But it can’t be confused for being Off Two cars cannot pass abreast Polite driving may be necessary Who was in charge of the decision To trust human nature, To entrust safety and cooperation to those who follow? I arrived after this phenomenon was well-established How could this be? How did it come to be? I The road was an afterthought Paved years after the tree was firm Autos rarely passed this way, lorries never Should you wish to traverse The tree takes precedence As river traffic takes precedence over vehicles crossing a bridge The bridgekeeper must obey - the tree is firm not flowing. II The tree was a sapling when the road was built A mere twiglet unobserved by most Her massive trunk growing imperceptibly year after year One ring after another Until tectonic forces lifted the road ocean floor Becoming one with the tree mountain. III The tree was well established and observed to be a hazard But the road is small And the beauty of the oak And the comfort of the shade Bring joy to those Walking and living Cars be ****** Let them find their way. However it is IV Our civil engineers are conducting an experiment There are conflicting interests Between the Road Advocates and the Tree-ers RA: “For safety sake, Tear Down That Tree!” Tree-ers: “We can live in harmony” Germany or Switzerland A tie vote. What to do? V Mr. Hitchins, a kind community-minded resident Willed to the City, fair, the once-thin alleyway Which grew into a shunway; then a dirt trench; then a passage Passing from the lonely two way street in front Through to the loading area behind. From 1856 until 1973 the road was sparsely used. Upon proclamation of the Burghers “Civilised society warrants paved roads.” Whereupon the deed was dusted off Provision 12.b.1. of Mr. Hitchens’ will: “Let it be known to all who hear these words, that the strip of land running from Virginia Street to Ferris St, on Platt 687, recorded in book 14009 be and forever is the property of the Fair City subject only to the right of my favorite tree, Emily, the Oak to forever reside as she currently is - just on the West side of the strip.” I arrived long after this phenomenon was established.

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Feb 18, 2018

Feb 18, 2018 at 8:51 PM UTC

There's a tree in the road

There’s a tree in the road Not in the middle But it can’t be confused for being Off Two cars cannot pass abreast Polite driving may be necessary Who was in charge of the decision To trust human nature, To entrust safety and cooperation to those who follow? I arrived after this phenomenon was well-established How could this be? How did it come to be? I The road was an afterthought Paved years after the tree was firm Autos rarely passed this way, lorries never Should you wish to traverse The tree takes precedence As river traffic takes precedence over vehicles crossing a bridge The bridgekeeper must obey - the tree is firm not flowing. II The tree was a sapling when the road was built A mere twiglet unobserved by most Her massive trunk growing imperceptibly year after year One ring after another Until tectonic forces lifted the road ocean floor Becoming one with the tree mountain. III The tree was well established and observed to be a hazard But the road is small And the beauty of the oak And the comfort of the shade Bring joy to those Walking and living Cars be ****** Let them find their way. However it is IV Our civil engineers are conducting an experiment There are conflicting interests Between the Road Advocates and the Tree-ers RA: “For safety sake, Tear Down That Tree!” Tree-ers: “We can live in harmony” Germany or Switzerland A tie vote. What to do? V Mr. Hitchins, a kind community-minded resident Willed to the City, fair, the once-thin alleyway Which grew into a shunway; then a dirt trench; then a passage Passing from the lonely two way street in front Through to the loading area behind. From 1856 until 1973 the road was sparsely used. Upon proclamation of the Burghers “Civilised society warrants paved roads.” Whereupon the deed was dusted off Provision 12.b.1. of Mr. Hitchens’ will: “Let it be known to all who hear these words, that the strip of land running from Virginia Street to Ferris St, on Platt 687, recorded in book 14009 be and forever is the property of the Fair City subject only to the right of my favorite tree, Emily, the Oak to forever reside as she currently is - just on the West side of the strip.” I arrived long after this phenomenon was established.

61

I didn’t know it at the time The bench seemed more a subject A reminder to sit and look Ease one’s load Reflect upon the day Reach for plumbs unexplored Years later the memories were revived The day we saw the bench She and they Strolled leisurely Quaint small exhibits of musty furniture The rickety interior of the old stone manor Please, can you take our picture? Here. Use my phone. We were on our way home Through the garden path Unflowered in the early winter’s dusk Brisk but not too chilly. The cold would come later. Waiting, alone, I chanced a shot The composition was Just OK. My fans said “good”. I, “no not”. I now recall the view From behind the porch Looking upward at the stained Glass dormer Halfway between the house and the bench I remember that day When I saw her. When I was able to see her.

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Feb 5, 2018

Feb 5, 2018 at 3:53 AM UTC

I didn't know it at the time

I didn’t know it at the time The bench seemed more a subject A reminder to sit and look Ease one’s load Reflect upon the day Reach for plumbs unexplored Years later the memories were revived The day we saw the bench She and they Strolled leisurely Quaint small exhibits of musty furniture The rickety interior of the old stone manor Please, can you take our picture? Here. Use my phone. We were on our way home Through the garden path Unflowered in the early winter’s dusk Brisk but not too chilly. The cold would come later. Waiting, alone, I chanced a shot The composition was Just OK. My fans said “good”. I, “no not”. I now recall the view From behind the porch Looking upward at the stained Glass dormer Halfway between the house and the bench I remember that day When I saw her. When I was able to see her.

29