jiminy-littly

jiminy-littly Dec 2016

you can sing with us

but do you know the songs?

you can drum with us but

is the circle broken?

where is smiling crow

where is steals horses

where is william strong bow?

he is with billy the long nose

[no, he really has a big nose (and a short fuse)]

there is one,
some say she kills the song,
but she is at each gathering

never misses a beat,
she loves to sing

sneaking up on us like a
grey hawk,
she swoops down,
missing her prey,

she'll be back,
watch-out!

the circle is bigger or smaller,
we decide,

everyone wants to
be close to the host,
to be the lead
to drum in the inner circle

how can we be so many?

we need to take turns

those who are close to the center know,

listen to them when they speak,

they don't tell.

cree https://youtu.be/4tojVp8wS0I

jiminy-littly Dec 2016

no, its never

i had this poem in my head

and no, it's never coming back

i have this image in my mind

and it has disappeared forever

i have this feeling

but it just won't go

i have this feeling

it doesn't leave

its a feeling like you have left,

i see you leave,

you are walking away

you walk down the stairs to the train

a siren sounds,

people pass,

a taxi honks

you are gone.

i am sick

i drank too much

i imagine dying

alone writing this poem

wondering if

someone will know

what i mean.

i know where you live,

i have your phone number

i send you emails

still i don't see you.

i call you, you answer, i ask,

can we meet any closer

than how i'm feeling right now?

jiminy-littly Dec 2016

soft walls

too interested
in what is being put into my mouth
to listen to hard knocks

too muted to deaden my tone

soft walls are what I need

I could put up textured paper
with simple tacks

from floor to ceiling

but would that help?

Hollo!

has gone to ground

urinating on the floor

dug in by fear

I should have broke from under my covers
and run riot at the scent of death by now

I once read, a hound that lacks
drive is apt to dwell

not stuck in a house,
putting up pictures

or breaking in blankets

not waning and whimpering like I'm doing now

jiminy-littly Nov 2016

here's a scene

here's a scene,
you are young
I am old,
we walk to the park,
light sparkles on a dithering pond
undecided
we try and waltz
through an interpreter
we watch each other
and
laugh

jiminy-littly Nov 2016

abyss of Tehom

The good verb “conn”

supersedes nounsies that say much the same

they leave their mark
and their stain.

organelles are found in living cells

but bacteria is barely surviving -

gasping, respire, respiring

god will swallow death as sure as sheol

still,

the microbes must thrive

one sloppy, the other ill

a slender hand of steel

excites it,

like the splendor of redwood mounted on peach

a cleavage emerges  (causing a **** to swell)

increasing her capacity for desire

a seeker of truth now bound for duluth?

caught in an ice floe
preoccupied by the last degree

pulling shoals
of distance below,

the south pole is now our goal,

we land on land beyond sea

and space

where a wise man plays fool
to a young girl's angel face  -

     as an aside: he likes her
     but she is not attracted to men or goys,

scattering the cremains
of
a nobody's boy
(a boy we tried to revive many a time)

into a river where the river never ends

he remains

sinking into darkness,

adrift in a pit
of lips of labrum

down the chosen depths

of the frozen abyss of Tehom

jiminy-littly Oct 2016

the Lord is Sore

the Lord is sore

I can tell because he no longer lingers at the table after dinner,
   and falsely claims the wine is tasteless
      ('tepid as the red sea in december' as he puts it)

no more rummy either (he never answered me
   about the four-card problem)
       instead he retires to his room,

half yawning half talking he utters,
   "oh, I think I should like to haaaay dowmmmn"
       or
        "I'm afraid its all downstream for me... nighty nigh you sons of
                Beeehhhhhnjamins"

I say he is smitten with boughs and therefore withered

its probably just old age, he doesn't realize it but he's getting on

"Holy Mount Vesuvius!" comes a scream from his room  "not since the
    Land of Egypt."

"what is it, what is wrong my Lord?" I implore

"my crown," he stammers, "my crown of flowers is fading"

"I'll look into it in the morning O' Great Lord of Right Judgment"
I say offhandedly, hoping for no rebuke

"what's that you say?"

"I say in the morning, for morning, by morning; we shall not be vexed by it now"

  hoping some old carnage will soothe him

"be not mockers" he quips

"I love you Lord" I say turning off the lamp near his bed

"I love you too my Kadesh"

"to thee o' Lord, I shut the door"

he waves me off.

a city, once great, falls
and vanishes,

a ruin-mound now stands
occupied by consumption

one time when we were alone

he asked me to sit in front of him

he asked me to stare in his eyes

what could this old man want now, I thought

"just look at me"

so I stared into his eyes

and so deeply did I fall

into peace

until tears rended a river.

the Lord is Sore was inspired by the stories and poems I have heard over the years of those lovers who spent time with or experienced the Great Ones, esp. the poems of Hafiz, Rumi and Kabir - the end is taken from an actual event with Eruch Jessawala and Meher Baba (found at, Eruch Jessawala: One Of My Treasured Memories: http://www.avatarmeherbaba.org/erics/intimacy.html)

jiminy-littly Oct 2016

formally, as an if

a brief overview:

so far, in our voyage
we have stayed home
call it a parallel apocrypha
omitting all and accepting none
I own nothing

pronouns are a formality:

a Roman Catholic, a Greek from Rheims
a girl and a boy
a sister and her friends
a wife and teacher
a nun who’s a mother

chronology of implications:

first day, second month
prudes scare me
how much should a man give up
when his wife leaves him

she’s not really gone
it’s just something to think about
or ignore
or laugh about

you decide

the one person who’s bereavement
you have mulled over and over until one day
you find out the person has been going around saying your name

I call that a preferential loss
I call that, as an if

Hmm:  I would like to create a string of words using, as the expression, inside as an if statement.

if (string) {

The string will have to act as a "formal fallacy". Does anyone know of a way to do this?

Me:  There is no equivalent of, as an if, statement. There is probably a way to get to end result, but I would need more info on what you are trying to do.

Hmm:  I have restructured my poem so that I will be able to avoid this type of problem.

Me:  if only....