new words for an old day that’s just begun

even I, author of the conundrum above,
confused but let us sort it out as we
descend into the elixir that is our combo
of noises, prejudices, limited vocabularies

time noted, not even the nine o’clock mark,
so the day qualifies as new, but it’s an aged
sun rising, skills displaying, historical precedent,
ancient practice, adjusted for atmosphericals

the lawn is speckled, mottled, as light ray guns
through the defending battalion branches and
platoons of leaves facing up, to a certain death
later than sooner, no killing fields till September

the oak tree generals, wisdomed experiential,
prepare plans, take light a prisoner in sufficient
quantity to nourish the troops, yet, not too much,
for the sun can be fickle, a flame thrower machina

all that vision leads me to this pronouncement:
*Oh Lord, bountiful be provided, beloved, inscribed,
this day, its mega-millennium predecessors and
successors gifted precision amounts needed, then,

Cast me gently into morning,
For the night has been unkind,
Take me to a, a place so holy,
That I can wash this from my mind,
The memory of choosing not to fight.

Sara Mclachlan “The Answer”




9:18am Thu Jul 9 ‘20

—

neglect and respect do not rhyme,

{will grant you one,
will give you none.

will demand one,
will send you some.

you poets,
always thinking
you can get away
with murdering
the English language.

***** of assonance,
you do not fool me,
I’ve killed a thousand
men’s “original”rhymes,
while you’ve been
fast sleeping,
they’ve been
fast seeping.

I’ll give you no quarter,
won’t spare a lousy dime,
my spare change,
is poet-unaffordable,
cheap suited hucksters.

work and ****
do rhyme.  
you can be one,
if you do not
put in some.

work by day,
slave by night.

awake to the sun’s
inquiry, what have
you done for me
lately?

IF

all you have to show is this
scribbilus miscellaneous,
tear up your lice-ence,
poetic and DMV, you
ain’t going nowhere.

was branded by hot iron,
early on,
brandy channing.

your best nightmare,
guidance counselor,
extraordinaire,
great big fairie,
poseur, exposer,
m u r d e r e r
of awful poetry}

WHAT,  
what do you stand for?

long after you’ve logged off,
the screen, now, just room temperature,
no longer warming plate hot, a good feeling lingers,
the glowing, slowing remains of our days first visitation,
reducing to a single dot, fading gunshot message, but unstated:

”I was here, but moved on,
I am your first, yet you, are not mine...”

the Dylanesque mystique, mystifying, mind-burring,
in the air hanging, those words sticky stuck in your craw,
ear worm ya, until, you utter rush, desperate to return,
shoot, what was that poem, its title, the author, ****,
on what-was-that-poetry-site’s-name?

Hello Poetry! and now it’s too late, you’re not entranced,
no darling, you’re entrapped, fly glued to my sticky heart,
you, served raw, with the hook, line and sinker still attached,
you, my friend, are now my poet ******, my belonging, for
fourscore and evermore there is no cure, no cutoff, no resisting.
fresh meat for the poets beat, and you still have not even tasted
the salt water words, the rhymes that will tie up, and prolapse
your heart ******* in the love poems, ha, so when they ask what’s
the name of your new friend, the one that you are keeping so secret, tell them, shyly, bravely, whispering outstandingly, upright, shouting forthrightly: it’s me, Brandy Channing, and your soul is now mine to keep...for as long as deemed necessary to extract my ****** poems essence, so be my parasite and I will be you mistress, the mutual infection meaning but one thing! we, you and I, will live always apart, always together, yes darling, be distressed, you’re oh so blessed now, and
f o r e v e r....but tattoo these words upon your bicep lest one forget,


I am your first, you, are not mine

loved many women
in my daytime life,
still, not enough,
to satisfy my needs.

that is why god created
the inhabitants of a
priest-cohen holy dark,
so we can be alone
when we
fill out the list
that
I deny exists.

keeping it safe,
so only they
can see me,
& vice versa,
so apropos,
nobody else can.

Romance is great,
when it is
wordless and silent,
no interrupt-us
when writing many
imaginary imagery,
only love poems
with both
ambidextrous hands

the osprey flys overhead, but the baby rabbit trembles not

~for any grandparent-poet lurking about~


the osprey overflies, a regularity scheduled patrol over
our backyard emporium and all its hors d’oeuvre creatures,
he/she has parental responsibilities, beaks to feed, PTA conferences,
the pilot, a wary watchful animal-his-rights guy, catalogues their still living  existentialism, for though they are not fish, his diet of preference, but in a pinch a rodent  or rabbit stew will do, if the fish are running too deep for no warming sun beckoning them to the surface.

Motel^ the baby rabbit, who lives with his parents,
(who doesn’t these days?) beneath the deck,
chews the clover overnight sprung, blissfully i g n o r a n t,
unawares or ignoring the poet be-laureating (him-her) but a mere
few feet above and away, pays no attention to the Poppy’s (grandfather) lecture about the rules of the animal kingdom,
who, eats whom, and to be more attentive to flying raptors.

thunderstorms forecast for the afternoon, severe say
the textured textual phone-netical all green messages, which
of course is a signal signal to the sun his job is done and can
leave the untanned poet in his state of original sin, soooo deliciously
white that he earns an appraising glance from eyes of the osprey,
a privilege he would happily tan away to promote equality ‘n stuff like peace on earth.

Motel, with his thermometer-humidity nasal instrumentation twitcher, decides, after chewing it over most carefully, time to go underneath where the white half naked people domicile, in order to avoid bathing, not his fav pastime, but making the osprey quitter le ciel, which is French for get out of Dodge, they got babies of their own to shelter and protect, even feed.

The Poppy, contented, thinks to himself, god couldn’t be everywhere,
so he invented grandpas to be “En Loco Parentis”  which
Does Not Mean Instead of Crazy Parents,
but easily could,
for who else writes
poems like this?

(when John Prine met Tom Wait) The Drawdown Day

sun starts this day like a good one, hallelujah,
a June bug, sweet summer honey, praise-pinging
the lord for speckling the grass with sunlight breaches,
thru the standing tall oak trees branches banner waving.

go outside to grab me some rays, burn off some privilege,
two towels, one white solid as an orchid, fresh cleaned,
one joseph coat of many colors, striped, saying ‘looke here.’
Sun saw me coming, immediately call it quits. high tailing, gone.

the partly cloudy curse of weird light, making you squint,
that ***** the desire out of ya to do anything, only thing left
is to waste the day thinking all day about doing nothing, which
is the most tiring thing I’d ever done, cause there ain’t solution.

the devices crackle, hoot and holler, saying severity is a-coming,
thunderstorms from the city sent, 100-miles  traveling, straight to you,
should be there around about three o ‘clock, give/take, mostly taking
whatever solace hanging about, hope, loving and good expectations.

sure’nuf rain drops, big as overfed suckling pigs, ****** on windows,
silent tho, making sure you’d be looking why, thru glassine windows,
signal intentions to make something all-hell-to-pay, raising cain,
goodly cain which bytheby ain’t accidental, doubt? sub in pain.

ole lousy whether, does any of of this really matter?
ole lousy whether, does any of of this really matter?
I hope so, I hope not, that’s the trouble with watching
the wether or not, it just freaking hopeless, like asking,
where did the time go?


forget to mention the wind, which makes the wind even more pissy,
rattling my eyeglasses, not just the whole house, makes my beard a-twitching, the trees **** unhappy losing children from this war, all their drowned bodies, now field litter, casualties of a drawdown day.

the light weirder still, more aglow midst of darkening, you say gawd!
he ain’t nowhere to be found ‘cept I guess everywhere’s, which is the sameness as saying nowhere’s which is god’s **** good hidey-hole,
just like every animal that skedaddled hours before, also gone, gone.

how does a stormy day bring such misery and pain, and in my head,
saxophones wailing ‘hell no,’ but the heavens, shut up tight, no noise
getting in, only getting out, at my soul, saying you, you justshutup
and write about ***** for *****, women & men love-hurting and the

ole lousy whether, does any of of this really matter?
ole lousy whether, does any of of this really matter?
I hope so, I hope not, that’s the trouble with watching
the wether or not, it just freaking hopeless, like asking,

where did the time, the drawdown day go?

Songwriters: Mary Gauthier

My father could use a little mercy now
The fruits of his labor fall and rot slowly on the ground
His work is almost over it won't be long, he won't be around
I love my father, he could use some mercy now
My brother could use a little mercy now
He's a stranger to freedom, he's shackled to his fear and his doubt
The pain that he lives in it's almost more than living will allow
I love my bother, he could use some mercy now
My church and my country could use a little mercy now
As they sink into a poisoned pit it's going to take forever to climb out
They carry the weight of the faithful who follow them down
I love my church and country, they could use some mercy now
Every living thing could use a little mercy now
Only the hand of grace can end the race towards another mushroom cloud
People in power, they'll do anything to keep their crown
I love life and life itself could use some mercy now
Yeah, we all could use a little mercy now
I know we don't deserve it but we need it anyhow
We hang in the balance dangle 'tween hell and hallowed ground
And every single one of us could use some mercy now
Every single one of us could use some mercy now
Every single one of us could use some mercy now


Source: LyricFind