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he called me *****


when I left the room,
he called me *****,
My tombs of Shakespeare,
witnesses,
fellow poets all, my wall decor.

well familiar with fools,
reported the occurrence
upon my return.

confronted, it,
he did not deny,
for he understood
pointless
at that point,
exceedingly well.

was not angered, simply asking,
since he fancied himself a poet, did
he know any rhymes for that word?

in the interest
of poetic brevity,
answered for him.

*****.
witch.
twitch.

gave him reason to use
those words
sequentially.

after that, he addressed me
as mistress, or *******,
with respect, an attitude
that was previously
menu unavailable.

what then shall we call you?

the Bard,
his Band of Brothers, and I
jointly confabed.

undignified is slave,
Shakespeare opined,
human dignity needs
respecting.

my walled observer,
co-conspirator of
all that transpired,
drew upon his
own source material,
suggested,
knave.

yes, quite apropos,
my considered reply,
a fool always, and still,
after all, was he not
himself not a
son of a *****


as much as I,
Brandy Channing, is, was, daughter, proud, child
of one great and wonderful *****.
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?
^ Motel, (pronounced as Muttle, as in Motel the Tailor from Fiddler o the Roof,
so named because of his mottled fur and markings
that is what they come seeking.
yet, when I tell them pretending
Boy Scouts to
be prepared!
for the burning,
they gulp saying ok,
but the higher heat of the fear
feted in their eyes, them instruments
that never lies,
so I send them home, unscathed,
and
scathed just enough that
they’ll never ask
twice.

I’m so easy to please.


brandychanning
Queens Loves Poets. (for Em MacKenzie)
———————————————————-

Kings love making war,
no wonder, the people,
remember well fond
their femi-mine
rulers with femi-fervor,
Queens, who loved poets.

You fear Jesus,
Adore Mary,
generosity of understanding.
because it is hard
for woman to do
cruelty,
till she has been abused
by men who thought
they were kingly by being
beknighted, unbeheaded
for now at least.

Men who invented Brandy,
in the be of night,
were stupid men,
they forgot alcohol, the
Brandy of Channing,
is not fit for manning,
for it is a

toxin, like me, like me.
  Jul 1 brandychanning
Acme
Every poet has written a first
poem they'd rather never mind.
No one springs from mother's
womb Yeats or Eliot or Frost in
full bloom. Broke hearts come
before broke dreams come
before broke psyche. We all
start with our first rejection,
then an aunt dies. We learn
to empathize and we're poets.
Feeling how others feel is a burden and a gift. Enjoy the weight of the world, Poet.
anthem

we pledge allegiance
to each other, our state
of-just-the-two-of-us,

hands on each other’s
heart, we cocoon, snuggle,
it’s always warm in our land

like Camelot, never rains,
always in agreement, every
votes never tied, for we are

a colorless world, only one,
the color of the day, is what
we feel, create, and believe

we sing only duets, our music,
only perfect pitch harmonies,
this our anthem, sung twice daily

when the sun should rise,
and when it should set, but,
since our sun never leaves

we do it for pure pleasure
some days, I love me my simple.


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?
neglect and respect
rhyme,
you stand
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