AMBIGRAM VIII

Recto:

Yesterday was Christmas, and the days
already start to grow a little longer.
In our hand, the new year‘s fledgling, stronger
though more fragile too in many ways

than this bedraggled, aging crow, its song a
a sad, repeated phrase among the blackened
trees along a river. So sit back and
raise your glasses to it, do the conga,

auld lang syne, then hit the sack. And black and
white explode, a throng of rainbows—gaze!
You‘ll see it, wakened in  the morning haze,
ascending as the tethering s?tring is slackened:

Verso:

Yesterday was Christmas, and
the days already start to grow
a little longer. In our hand,

the new year‘s fledgling, stronger  though
more fragile too in many ways
than this bedraggled, aging crow,

its song a sad, repeated phrase
among the blackened trees along a
river. So sit back and raise

your glasses to it, do the conga,
auld lang syne, then hit the sack. And
And black and white explode, a throng of

rainbows—gaze! You‘ll see it, wakened
in the morning haze, ascend-
ing as the tethering string is slackened.






















































­
































































­
































































­
































































­
































































­
































































­
































































­























































AMBIGRAM
­
Recto:

Yesterday was Christmas, and the days
already start to grow a little longer.
In our hand, the new year‘s fledgling, stronger
though more fragile too in many ways

than this bedraggled, aging crow, its song a
a sad, repeated phrase among the blackened
trees along a river. So sit back and
raise your glasses to it, do the conga,

auld lang syne, then hit the sack. And black and
white explode, a throng of rainbows—gaze!
You‘ll see it, wakened in  the morning haze,
ascending as the tethering s?tring is slackened:

Verso:

Yesterday was Christmas, and
the days already start to grow
a little longer. In our hand,

the new year‘s fledgling, stronger  though
more fragile too in many ways
than this bedraggled, aging crow,

its song a sad, repeated phrase
among the blackened trees along a
river. So sit back and raise

your glasses to it, do the conga,
auld lang syne, then hit the sack. And
And black and white explode, a throng of

rainbows—gaze! You‘ll see it, wakened
in the morning haze, ascend-
ing as the tethering string is slackened.






















































­
































































­
































































­
































































­































































A­MBIGRAM

Recto:

Yesterday was Christmas, and the days
already start to grow a little longer.
In our hand, the new year‘s fledgling, stronger
though more fragile too in many ways

than this bedraggled, aging crow, its song a
a sad, repeated phrase among the blackened
trees along a river. So sit back and
raise your glasses to it, do the conga,

auld lang syne, then hit the sack. And black and
white explode, a throng of rainbows—gaze!
You‘ll see it, wakened in  the morning haze,
ascending as the tethering s?tring is slackened:

Verso:

Yesterday was Christmas, and
the days already start to grow
a little longer. In our hand,

the new year‘s fledgling, stronger  though
more fragile too in many ways
than this bedraggled, aging crow,

its song a sad, repeated phrase
among the blackened trees along a
river. So sit back and raise

your glasses to it, do the conga,
auld lang syne, then hit the sack. And
And black and white explode, a throng of

rainbows—gaze! You‘ll see it, wakened
in the morning haze, ascend-
ing as the tethering string is slackened.






















































­
































































­
































































­
































































­
































































­
































































­
































































­



























































AMBIG­RAM

Recto:

Yesterday was Christmas, and the days
already start to grow a little longer.
In our hand, the new year‘s fledgling, stronger
though more fragile too in many ways

than this bedraggled, aging crow, its song a
a sad, repeated phrase among the blackened
trees along a river. So sit back and
raise your glasses to it, do the conga,

auld lang syne, then hit the sack. And black and
white explode, a throng of rainbows—gaze!
You‘ll see it, wakened in  the morning haze,
ascending as the tethering s?tring is slackened:

Verso:

Yesterday was Christmas, and
the days already start to grow
a little longer. In our hand,

the new year‘s fledgling, stronger  though
more fragile too in many ways
than this bedraggled, aging crow,

its song a sad, repeated phrase
among the blackened trees along a
river. So sit back and raise

your glasses to it, do the conga,
auld lang syne, then hit the sack. And
And black and white explode, a throng of

rainbows—gaze! You‘ll see it, wakened
in the morning haze, ascend-
ing as the tethering string is slackened.

AMBIGRAM VII

Recto:

This thorny hedgehog world is rolled into
oblivious winter sleep, where fierce dreams
have clawed a hold and block the probing beams
that keep on seeking for a passage through—

a sleep so heavy and so deep it seems
the sleep of someone who had dared to go
to all extremes, had nothing left to know
or do. As winter ices up the streams

and blizzards howl and hurtle snow on snow,
the  narrow valley teems with soldiers who
must face the foe upon the frontier to
that cold new country where we all shall go.

Verso:

This thorny hedgehog world is rolled
into oblivious winter sleep,
where fierce dreams have clawed a hold

and block the probing beams that keep
on seeking for a passage through—
a sleep so heavy and so deep

it seems the sleep of someone who
had dared to go to all extremes,
had nothing left to know or do.

As winter ices up the streams
and blizzards howl and hurtle snow
on snow, the narrow valley teems

with soldiers who must face the foe
upon the frontier to that cold
new country where we all shall go.

The people in this place
—what are they doing here?
They come and go like actors in
a play whose star will very soon
begin to show himself,
although we have no clue

which one he is, for they‘re
all so like tin apostle
spoons, not truly separate beings
but figurines, a passive foil
to  the inscrutible hero.
Is that him, that thin

pale figure who just now
is fleeing the inquisitive
crowd? But in a while he too
is slowly reingested, merged
into that far-off world
we can no  longer be in.

The people in this place—what are they do-
ing here? They come and go like actors in
a play whose star will very soon begin
to show himself, although we have no clue

which one he is, for they‘re all so like tin
apostle spoons, not truly separate beings
but figurines, a passive foil to  the in-
scrutible hero. Is that him, that thin

pale figure who just now is fleeing the in-
quisitive  crowd? But in a while he too
is slowly reingested, merged into
that far-off world we can no  longer be in.

The people in this place—what are
they doing here? They come and go
like actors in a play whose star

will very soon begin to show
himself, although we have no clue
which one he is, for they‘re all so

like tin apostle spoons, not tru-
ly separate beings but figurines,
a passive foil to  the inscru-

tible hero. Is that him, that thin
pale figure who just now is fleeing
the inquisitive  crowd? But in

a while he too is slowly rein-
gested, merged into that far-
off world we can no longer be in.

The people in this place—what are they doing here?
They come and go like actors in a play whose star
will very soon begin to show himself, although
we have no clue which one he is, for they‘re all so
like tin apostle spoons, not truly separate beings

but figurines, a passive foil to  the inscru-
tible hero. Is that him, that thin pale figure who
just now is fleeing the inquisitive  crowd? But in
a while he too is slowly reingested, merged
into that far-off world we can no  longer be in.

The people in this place
—what are they doing here?
They come and go like actors in
a play whose star will very soon
begin to show himself,
although we have no clue

which one he is, for they‘re
all so like tin apostle
spoons, not truly separate beings
but figurines, a passive foil
to  the inscrutible hero.
Is that him, that thin

pale figure who just now
is fleeing the inquisitive
crowd? But in a while he too
is slowly reingested, merged
into that far-off world
we can no  longer be in.

The people in this place—what are they do-
ing here? They come and go like actors in
a play whose star will very soon begin
to show himself, although we have no clue

which one he is, for they‘re all so like tin
apostle spoons, not truly separate beings
but figurines, a passive foil to  the in-
scrutible hero. Is that him, that thin

pale figure who just now is fleeing the in-
quisitive  crowd? But in a while he too
is slowly reingested, merged into
that far-off world we can no  longer be in.

The people in this place—what are
they doing here? They come and go
like actors in a play whose star

will very soon begin to show
himself, although we have no clue
which one he is, for they‘re all so

like tin apostle spoons, not tru-
ly separate beings but figurines,
a passive foil to  the inscru-

tible hero. Is that him, that thin
pale figure who just now is fleeing
the inquisitive  crowd? But in

a while he too is slowly rein-
gested, merged into that far-
off world we can no longer be in.

The people in this place—what are they doing here?
They come and go like actors in a play whose star
will very soon begin to show himself, although
we have no clue which one he is, for they‘re all so
like tin apostle spoons, not truly separate beings

but figurines, a passive foil to  the inscru-
tible hero. Is that him, that thin pale figure who
just now is fleeing the inquisitive  crowd? But in
a while he too is slowly reingested, merged
into that far-off world we can no  longer be in.

The people in this place
—what are they doing here?
They come and go like actors in
a play whose star will very soon
begin to show himself,
although we have no clue

which one he is, for they‘re
all so like tin apostle
spoons, not truly separate beings
but figurines, a passive foil
to  the inscrutible hero.
Is that him, that thin

pale figure who just now
is fleeing the inquisitive
crowd? But in a while he too
is slowly reingested, merged
into that far-off world
we can no  longer be in.

The people in this place—what are they do-
ing here? They come and go like actors in
a play whose star will very soon begin
to show himself, although we have no clue

which one he is, for they‘re all so like tin
apostle spoons, not truly separate beings
but figurines, a passive foil to  the in-
scrutible hero. Is that him, that thin

pale figure who just now is fleeing the in-
quisitive  crowd? But in a while he too
is slowly reingested, merged into
that far-off world we can no  longer be in.

The people in this place—what are
they doing here? They come and go
like actors in a play whose star

will very soon begin to show
himself, although we have no clue
which one he is, for they‘re all so

like tin apostle spoons, not tru-
ly separate beings but figurines,
a passive foil to  the inscru-

tible hero. Is that him, that thin
pale figure who just now is fleeing
the inquisitive  crowd? But in

a while he too is slowly rein-
gested, merged into that far-
off world we can no longer be in.

The people in this place—what are they doing here?
They come and go like actors in a play whose star
will very soon begin to show himself, although
we have no clue which one he is, for they‘re all so
like tin apostle spoons, not truly separate beings

but figurines, a passive foil to  the inscru-
tible hero. Is that him, that thin pale figure who
just now is fleeing the inquisitive  crowd? But in
a while he too is slowly reingested, merged
into that far-off world we can no  longer be in.

recto:

I send this from the little cell wherein
I dwell, a sealed room without a door,
no latch or bell or knocker waiting for
those whom some debt or doom or mortal sin

might draw towards this private tomb.But for
one single tiny window set up high
which holds a poor small square of greying sky
where thin birds’ flightlines scratch the current score

there’s no way in or out. Yet I shall try
to find that secret power that lies within,
that quiet light that I am storing in
this  room in which I live until I die.

verso:

I send this from the little cell
wherein  dwell, a sealed room
without a door, no latch or bell

or knocker waiting for those whom
some doom or debt or mortal sin
might draw towards this private tomb.

But for one single tiny win-
dow set up high which holds a poor
small square of greying sky where thin

birds’ flightlines scratch the current score
there’s no way in or out. Yet I
shall try to find that secret power

that lies within, that quiet light
that I am storing in this room
in which I live until I die.

turbo:

I send this from the little cell wherein I dwell,
a sealed room without a door, no latch or bell
or knocker waiting for those whom some debt or doom
or mortal sin might draw towards this private tomb.
But for one single tiny window set up high

which holds a poor small square of greying sky where thin
birds’ flightlines scratch the current score there’s no way in
or out. Yet I shall try to find that secret power
that lies within,that quiet light that I am stor-
ing in this room in which I live until I die.

The people in this place
—what are they doing here?
They come and go like actors in
a play whose star will very soon
begin to show himself,
although we have no clue

which one he is, for they‘re
all so like tin apostle
spoons, not truly separate beings
but figurines, a passive foil
to  the inscrutible hero.
Is that him, that thin

pale figure who just now
is fleeing the inquisitive
crowd? But in a while he too
is slowly reingested, merged
into that far-off world
we can no  longer be in.

The people in this place—what are they do-
ing here? They come and go like actors in
a play whose star will very soon begin
to show himself, although we have no clue

which one he is, for they‘re all so like tin
apostle spoons, not truly separate beings
but figurines, a passive foil to  the in-
scrutible hero. Is that him, that thin

pale figure who just now is fleeing the in-
quisitive  crowd? But in a while he too
is slowly reingested, merged into
that far-off world we can no  longer be in.

The people in this place—what are
they doing here? They come and go
like actors in a play whose star

will very soon begin to show
himself, although we have no clue
which one he is, for they‘re all so

like tin apostle spoons, not tru-
ly separate beings but figurines,
a passive foil to  the inscru-

tible hero. Is that him, that thin
pale figure who just now is fleeing
the inquisitive  crowd? But in

a while he too is slowly rein-
gested, merged into that far-
off world we can no longer be in.

The people in this place—what are they doing here?
They come and go like actors in a play whose star
will very soon begin to show himself, although
we have no clue which one he is, for they‘re all so
like tin apostle spoons, not truly separate beings

but figurines, a passive foil to  the inscru-
tible hero. Is that him, that thin pale figure who
just now is fleeing the inquisitive  crowd? But in
a while he too is slowly reingested, merged
into that far-off world we can no  longer be in.

Recto:

One of those days. The snow is falling soundless
out of a grey and uneventful sky.
A day for calling friends from times gone by?—
each one I try stays hidden in the boundless

wilderness of restless  Sunday si-
lence.  Floods, a sinking pound, less job provision—
the usual run of news on  televison—
groundless reasons for concern or high

time for despairing? Or decision! Reach an
arm  out, you can fly, your spring is wound! Less
imprecision! Let the word resound! Less
fun, short??-term, maybe, but clearer vision.


Verso:

One of those days. The snow is falling
soundless out of a grey and un-
eventful sky. A day for calling

friends from times gone by?—each one
I try stays hidden in the boundless
wilderness of restless  Sun-

day silence.  Floods, a sinking pound, less
job provision—the usual run
of news on  televison—groundless

reasons for concern or high
time for despairing? Or decision!
Reach an arm out, you can fly,

your spring is wound! Less imprecision!
Let the word resound! Less fun,
short??-term, maybe, but clearer vision.

Recto:

She‘s vacuuming: the dog has leapt, afraid,
onto my lap and sent my papers flying.
Till then I‘d slept. Still half-asleep, I‘m trying,
relentlessly, to finish things I‘d made

a start on yesterday, identifying
slips and errors, trading words or phrases.
Mystifying, the way we go through phases
laid in stone, half-stunned while time goes flying

by and nothing‘s done for days. Is stasis
part of the deal? We‘re drying up, we fade? -
and then, bejaisus! - that small fire we‘d laid
that kept on choking re-ignites and blazes!

Verso:

She‘s vacuuming: the dog has leapt,
afraid, onto my lap and sent
my papers flying. Till then I‘d slept.

Still half-asleep, I‘m trying, relent-
lessly, to finish things I‘d made
a start on yesterday, ident-

ifying slips and errors, trad-
ing words or phrases. Mystifying,
the way we go through phases laid

in stone, half-stunned, while time goes flying
by and nothing‘s done for days. Is
stasis part of the deal? We‘re drying

up, we fade? ... and then, bejaisus!
- that small fire we‘d laid that kept
on choking self-ignites and blazes!

Last thing I remember, was that drastic times called for drastic measures
She was out of town
He was out of order
The amalgamation of ***** little secrets and the insecurities I picked at
Which put me between Scylla and Charybdis
Urging me to make Hobson's choice
Tie up loose ends
Went to the bazaar
To pick up an ambigram of the word "Psalms"
And mirror image of the word "Proverbs"
Buyer beware
We speak in  strange slanguage here
So get on with it
Share sugar
Sniff out your own kind
Only time can tell
Tell time to hold up
Bank on tomorrow
On Eastern/ Pacific/ Mountain time
Local and global
Try to save face
Not aimed at any anyone specific
If you're wearing the shoe, you must fit it
Overbearing
I'm painted as a neer do well
  
     -Tommy Johnson

Tossed and upended
Yet endured
Ambigram