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Ansley Popov Jul 2015
I am the happiest person I know,
I get excited at everything,
I love the trees,
I love the way the air smells when it's winter, when it's summer, when it's spring or fall,
I love the people I've surrounded myself with most of all.
Lastly,
I do not know when this happened,
or who was behind my conversion,  
but I know that at this point in my life I truly love myself,
with make up or without,
I love every version.
I am proud of the protector, the artist, the friend,
and the student that I have become.
The game is not over, but now i love myself,
so I have already won.
(this written about a baker's half-dozen years ago)


this then stunning lithe oldest teenage niece, daughter of
my younger sister epitomizes a tall drink of water
(similar to the mother at same age)
What with her willowy young woman body

brimming with budding potential
   for breath-taking beauty
enhanced by her quiet mien
expressing itself thru exemplary
   artistic and literary flair

if asked to draw a character sketch anime
   or wax poetic she would demure
modesty restrains her
   acknowledging creative talents

so I thought to compose an ode in praise
of this quiet-natured adolescent
   teetering on the brink of adulthood
(now a glowingly radiant young woman)

evolving positive qualities
   via submittable, the strength of said niece
whose ambitious parents (my youngest sister =
   the proud mama of Ansley),

   who embarked to Spain
late summer (many Earth Orbitz back in time
found them bound for the Iberian peninsula
this brother suppresses

   envy adventurous bold risk-taking
exposing offspring to world wide web
   of Europe fostering cultural awareness
   represents continuity for I remember

   this youngest sibling of mine
   as gently conniving plus possessing
   pluperfect  courage
to act on her je nais sais qua esprit de corps

as like an inner divining rod
   and faith in self-enabling
   an exemplary example
of motherhood constituting

both this and Marleigh
   (the second of deux whip-smart darlings)
with the world at their fingertips
   as hands-on learning
all the while insinuating courage
   to take life by the red bull by the horns!
Her skin was dark and her hair was black,
She walked with a Spanish sway,
‘She could be from South America,’
I would hear the neighbours say,
She’d taken the cottage in Ansley Court,
Put seagrass mat on the floor,
Then given them something to talk about
With the shingle she hung on the door.

‘A Course is starting on Wednesday week
For the women of Risdon Vale,
“The Secret Rites of the Shuar Revealed,”
(For ladies alone - No Male!)
The art of centuries, hidden ‘til now
Will be taught in a matter of weeks,
Be among the first to learn of these skills,
(At just sixty dollars, each!)’

Said one, ‘It’s probably just a scam,
For what could she have to show?’
‘This village is such a bore,’ said Pam,
‘I’d pay to see rushes grow!’
But curiosity killed the cat
They say, in that wise old saw,
And half the women of Risdon Vale
Turned up to the stranger’s door.

She took the women, one at a time
Examined each one alone,
Then chose just six to make up the course
And sent all the others home.
She’d weeded out all the gossipers,
And the ones that were loose of tongue,
Had sworn to secrecy those she chose
At an altar with candles on.

Not one of the chosen ones would speak,
Not one of them say a word,
They hung together in whispered cliques
And wouldn’t be overheard.
Their husbands too, were kept in the dark
When asked, they would heave a sigh,
Shrug their shoulders, and raise a brow
Though everyone wondered, ‘Why?’

Ted Wilkins wasn’t impressed by this
And took himself to the pub,
‘I don’t like secrets,’ he told his mates,
Then left to head for the scrub.
They said he’d gone with Emily Bates,
They’d been having it off for years,
‘Her cottage is suddenly empty too,’
Said the wags in ‘The Bullock’s Curse.’

There wasn’t a tear in the Wilkins home,
She seemed to be quite relieved,
‘I always thought that she must have known,’
So half of the Vale believed,
A woman alone is a tidy mark
For a man like Michael Stout,
They saw him creep to her house one night,
But no-one saw him come out.

The tongues were wagging in Risdon Vale
About ‘funny goings-on,’
‘The preacher hasn’t been seen at church
Since that spat with Lucy Chong,’
Then Red Redoubt who had beat his wife
Took off, when he knew the score,
For Gwen had bid him ‘good riddance’ when
He was heading on out the door.

The women met on a Wednesday night
And they burned a light ‘til dawn,
‘What do you think they do in there?’
Said the gossip, Betty Spawn,
She crept up close to the house one night
And peered at the light within,
So Pam came out and surprised her there,
Said, ‘Why don’t you come right in!’

The six week course was almost done
When the police came round one night,
Kicked the door of the cottage in,
Gave the girls a terrible fright.
‘We need to know what you’re doing here,
There are rumours, round about,’
But the woman from South America
In the dark, had slipped on out.

There were pots and pans and cooking things
And a smell of something stale,
‘We’ve been learning all these secret things
But we can’t tell you, you’re male!’
Then a cry came out from another room
From a lad in the local police,
He said, ‘There’s six new shrunken heads
Out here on the mantelpiece!’

David Lewis Paget
Rangifer tarandus kept
this deep sleeper awake
cavorting, deer ring
escapade haint fake
dreamt only a smattering while

Santa did shimmy and shake
with **...**...**...
no worry mate - everything's jake
resonating resembling thus Spake
Zarathustra jollity did quake.

Yours truly (i.e, me)
awoke with rapture
forty hooves with
four "toes" on each foot
surreptitiously, soundlessly, and simply
did invisibly bore
I noiselessly swore
sizable wrapped holiday box

with duct tape to secure
merchandise found thee missus
(Abby) excitedly tore
painstakingly, neatly, and lovingly
my feeble protest she did ignore
(think lame gesticulations)
ah... lo and behold goodies galore

unable to deter impetuous more
or less analogous to child like roar
ring with giddy excitement
December twenty fifth,
could not await opening your
linkedin holiday deliverance
including Trader Joe's gift card

to "fake" Monseigneur
Matthew Scott with dogspeed
to wish thee (Andy, Ansley,
Marley - if by ghost of chance...)
plus other kith and kin) bonjour,
and joyful new year, whence two score
orbitz will find me
newly minted centenarian, argh... your

brother not yet ready to explore
afterlife, which grave kismet unavoidable,
courtesy grim reaper conquistador
though... even now no fear arises,
when permanent sleep shall nevermore
witness generalized (anticipatory)
anxiety cease to perdure,
which bouts of panic

running rampant near winded seen yore
citizen banker (me) disgruntled
as if possessed by maniacal führer
running me rampantly ragged das
exhausting emotional furor
takes (and/or took) toll, I deplore
and decry lifelong psychological struggle

germinating while in utero,
when my nonexistence
no bigger than a spore
biological vagaries manifestation
nine months before
set figurative deoxynucleic acid
blueprint stage permanently

etched to the core
every cell sporting mutation
begetting, coding, dunning ensure
ring subsequent generations
oft times pondering,
whence final breath of relief
will signal time to scatter ashes
buzzfeeding boughs of sycamore.

— The End —