"kook" poems
My hart klop groen vir groei
en ander goed
en pomp van hormone
en suurtof ryke bloed
dit was liefde
met eerste oog opslag
dis net jammer my oe staar blind
teen die mes in jou hand
wat op my kaal rug wag.
Dis 'n gan an soort klop
die go-ahead van my kop
die alles sal reg wees
in jou glimlag
jou oe die mandaat
van 'n regte terg gees.
en ek gaan vir die groen
en silwer en goud,
vir al die goeie goed
vir die land sonder fout.
Maar my hart is die
Andries Hendrik Potgieter
van my boere bloed
wat waarsku teen jou
met alle moed.
My heldersiende hartklop
wat my weg probeer lei
van nog 'n ou grappie
en nog 'n bietjie seerkry.
Nou klop hy rooi
hy klop bloed
hy klop stop.
Maar soos 'n GP kar
vermy ek die tekens
in my haas vir jou mond.
Voel die lem deur my ribbes gly
dood, nog voor die grond.
en my hart, wil lag,
maar skree verwoed.
Nou kook die boerebloed!
Jou simpel, jou wetter
jou bogsnuiter kind!
Snou my hart my toe,
nou is hy stil en
gee my die silent treatment.
Jun 17, 2014
Jun 17, 2014 at 6:18 PM UTC
Ganders...gargantua--ensconced in far-fetched space...
(attrition)...LOOK AT THAT LINE...LOOK AT IT...
ROUND THE CORNERS OF PERPETUITY...predilections.
A soul's inalienable fracas...on bend and knee...hop...and
whoop...miasmic gargoyles poppy-wreathed...
for all-too-lucid dreaming...chanting etceteras of bare riff raffs.
Golden breastplates...weeping willow wings...empurpled--
fending fang trumping lines of: yuck, cluck, claw and kook.
...Listless eyes...alphabetize...think a blind oracle's informed
absentia...holy and bovine.
Redolent airs...perspiration of spume's most distancing shore--
eyepieces for the specks and logs in the oculos of brothers
and sisters.
As dust to dust doth not settle...heart's yonder score...nay cease
of interstice...off-world amorousness.
Gather ye yarrow sticks...hurl them at days...roofless arcady...
live into the spectra of their worlds, come friend or foe...Fate's foundling.
Lines strung as prayer beads...curs-ed beads...forget-me-nots
enclosed in letters baiting Long Farewells, in the great literary
correspondence of authored and Author.
...Ye gorgeous gargoyles come perch and push.
Persona non grata...the wide world...unisex prodigal...All--returneth.
LOOK AT THAT LINE...LOOK AT IT...(attrition)...ROUND THE
CORNERS OF PERPETUITY.
NEBULAEIC FANFARE...come perch to push...lo...ANGELS!
Nov 18, 2013
Nov 18, 2013 at 12:35 PM UTC
I was at the post office the other day,
mailing off some letters,
waiting in line (patiently waiting),
when I see an elderly woman walk in.
Grey haired, wrinkled skin, hunched over, cane in hand,
walking, walking slowly, the world, run, run, running around her
at what must have seemed like to her, 1000 miles per hour.
She was having an some kind of issue with her post office box key,
i overheard, it wouldn't fit in her post office box,
and she wanted the postal worker to help her
They kind of shrugged her off like she was a senile old kook, snickering behind her back.
I finally got thru the line, and met the woman in the lobby by the post office boxes.
"Ma'am, do you need help with your mailbox?" I asked, concerned.
"They told me it should work now. They said there was mail blocking it."
"Which one is it? Let's see if we can get it to open" I said,
taking the key, I inserted it, but it wouldn't work.
"Are you sure this is the right box?
"Yes", she said, "they said there was mail blocking it."
"Then are you sure this is the right key? Look, i can insert it into any of these other boxes,
and it still won't turn. So its either the wrong box, or the wrong key."
I felt sorry for the woman.
I wondered if she understood.
She seemed disoriented, confused.
She took the key,
and brought it closer to her eyes,
examining it,
studying it,
realizing
"I must have brought my husbands key by mistake. He's passed away..."
I didn't know what to say, I felt so bad for her.
"I miss him so much..." she said, key in hand, rubbing it between her thumb and index finger.
"I'm sorry." What was i supposed to say at that point?
"Oh well," she said, "one day chicken, next day feathers. God bless you for trying to help me."
Aug 7, 2011
Aug 7, 2011 at 8:36 PM UTC
The club is small and dark and hazy
like the veiled comedy of minstrel performers.
Those dingy lights do little for the atmosphere—
dangling hemp from clouds of cigarette smoke.
This hole is filled with the classy of day and the
sassy of night—a real “blue material” kinda crowd.
Harry, the manager, after calling quarter and five,
booked some awful oleo acts just minutes before
“places!”
—The crowd sits on their hands ‘til they’re numb
and lame like the fish they watch flop on the boards.
Two acts down followed by some soot-covered
clown’s lazzo about who’s who and what’s what.
Give me a break! The crowd wants fresh fish to fry—
Girlies in pearlies with spun out legs that tower
the torsos they’re pinned to. Give them that
New York Style Cheese-cakewalk Variety Act!
The listless listeners of this K.A. circuit let out a
snake-like hiss, en masse. (The only show stoppers
are off the billing, stage left at some other club!)
The manager thinks fast like a quick change act—
Harry snatches a prop from the nearest kook—
In a long brown bathrobe, with a broad brown cane.
He hushed the crowd of loud, jeering jerks, in one
swift swoop of his leg-breaking, knockout **** called
The Vaudeville Hook.
Jun 23, 2012
Jun 23, 2012 at 8:10 PM UTC
Agressie kook in my siel
Dit brand soos warm olie
Ek is kwaad.
So fokken kwaad.
Alles is kak
En ek is vasgevang
In 'n eindelose storm
Van sweet en rooi
My wese donder en brul
So.
Liewe Wereld,
Jou ma se poes.
Jan 31, 2013
Jan 31, 2013 at 10:15 AM UTC
I have a secret, you see
And it is all about me
Though not like it’s very hidden.
I’m an imp, if you wish it,
I do tend to fidget
But I do so rather quietly.
Silent footsteps behind you,
Now sneaking isn’t meant to
Scare when my approach comes nearer.
I might give you a *****
And you’ll jump like a kook,
But try not to be so surprised.
There will be a next time
Do not make it a crime
When I appear out of nowhere.
It’s the ideas that I plant
Inside heads when I can’t
Act on such good tricks to be played.
Tie his laces to chairs
Not a classmate will care,
And Teacher blames only the boy.
This, but one example,
Of things that I’m ample
To come up with everyday.
Now if you’re real careful
And seem quite delightful,
I’ll just have to let you be,
Although Tricksy Grandma did name me.
Dec 8, 2012
Dec 8, 2012 at 11:14 PM UTC
When I misplaced my faith
And had to find
Something to ease my
Questioning mind
I studied
Numerology
Astrology
Reflexology
The Chinese Zodiac
Neglected scientific facts
To try and fill the lack
Of wisdom
Looking for some ego boost
In my spiritually void youth
Such a goofy kook
Believed in spooks
Not spies but ghouls
Walked with other fools
Who thought they could cast spells
That they fought monsters from hell
And battled dream demons
It took a couple of years to transition from
One magical thing to the next
Till I finally settled on the logic of
Reasoning
Science
And love
Of humanity
But at thirty four
I got a whole lot more
To learn
Apr 11, 2015
Apr 11, 2015 at 11:00 AM UTC
Under flickering streetlamps, tongues and soles
Slapped happy paced on concrete in retreat
All around the Shadows tore limbs from quaking cores
Panting, sweating, exhausted,
The Adam ducked by a moaning body
A blue, authority stripped as he suffered in a puddle
No one, he croaked
Is safe
The Darkness leaked from his wounds
The Adam ran again before he faded into night
Cars were totaled, stranded smashed and broken
Exhaust still polluting from dead engines
The roads in ruin littered with expensive empty things
Crunching underfoot as The Adam waded weary
Abandoned, the city crawled with ugly sin
Black creatures feeding on human remains
Plucking victims from the excess
Grinding, punishing teeth gnashing
Some ran, but the
Onyx ones caught them eventually
Junkers injected their Coal colored chaos
Until the Ebony jones snakes slithered
Into their hearts
Seeking sanctuary, The Adam heaved a rock
Through the window of a school and climbed through
Scratchy glass
The carvings in the board stole his sense of safety
****** nail art
“It starts young, the long night”
More of the Tar creatures made raging racket on the
Door then and The Adam ran again
Leaving the malleable minds in their stinking now-done coffins
Full charge down the hall, ram head collision
Teacher turned raving loon the kook grabbed
Him in a vice
The Evil ones had removed most of his face but his
Intact eye focused, and cave shouted
“The only infinity
Are space and
Mind, all else will
Meet its time”
And with that he did
Sick and alone, The Adam wished to escape the pain of
The outside world and spun run spirals to the roof
His beating chest ached and tore, he shed tears no more and
His cavity unleashed
An Obsidian dragon emerged, massive and
Violent upon the night
The stars cried themselves to sleep as
They were eclipsed by Umbra wings
The beast burned the city
Down while The Adam wept
And drifted the darkest demons
Live within, why run
Jul 19, 2012
Jul 19, 2012 at 3:33 PM UTC
Most of us don’t even manage
To become a hero, just for one day
But the Starman came, he saw, he conquered
He blew our minds
A creative centipede
A shapeshifter
A kook
A man who sold his image to the world
And showed us that heroes still exist
Jan 11, 2016
Jan 11, 2016 at 2:51 AM UTC
the planet Earth alone in the great Universe
built by the Star called sun pulling the earth
93 million miles in each and everyday of Eternity
a little Planet timeless a self nurturing to survive
the wondrous being grows smarter
the magnitude of Earth destiny refined
for within its self discovery a predator race
consuming the earth with inventions making
every modern convenience to enrich life of humans
while on Earth causing extinction using up
the entire planet as Earth revolves around the Star
the human senses taught to pillage **** in greed
while the love of Star light celestial beings cry
stop polluting grow sustainability grow grow
cosmic consciousness for all life thinking
I run singing beware of the predators
humans consuming at an alarming rate
exterminate exterminate stop over populating
the song of life needs to love the maker of life
feed drink run play buy modern invention ....
back in the Bay so carefree so good
the breeze on a warm summer day
eclipsing the terror of humans with weapons
sustainability for all Stop making weapons
a distant cry....off with their heads
we need to look at their ideas stack up these
round hairy orbs...stop these heads from thinking
the race is on to own every modern convenience
ownership the brotherhood of power and greed
a Shylock selling the goods first you got
to have a weapon allows instant gratification
the adrenalin to preform theft **** manipulation
don't need an education weapons mental strength
to pull the trigger a modern christian born again
getting his ***** on the right foot in
la kook aracha getting its antennas alined
when the lights turn on they disappear the room is vacant
Evangelical nation knows no borders
on land in mind rights of women
gods nation with guns killing pillage ****
alas what of education got it pull the trigger
for GOP the oily Democrats one world government
brought to you by the makers of weapons
killing for profit 60% of each tax dollar made
to own the Planet one welfare nation over all
in god we trust little jesus people
a human race for humanity
every thing created was once an idea
a thought is a spirit that becomes a being
flesh and blood living life created
the right living in the shadows
on the edge of night til all the Stars are alike
til the other time lord casts its shadow
a quake a night rising falling middle land
a beauty in life creed to be a home
the strong will to proceed
the race of humanity
such beauty...
gjmars 6/17/15
Jun 17, 2015
Jun 17, 2015 at 5:55 PM UTC
I-I-I want to put her head
on a robot's body;
I want to be w/ u @ midnight
maybe, the sentences white men
get is too slight; prisons should
be filled w/ them---
Bandy in negligee
quite a wide-eyed wonder---
Her eyeballs full of goldfish,
the neighbors who walks the hall
w/ no clothes on---
in the Pyongyang condo
she reads the NYT
delivered by the tall,
bearded boy who doesn't
want to draw attention
to his naturally
silver hair he wears in a pompadour
beneath an American baseball cap;
She sits in the stairwell
& smokes cigars &
he joins her when the lights go out
which is often---
Trump's self-sabotage
is rooted in his perceived sense of failure;
never enough, never good no matter how high,
enough---he's made of gold
& it's only a black hole---
He's a kook, crazy & mentally unfit 4 office;
when cross-dressing her bra can't be ****
but u never know---
She's calling outside my window
& complains my room is freezing
(364 - 58)
All the Jews want to move to Israel;
from my window
I can see the fortress-settlements
in the red hills---garrisons of Palestinian girls,
A loaded Palestinian girl
knocks on the door holding a bottle of gin;
I let her in, violating Sharia law
she lies down & pets the cat---
Jan 1, 2018
Jan 1, 2018 at 6:57 PM UTC
How they ridicule Jim,
The neighbourhood loner:
"wears a tinfoil hat" and
"turns his wifi off at night"
They all brand him a kook:
"well, you know he's a stoner,
funny coincidence though,
his forecasts have proved right!"
May 9, 2020
May 9, 2020 at 5:41 AM UTC
Dim Print…
Left side to right side… “Where’s the error?”
Right side to left… “What was right?”
And the back and forth and back and forth and back and forth continues until the conversation fades into nothingness…
A black void of pointless banter like a debate where there’s no winner
Rhetoricals like a tennis ball or ping-pong match that never ends
Background chatter… eyelids close… slumber…
BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP snooze BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP snooze BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP
Fine…
I open my eyes and the dialog continues
Slurping down the dark sweet brew hoping the bitterness will bring relief, but it does not.
Substance whittled down like an old kook’s dead branch
The shavings fall to the earth and rot into insignificance
Such is life…
Getting on with the day, with dreams that the work will now still the mind
Clackity Clackity Clack on the keyboard…
the rhythmic sound provides beats for MC Left side and Right side to lay their rhymes down
Left side to right side… “Where’s the error?”
Right side to left… “What was right?”
And the back and forth and back and forth and back and forth continues
Until the tête-à-tête makes its way onto the screen itself
Frustrated, a third voice intervenes…
Why is there a right? Why is there a wrong?
Why do we continue this chat all day long?
For the love of all that is free, let’s just agree to disagree.
raise the roof in the veracity of the things that will be
silence… still psyche… embark on a mindtrip blissfully
Apr 4, 2014
Apr 4, 2014 at 9:25 AM UTC
Green Screen Door
There’s something about
Green screen doors
Conjuring past summers
The why
I’m not sure
Swing bang shut
Bent out screen
Surrounded
By wood
All painted in green
Brings back
Kook-Aid
The bees all abuzz
Mingled with flowers
And Aunt Martha’s fudge
By Bill MacEachern
03/28/2021
Mar 28, 2021
Mar 28, 2021 at 12:45 PM UTC
Jerry Estrel was a kook
He marked his grounds with white chalk
Proclaimed to be neighborhood Duke
He made a throne out of cinder blocks
His mother seems small, dreams tall
She once swayed and threw it away
She drove over his basketball
Wept and locked herself in her promenade
Jerry gave a perplexed look
She's only been like that once
When his father died, she read his book
And duly took home his dozen buns
Mother held rings ever tight
And dreamt her child to be rich
His grandest birthday gift in sight
Her wallet, merely a stitch
She dug in her mouth and cried,
"I'm sorry my son, I lied"
He says,
"Ma, I just want a harmonica for my birthday"
Jerry was of an old soul
Wrote in mad spells to sell
With light years within his control
But couldn't afford what he could not foretell
In winter, the mother, she shivered
In summer, the beggar laid down
The years gnawing at her liver
Traded her gowns for a bound
Jerry gave a limping look
Duly blamed his mother's fate
He wandered, and loved, and mistook
Every circumstance as her incarnate
Then the debt filled up to her eyes
They could not provide themselves sun
She offered him no alibis
And slept in the silent sounds of the guns
She steeled herself till she was sore
"My son, I can't buy you anymore"
He says,
"Ma, I just want a harmonica for my birthday"
Jerry traveled for a time
He had found the sights that he craved
Walked home to offer his mother a dime
But now, she dreams beneath a grave
He fell down and cried,
"I'm sorry ma, I tried"
Jerry played a harmonica for her birthday
Sep 26, 2017
Sep 26, 2017 at 2:10 PM UTC
From New York City, spanning across the globe
And into the hearts of millions of fans
Redefining humour
And pioneering sarcasm;
Sarcasm against which all future would be measured!
From happiness to uncertainty
From 'sup to soulmates
To being there for each other
And Ohh Myy Godd!
Here's to showing us all
What it's like to grow up
And be ready
And to pivot until you fit in
Here's to making us laugh and cry
And journey along one hell of a roller coaster
To stay sane through ups and downs of bein' a 30 year old grandma
Cheers
To a not so much a kook Mon
To a reformed Muriel
To a responsible Greene
And cheers
To Phalange for all the quirkiness
To the mental Geller fighting for his true love
To Ken Addams for that Europe story!
Thank you
For the virtual sea-saw ride
For showing us the true world that *****
And Yet having coffee is all we need to stay put.
Sep 23, 2018
Sep 23, 2018 at 11:42 AM UTC