"legerdemain" poems
You ought to know Mr. Mistoffelees!
The Original Conjuring Cat—
(There can be no doubt about that).
Please listen to me and don’t scoff. All his
Inventions are off his own bat.
There’s no such Cat in the metropolis;
He holds all the patent monopolies
For performing suprising illusions
And creating eccentric confusions.
At prestidigitation
And at legerdemain
He’ll defy examination
And deceive you again.
The greatest magicians have something to learn
From Mr. Mistoffelees’ Conjuring Turn.
Presto!
Away we go!
And we all say: OH!
Well I never!
Was there ever
A Cat so clever
As Magical Mr. Mistoffelees!
He is quiet and small, he is black
From his ears to the tip of his tail;
He can creep through the tiniest crack,
He can walk on the narrowest rail.
He can pick any card from a pack,
He is equally cunning with dice;
He is always deceiving you into believing
That he’s only hunting for mice.
He can play any trick with a cork
Or a spoon and a bit of fish-paste;
If you look for a knife or a fork
And you think it is merely misplaced—
You have seen it one moment, and then it is gawn!
But you’ll find it next week lying out on the lawn.
And we all say: OH!
Well I never!
Was there ever
A Cat so clever
As Magical Mr. Mistoffelees!
His manner is vague and aloof,
You would think there was nobody shyer—
But his voice has been heard on the roof
When he was curled up by the fire.
And he’s sometimes been heard by the fire
When he was about on the roof—
(At least we all heard that somebody purred)
Which is incontestable proof
Of his singular magical powers:
And I have known the family to call
Him in from the garden for hours,
While he was asleep in the hall.
And not long ago this phenomenal Cat
Produced seven kittens right out of a hat!
And we all said: OH!
Well I never!
Did you ever
Know a Cat so clever
As Magical Mr. Mistoffelees!
2.5k
*****
Twirling like the devil's baton
a cyclic cul de sac
'round the positronic menagerie,
speared from stem to stern, floor to ceiling,
arched bowed bent backs saddled ridden tools
adolescent ne'er-do-wells and prepubescent fools
all desiring to sit nowhere but by me,
by me, by me-
My friend of cosmic dawn, take my hand and
traipse like a runner in a blind alley.
Lead me to my quiet stead, walk and stamp about,
my cloven-hoofed associate, sarcastically devout,
and show me that everything in this whole world
is presented via legerdemain, deceitful cleverness,
but it cannot cure my lightheadedness, felt by me,
by me, by me...
Mar 27, 2010
Mar 27, 2010 at 1:02 PM UTC
Sidestepping shadow-plays
boxed in bonus-sized portions
for garden-varietal religions,
I've had these scuzzy intimations
great big (voids) lie behind
most altruistic inclinations
and the biggest news is,
we're still expanding
with-in-exhaustible potentials
to be eternally filled greater.
Now I'll admit to being
hampered in my cognitive
capacity for meaningful
pattern recognition
by my debilitating
predisposition toward
concentrated forms of myopia,
ergo, I can't shape
a formless mess into anything
but incoherent flimflam.
I've tried alleviating this
condition with meditative
concoctions and palliatives
of sensory deprivation,
yet I fear I'll need
a silicon-chip-enhanced head
before I can glimpse
the cosmic legerdemain spinning
its paradoxes of endless
surfaces but no top.
If I finally do, I'll smile big
as a great-white gull winning
his first demonstration hand at
the three-card monte of not-to-be
reconciled contradictions.
May 15, 2010
May 15, 2010 at 9:41 AM UTC
When I was 17,
the wreckage
of my home
smoldering
a hundred miles east
of my degenerate
disposition,
I worked
the carnival,
bathed in iridescent light,
kicking the crap
out of time with
my alligator boots,
spinning carousel stories,
exhaling cigarette smoke
in circles above the perfumed
heads of carnal housewives,
the calliope music
swirling endlessly,
a loop of depot kisses
and whiskey lust,
my leather gloves
softened by torn
ticket stubs and
legerdemain.
Beneath big top canvas,
the lonesome doves
of my past tangled
with boxcar bandits
and funhouse shades.
I set the clowns aflame.
On taught ropes
of reckoning,
I tilt-a-whirled
toward evening’s
inexorable blade.
Oct 7, 2016
Oct 7, 2016 at 5:05 PM UTC
I have been expressive in words
people call me taciturn, so I am
legerdemain. Words callow I manipulate.
I am the adroit teaser of and with words.
I am importunate loser when words summon
hate or a fear.
You sit unerringly on the border of words.
You write and your writing haunts into strange
dreams of oblivion. Your words impinge upon
senses and soul and I exclaim: what is poetry?
the poem unfurls in corridors, dank and soulless.
What soul does poetry have?
Narrative blindness. Words express movements,
in time's warp. Clouded thoughts, one day the exuberant
poem will die.
Oct 8, 2015
Oct 8, 2015 at 11:13 AM UTC
i haven't regretted a word i said to you in that last month
not even how i'm happy you're leaving
or that i won't miss you
or that it's by far the best birthday gift you ever gave me
you and i both knew we meant every word
now that you're gone
you can say you miss me as much as you want
i'll only say it back to seem polite
but, i see through your legerdemain
you're not that smart
i don't care if you're homesick,
i'm sick of you.
i'm sick of your constant screaming
i'm sick of your face.
i'm sick of your whining
i'm sick of you being so self-centered
i'm sick of you making me hate myself even more
i'm sick of you belittling my every move
'what's that on your arm?'
so don't bother playing the sisterly love game
i'm not going to be player two.
it's a good thing you loved that sims game i couldn't play so much
it was a one player game.
Nov 16, 2013
Nov 16, 2013 at 6:40 PM UTC
The Masters of Illusion perform
Before your very eyes.
Their clever tricks will astound you--
Watch for each surprise.
Their skillful tactics mesmerize
And seem to entertain.
Caught off guard, you overlook
Their verbal legerdemain.
Artists in deception, they
Require a double take.
Upon scrutinizing them,
You see that they are fake.
They love to pull something out of a hat.
Notice as they grab it:
Hey! A corporate tax loophole!
That is NOT a rabbit!
When caught in their own traps they can
Mysteriously disappear
And suddenly show up again
When the coast is clear.
Cutting things in half occurs
Before the curtain call.
You hardly notice that they're robbing
Peter to pay Paul.
There's always something up their sleeve--
Sort of a bait and switch.
A promise might end up being
Tax cuts for the rich.
Be careful when they smile and say
They want to be your friend.
That's just a ploy; you'll see that
They'll ***** you in the end.
Once they pull out their deck of cards,
You see that they've embarked
On a new, crafty deceptive path.
(Their cards are usually marked.)
They never fail to beguile and amaze--
These Masters of Illusion.
Just know you're always being duped;
But that's a foregone conclusion.
- by Bob B
Oct 25, 2016
Oct 25, 2016 at 1:50 PM UTC
Legerdemain with words you are poet
but you are blind to the blood, or the Middle East
Storm. You write of your love, but not love of a beleagured
cosmos.
You are frivolous in many ways, publish or perish is your
encrypted symbol or motto.
You smell the whiff of flowers and write a poem
not blood. You lap up what is shown in television
and ape the developed, shopping malls and the Prime
Minister's latest philosophy. So you will do anything '
to attend a lit fest, won't you? Yes, I did it, but now the ephemera
of events bore me. But secretly I tell you given the chance,
I will attend, so that my washy face appears on television.
Poet, I will tell you one thing.
There is no point in writing if it doesn't
move the wind, the trees and charlatans.
Don't expect rewards. Look for awards
by hobnobbing and then protest. It is very simple.
People like protests, especially from poets and writers.
Do some homework. Go back to school
and take teaching lessons.
Oct 9, 2015
Oct 9, 2015 at 11:06 AM UTC
Tryouts starring musical prodigies
and/or an attendant conductor
attempt to approach ambient chorus
divinely exhibited from Gaia's handiwork
heavenly invoking kapellmeister's
magnificent nonchalant outlook
piquantly, quintessentially, repertoire sensately striking
unmatched vast wisdom yielding, zephyr air albeit creativity
engineered from groundswell harmony
juxtaposed, kindled, linkedin,
manifesting noteworthy opulent philharmonic recording
transcribing universal veritable webbed wide world.
Wunderkinds yield Ziggurat acme approximated asymptote
bequeathing celestial Doppelganger Earthly emulations
formulating fractal glinting highlighting
ineffable joie de vivre jostling, keen kindling,
la la land legerdemain lifting logic
lording Ludwig (Josef Johann) Wittgenstein.
Yelping zoological apostle Al affidavit Gore handily
heaping hubristically invocation jolting kickstart measures
nipping nixed noblesse oblige opera
quickening quotidian rapid ruination sans supreme
teetering upended venerated wise with acumen
arithmetical Benoit Mandelbrot
chasing far-fetched ideas
lightyears menacing nihilism purging ogres opportunistically
resplendently ripping revered tankard tipping unstoppably
vanquishing varietal whipsawing wonderfully
wrapt yawning youngsters
warfare written wrought
yanking zestfully crushing environmental family
granting Herculean instant karma
malevolent, opprobrious pronouncement
quiet riot silencing severely tragic ubiquitous vicious wreckage
yikyaks apemen cleft Earth.
*************************************************
Future foragers denounce capitalistic bamboozlers aggression
zealots wrought trashing quintessential naked kingdoms issue
flotsam coagulates zonal wastelands torquing quality NON
killing habitats Earth bleached yellowed voodoo ruins.
Aug 21, 2017
Aug 21, 2017 at 12:12 AM UTC
Falling asleep to the piano’s sweet sound,
Then suddenly fooled with legerdemain.
“HIT, BANG, SMACK, WHACK,”
Scream the white and the black.
Soul doth move Finger,
Who intensifies Timbre.
The tune it doth echo
In mocking falsetto.
Mind has been shattered
By the torture he patterned.
Shake with the fear—
It’s a comfort, my dear.
Oct 7, 2016
Oct 7, 2016 at 6:44 PM UTC
It’s difficult to understand these feelings that I get
Things I said or left unsaid lie undisturbed, in cold regret
To leave me here, and from all sides my raddled soul is now beset
I pray my heart to beat again, my heart has not responded yet
It seems somewhere along the way, that life has lost it’s fragile ease
Though I have not lost hope of love, do not misunderstand me please
Dreams of realization come at times and I have thoughts of these
To wonder if I’m standing, then I look to find I’m on my knees
I pray the stars to have no hope of everlasting light
And sorrow fail to shine on me, there in the ivory blackened night
And so I close my eyes to all those things reminding me of bright
The Autumn leaves have blown away, The world is left in black and white
I grieve for all the dear departed, and the days we knew so well
Their lives erstwhile so close to mine, that time has sadly now dispelled
Perhaps one day these memories I view shall come to thus foretell
That we shall meet again and know, there is no bittersweet farewell
The years unfurl beneath my feet, the Earth revolves again
Each star that passes overhead pursues joyous legerdemain
Could some portion of my happiness, when all is said and done remain?
I awake beside my fire to the silent sounds, and speak your name
Dreams however cannot hide the truth of things that we have missed
The colors of my youth have faded, and as such they can’t exist
Within the torn and tortured realm that reality insists
Until the time when you and I, and God can softly reminisce
Dean Evans
9-12-15
2014
Jan 2, 2015
Jan 2, 2015 at 9:18 PM UTC
Yet, as many as a Hundred Forceps, yet
Fail to traipse most of my Regrets succeed
Since fuelled most by the Sky's Living Bet
Placed ample Fortitude on me indeed
For since Delusion be mainly the Cause,
A Mask borrowed from Legerdemain's Cell
When lifted - spring the Ghoul in search of Pause
Begging for Alms dressed in Velvet befell
But just like you - a Format un-controlled
Where Germinated Passions do a-rise
Was what Sane Nature calls; Or so a-tolled
Burrow Favoured Moments in your Disguise.
You could just say, and let the Armour do
Weave another Net; And your Certainties too.
May 12, 2013
May 12, 2013 at 1:40 AM UTC
Or Woman, Or Child, Or...
The following elucidated
conjecture actually can
(reed best) be taken with a grain
of salt, and no ban
nah nah split 'ope ya 'ere me
cloud and lear, cuz (Oh my...
heavens to Betsy), ennui
got pulled by Evan -
Jewel Lean, who handed this long fellow
(wads worth to you)
speculation with fan
see prestidigitation legerdemain - tan
ta mount to cheap tricks
re: out of thin air
by this half
fast hue man,
Hill Billy ***** Wonka Nilly,
who blithely doth asseverate
apothegm (poem title) equally applicable
Century21 today Aswan
**** maxim initially
bespoke, when collective
primates begat enfant terrible
foo fighting predetermining anon
metastasizing debacle Yeti
bedeviling civilization
a bajillion years in the future with
Matthew Scott Harris deadpan
words worth less his way
before even an odd iota
of dire straight sultan
of swing didst merely span
spottily scattered amidst
pristine Earth, where
unchanging arboreal
beastie boys to oman,
and flock of sea gulls
continuity elapsed – Ivan
hunch, albeit un
recorded disc contented sow
sow hogtied pan
dum mo' nee ham, or
blessed historical events,
kept (stay'n) alive,
courtesy"FAKE" Trump
petting Dapper Dan,
where he knit pattern,
qua oral tradition, sans clan
destine scattered hot pockets
of sparse **** sapiens,
i.e. humanity LESS preponderant,
primary, and/or prolific,
where superstitions parlayed
(voodoo with no Fran Schwa),
and whirling dervishes fed elan,
which earliest recorded (doctored,
digitized, and demented
oh yea), not
tomb mitt to dimly mentioned
asper "time and tide
wait for no man"
purportedly by one
Saint Marher, circa:
1225 anno domini.
Sep 23, 2018
Sep 23, 2018 at 3:27 AM UTC
I’ll be brief (about poetry writing)
giving up:
expelling of textual agitation in my breast,
expulsing supplies no more the longest relief,
its medicinal efficacy, worn down, placebo equal,
run its course, a good grief, displacing tired belief,
loss of poetry, boon companion, not too late, nor
too soon, conceding, everything due a finalization
woman prevented me from walking in the
tropical storms frothiness, opining to my whining
“that’s no way to cleanse a soul, you’ll lose your life,
not that weight that’s moved up inside, up from the gut
into hearts blocked chambers and clogged spokes.”
thinking the vocabulary, needs a thrift store trip,
to give it all away, besides, prove it, a good taxing,
donating might be quite righteous undertaking, like
flushing of the ewes, needs some new nutrients for the ole
two handed sleight legerdemain.
promised brevity w/o levity, no floating, keeping my feet’s grounded, my animal kingdom, my editorial staff, says a good quitting time is hard to find, addiction, a rolling stone, needs a coldstone fence immovable.
grabbed rucksack, inside Hafiz, Ogden and Walt Whitman, all very good company men, head to the poetry nook, to get my soul brown deep tanned, and enjoy excellent conversations with the Lord,
‘bout childless women, why cancer, and if there be a decent chance we could work out a real substantive cooperative truce between
deity & humans,
one that could hold for longer than a day, a good working relationship ‘tween sky, sun, water and wind, ok, fractious occasional, but on the whole works ok, gotta makes some more notes to keep my new boon above, my new oh lordy buddy well-contented, non-grumpy.
p.s. being an admirer~reader is almost as good as being a writer
9:00 AM
Mon Jul 13
2020
Feb 24, 2021
Feb 24, 2021 at 5:04 AM UTC
You touched my hand
where a loose thread dangled
whereupon its end
you tugged and tugged
so you can watch me
unreel, like magical spool
a legerdemain of
now you see it,
now you don't
Loose Thread
Jun 2, 2016
Jun 2, 2016 at 11:54 PM UTC
Promise me you'll stay.
And I'll write about you all my life.
Not about your soulful eyes which led me astray.
Neither your hair with which I'd like to play.
Or that smile which hides and betray.
I won't write about that which decay.
I'll write about your madness which has no shelflife.
About your teasing of which I'm afraid.
About your victories in games and my strife.
About your mischievous mysteries a rife.
I'll write about the ghostly thoughts whom I can't evade.
About the prickly pain of a needle in my brain.
Without you my heart's raging a crusade.
In every chunk of me you parvade.
I'll write, you're the one from whom I can't abstain.
You're the ocean, the very reason for rivers to flow and unit.
You're the land, clouds travel to be soaked and rain.
You're always here as if a legerdemain.
I'll write that by writing about you I've learnt to write.
I'll write so much that the reader will fall in love with your light.
Reading about you will be he's apatite.
Everytime he bows to worship at night
he'll pray to know if our story was complete and set right
So, Promise me because only about you I want to write.
Dec 15, 2019
Dec 15, 2019 at 1:24 PM UTC
The bespectacled elite gathered in the glassy box
of modern architecture, prattling politely about the
poet’s new novel, analyzing psychoanalysts and
parsing the layers of rhetoric that shaped the modern age.
The high-speed spreading at high school debates
served as a high-minded metaphor of linguistic legerdemain,
contained a critique of the vacuity of the era’s political speech.
Outside, a panhandler begged for bites of a breakfast sandwich.
Oct 27, 2019
Oct 27, 2019 at 3:37 AM UTC