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I was doing a crossword puzzle
Yesterday, to pass the time,
The clues were all about animals
Both across, and down the line,
The wife was out in the kitchen
And I’d call the harder clues,
While she’d reply with a patient sigh
As she cooked two different stews.

It wasn’t as easy as I’d thought
Some clues were quite obscure,
Though each would bring up some animal
That we should have known, for sure,
But as I scribbled across the squares
I found some didn’t fit,
I’d call, ‘Lynette, have you worked it yet?’
But she’d never heard of it.

She’d said, ‘Two heads are better than one,’
And I thought she might be right,
The names that came out too long, I thought
Must be an oversight,
But when they clashed with the downward clues
And I crumpled up my hat,
That furry purr by the fireside there
Was just a common Dat.

And things that flew in the night became
Some thing they called a Rel,
They must be horrible creatures, like
Some creature based in Hell,
But as it crossed the Ordothlicon
I knew it must be right,
For on the left was a Rerr that leapt
On a dark and stormy night.

She said that really my spelling might
Be not quite up to scratch,
The ones that I knew as Pidgins flew
The coop in quite a batch,
And honey gathering Lees in trees
Were paired with wild Gorrils,
While Madgers seemed to be burrowing
All though the distant hills.

‘I’ve never heard of these animals,’
I said, in quite a stew,
Lynette called out from the kitchen that
She didn’t know them, too,
I walked around and I locked the doors
And I set each window latch,
In case that some of them wandered in
Like Carroll’s Bandersnatch.

I’m loth to wander the streets at night
If Rogs are on the prowl,
And keep away from the Cagpies nests
And the things that say ‘Miaowl’,
It seems that Berons are on the beach
And Peagulls in the air,
Lynette said better we stay inside
Than to get Peegull in our hair.

David Lewis Paget
Joe Cottonwood Feb 2016
Once a month in the ghost restaurant
        we bring wine,
        we light candles.
Alan (veterinarian) recites a rowdy lyric
        about the cloacae
        of waterfowl.
Dennis (percussionist, oldies band)
        recites from his bar stool about a pretty lass
        courted by men at a dance, it’s his daughter,
        she saves the last dance for him.
Lynette (social worker) tells how her big brother
        tricked her into looking down
        the nozzle of a hose.
Bob (physical therapist) sings about fishing
        in Canada, then selling all the fish
        to Japan.
Joyce (office manager) reads a poem she wrote
        about music,
so I (contractor, retired) tell about singing
        la la la
        to my grandson
        who needs constant holding.
We all agree holding is a good thing
        but hugging among men is an acquired skill
        not taught in Ohio.
Terry (maintenance man) reads a poem
        about the secret meanings
        of words.
Denise (nobody knows what she does) tells a story
        about hitchhiking in France
        where trapped in a truck
        in the remote alps
        with a man’s hand on her thigh
        she thwarts the tough guy
        by singing songs from The Sound of Music.
Bob washes the wine glasses;
        Terry returns the key to its hiding place.
        We hug, some of us anyway.
Our little town, once a month.
        Literature, home-grown.
Some of the citizens of my feisty little town meet once a month in an abandoned restaurant to celebrate what we broadly define as literature: limericks, songs, cowboy poetry, stories, sometimes a piece of drama. *****? Yes. Serious? Sometimes. Deeply moving? Absolutely.
If I were a secretary keeping minutes of our most recent meeting, they would read like this.
Lynette

Solitude  Warrior

Struggling through a Confusing Dimension

Not yet been accepted

The light draws near

Dreams become reality

With the feeling of excitement and victory

Lynette Chiamaka Okoroike
Our baby got tangled
up in tubes and died.
Buried our lust with
the forgotten bride.
Forgive my lost way
I want to want you
it just won't be today
Justin S Wampler Mar 2015
Another pull of my beer,
another drag on my cigarette.

These are the things
most-worth thinking:

(so this is consumption,
inability to function)

long forgotten is my Alice,
is Laudie, even my Lynette.

There are numerous new reasons
for why I keep drinking.

(Who would ever make that presumption?
Could you prescribe such assumptions?)

Fall deeper and deeper,
like a boat on fire and sinking.

Combustible effervescence;
so easy to keep smoking.

So easy to keep burning yourself,
so easy to keep choking,
  yet hard to forget the thoughts
     that we've all been thinking.

(My money rapidly dying of consumption.
My thoughts now free from corruption.)
Pure at heart, yet not in mind.





see?
Acme Sep 2021
It scares me how you turn
  your face into a wall
  how you rip your ears off
  when I call
  You turn your lips to stone
  when I try to kiss you when I fall
  in love with you and kneel at your
  feet with ****** knees after I crawl
  your just an old wrinkled crow almost
  forgotten except for your distant caw.
It scares me how you turn
your face into a wall
how you rip your ears off
when I call
You turn your lips to stone
when I try to kiss you when I fall
in love with you and kneel at your
feet with ****** knees after I crawl
your just an old wrinkled crow almost
forgotten except for your distant caw.
I was driving a Uhaul filled
    with my meager life thus far
    with my latest burned out love
    beside me going to Nashville.
    I thought she'd stay behind.
    I couldn't break hearts clean
    like a good hanging neck snap;
    always death by a thousand cuts.
I was driving a U haul filled
    with my meager life thus far
    with my latest burned out love
    beside me going to Nashville.
    I thought she'd stay behind.
    I couldn't break hearts clean
    like a good hanging neck snap
    always death by a thousand cuts.
I was driving a Uhaul filled
    with my meager life thus far
    with my latest burned out love
    beside me going to Nashville.
    I thought she'd stay behind.
    I couldn't break hearts clean
    like a good hanging neck snap;
    always death by a thousand cuts.
    The worst lovers stick like glue
    and never seem to have a clue.
Mrs. Reddy
Susan T.
Jeanie D.
Sister Mary Timothea
Virginia K.
Queen of Hearts
Kathy C.
Cindy I.
Betsy W.
Corpse like lover
Karen L.
Boston, MA
Georgine D.
Terry/Tara M.
Lynette K.
Jayne O.
Queen of Hearts
Tia
This old poet poses with his worn out lines.
Tender poetry of youth and love's beginnings,
faltering steps beyond puberty's uncertainty.

I've pounded my love on typewriters, each letter
has a part to play in this drama with a weight
all its own. Smash a key and it opens old wounds.

I pound Kathy Cindy Betsy Karen Georgine Terry
Lynette and my final keys are JAYNE.
It spells my final breath named Tia.
I'm pyramid scheme.
I'm a silent scream.
I Love You forever
alone frozen lover.
Wish upon a star
hide a birth scar.
I was driving a Uhaul filled
    with my meager life thus far
    with my latest burned out love
    beside me going to Nashville.
    I thought she'd stay behind.
    I couldn't break hearts clean
    like a good hangman neck snap;
    always death by a thousand cuts.
    The worst lovers stick like glue
    and never seem to have a clue.
Acme Feb 2020
Kathy
  I'm aching naked
  in the raw dawn
  of our kitchen
  I found my new soulmate
  I'm leaving you and the kids
  to write a Great American Novel

  Betsy
  I'm aching naked
  in the raw dawn
  of your dorm room
  our last kiss and
  I'm off to Boston
  to discover myself.

  Georgine
  I'm aching naked
  in the raw dawn
  of my garret
  a broken fist I put in a wall
  I'm jealousy's beast of burden
  I won't bother for my stuff. I'm sorry

  Terry
  I'm aching naked
  in the raw dawn
  of my latest *******
  I'm just another *****
  gather your stuff, bye
  why do I keep dying inside?

  Lynette
  I'm aching naked
  in the raw dawn
  Nashville new job, we're over
  I'll mail your stuff.
  you were the cruelest month
  still I couldn't set you free

  Jayne
  I'm aching naked
  in the raw dawn
  always
  no cure for romantics
  who believe in miracles
  and impossible loves.

— The End —