greenmountaineer's thread

[greenmountaineer]

Tabloid

They moved John's shrine to Central Park
when Ono said she couldn't sleep
for all the faithful noise they keep,

the wailing and gnashing of teeth,
and singing to a hollow sky
hallowed be his name.

I scream, you scream,
we all scream for ice cream
waiting in the checkout lane

until we see this is the body
and this is the blood
from the best of the Paparazzi.

 

[greenmountaineer]

Little Haiti

Les p'tits gens suck on nipples
that taste like sweat and pumpkin soup
steam from the stovetop this afternoon
as gathered mothers pray Mambo Leah's
third eye will stop the cholera
for boubou Marie in Port au Prince,
and all of the boubous who play in the mud,
and, of course, for the soul of Simone
who calls herself My Sin, point of purchase,
when "Boogie Nights" plays on her phone.

Perhaps the call is coming from Harvey
I'm Sorry But I Just Want to Talk,
or maybe it's Jake I Want Your Panties,
but it's Brad who finally came
and, after refusing her overtime,
he had to pay Xavier, How you zay?
tru dhee noze, his white powdered South Beach nose.

 

[greenmountaineer]

Hey, Morrie!

By God! Why is it there's no Have
a Happy Deathday Hallmark card
for those who pray and like to say
they live for heaven's sake?

A priori the human race
wants birthday cake and eat it too
until the ache is too much pain.
Perhaps it's just the flu.

But if not, sure as hell
we'll cower in some corner
where we swear to God or Bill
or Jane we'll change tomorrow.

 

[Piscator]

By God! Why is it there's no Have
a Happy Deathday Hallmark card
for those who pray and like to say
they live for heaven's sake?

A priori the human race
wants birthday cake and eat it too
until the ache is too much pain.
Perhaps it's just the flu.

But if not, sure as hell
we'll cower in some corner
where we swear to God or Bill
or Jane we'll change tomorrow.

Have you contacted Hallmark? This could be almost as big as Bro Day!

 

[greenmountaineer]

By God! Why is it there's no Have
a Happy Deathday Hallmark card
for those who pray and like to say
they live for heaven's sake?

A priori the human race
wants birthday cake and eat it too
until the ache is too much pain.
Perhaps it's just the flu.

But if not, sure as hell
we'll cower in some corner
where we swear to God or Bill
or Jane we'll change tomorrow.

Have you contacted Hallmark? This could be almost as big as Bro Day!

One of those business anomalies, Piscator. Death owns a 100% market share, but we're all in denial, so no one would buy any.

 

[greenmountaineer]

A Night in the Life of St. Lizzie

Lizzie wakes up when Miami Beach
sunset creeps into bistros and bars
and boarded up box stores in Hialeah.
"For criminy sakes," says Lizzie,
"Too late for my syrup at Dade County clinic"
which could have helped her negotiate
roses she sells to late night men
whose wives pretend husbands don't lie,
whatever they say or smell like in bed.

At midnight she takes a tenth of her profits
to buy a last supper for Luke,
who says he is sick of South Florida
about to take a bus to Detroit,
persona non-grata at the depot
until she bought him a Salvation Army
shirt Lizzie buttons up near the graffiti.

Lizzie baby-wipes both of his hands
and whispers "Hail Mary" as good as grace,
after Luke had chosen a Pepsi
and Frito Lays from a vending machine
not far from busboys, whose pockets are empty,
working the men's room ten until three.

Lizzie gives Luke a kiss on his head
then runs to her favorite alley
to give Raúl the last of her roses.
He gives her a customer's disappointment
she slices in two for her new tramp in town,
known down at the Box as Big Sandy Bear
who told her last week he's Vincent Van Gogh
until Lizzie whispered love in his ear.

 

[greenmountaineer]

Gleaning

He would not harvest to the edge of fields
to monetize more property
and add more worth for sons and daughters
in his last will and testament.

He looked outside at omnivorous men,
collecting snap peas and carrots at dusk,
taking perhaps what the government gave
before they took all they could from others.

"Or maybe they didn't," Sam said.

"There are no coupons for fresh vegetables,"
Sam was saying to God
he thought existed, maybe not,

as he warmed his feet before the fire
and took off socks to darn tomorrow.

 

[greenmountaineer]

Carpet Stains

Mary drops to her knees
with a bucket of Mr. Clean
and remembers the times she vacuumed
dry semen with a lick and a promise.

Mascara laden tears fell too
from unpaid bills, a house that was cold.
He said no others; God only knows
after a dozen long stem roses.

Scrubbing all of the smudges,
she thinks of love as sometimes sad,
as sad as last month's droplets of chrism
or the faint discolored brown in the pile
she just can't seem to wash away

next to the Maybelline lipstick stains
as red as the passion stirred in the bed
that fell on a colored magic carpet.

 

[legerdemer]

One of those business anomalies, Piscator. Death owns a 100% market share, but we're all in denial, so no one would buy any.

Great quip right there, gm!

And the poem (Hey Morrie!) is a pithy send-up of humans; the last stanza is a perfect.

 

[legerdemer]

Those known as rollers
roll dung into balls,
either for food or prelude to
a night of pleasure
in the brooding chamber.

Others, the tunnelers, bury it;
a third, the dwellers,
neither roll nor burrow
but simply live in it
until it is gone.

Usually, the male rolls the ball.
The female follows behind
until a soft spot is found
where they go underground to mate
and leave it for the larvae,

and when they come out of the ground,
they look up to the Milky Way
stars they use to navigate
as if someday they hope to fly
like fish once leaped from the sea.

I never thought I'd read, much less like, a poem about dung beetles, and on Lit of all places! Go figure!

I absolutely love the last two lines .

 

[greenmountaineer]

Medieval Woman

Eleanor's family stewed only scrag
because the pig wouldn't live until Easter,
although they prayed to bone splinters
and leeches that bleed the four humors.

"Men may become apothecaries
but women with unguents are witches,"
Eleanor argued inside her head
while she poulticed another sick brother.

"It's time I leave to become a nun
since Paul's not back from war with France,"
she said to her mother and father,

both of whom just stared at the wall,
feeding the one twin newly christened
and family cow in for the winter.



 

[greenmountaineer]

Once One April

Oh how I smiled that day in December
on the rug with you in your Doctor Dentons,
unsteady but ready to prop yourself up
to take those first beautiful steps
and Beau, when you grabbed his penis,
jumped up and wagged his tail at you
at which you giggled; I cried,
not because you would stumble and fall,
for I always knew you'd get up again.

No, my tears were beautiful
as when a warm April day drizzles
its prelude to a deep purple night
of lavender, musk, skin, and fevered
passion that made you inside.

 

[legerdemer]

Oh how I smiled that day in December
on the rug with you in your Doctor Dentons,
unsteady but ready to prop yourself up
to take those first beautiful steps
and Beau, when you grabbed his penis,
jumped up and wagged his tail at you
at which you giggled; I cried,
not because you would stumble and fall,
for I always knew you'd get up again.

No, my tears were beautiful
as when a warm April day drizzles
its prelude to a deep purple night
of lavender, musk, skin, and fevered
passion that made you inside.

I love this one and the way it slides imperceptibly from the sweet and funny first stanza to the heat of the last three lines. One of your recent best, in my humble opinion.

 

[greenmountaineer]

I love this one and the way it slides imperceptibly from the sweet and funny first stanza to the heat of the last three lines. One of your recent best, in my humble opinion.

Thanks, Mer. I tried to get this done before the March Challenge deadline but couldn't quite manage it.

 

[AlwaysHungry]

Oh how I smiled that day in December
on the rug with you in your Doctor Dentons,
unsteady but ready to prop yourself up
to take those first beautiful steps
and Beau, when you grabbed his penis,
jumped up and wagged his tail at you
at which you giggled; I cried,
not because you would stumble and fall,
for I always knew you'd get up again.

No, my tears were beautiful
as when a warm April day drizzles
its prelude to a deep purple night
of lavender, musk, skin, and fevered
passion that made you inside.

This poem reminds me of an art song by Richard Strauss, a favorite of mine:

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=AkUVfOb__dQ

Here's a quick literal translation of the text:

Lullabye

Dream, dream, thou my sweet life,
Of the heaven that brings the flowers,
Blossoms that shimmer and tremble
From the song that thy mother sings.

Dream, dream, bud of my love,
Of the day the flower sprouted,
Of the bright blossom-morning
When your little soul opened up to the world.

Dream, dream, blossom of my love
Of the silent, holy night
When the flower of his love
Made this world into heaven for me.

 

[greenmountaineer]

Oh how I smiled that day in December
on the rug with you in your Doctor Dentons,
unsteady but ready to prop yourself up
to take those first beautiful steps
and Beau, when you grabbed his penis,
jumped up and wagged his tail at you
at which you giggled; I cried,
not because you would stumble and fall,
for I always knew you'd get up again.

No, my tears were beautiful
as when a warm April day drizzles
its prelude to a deep purple night
of lavender, musk, skin, and fevered
passion that made you inside.

This poem reminds me of an art song by Richard Strauss, a favorite of mine:

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=AkUVfOb__dQ

Here's a quick literal translation of the text:

Lullabye

Dream, dream, thou my sweet life,
Of the heaven that brings the flowers,
Blossoms that shimmer and tremble
From the song that thy mother sings.

Dream, dream, bud of my love,
Of the day the flower sprouted,
Of the bright blossom-morning
When your little soul opened up to the world.

Dream, dream, blossom of my love
Of the silent, holy night
When the flower of his love
Made this world into heaven for me.

I like the 3rd stanza, in particular. I couldn't quite make the mystery of conception come alive in the poem as I think Strauss effectively did, opting instead for an attempt at the sensual.

 

[greenmountaineer]

With Sophomore Minds

We joked. We spoke to malign
with lies we choked on like cigarettes
as we poked our teenage eyes at
Mary, Oh! Mary's plenaries
off limits to pine tarred hands
of boys with Bull Durham breath,
but not to Roy who'd tell us all
for the price of a cigarette.

To hell with Roy. It’s time to split
for dreams of Miss July we hid
with a pack of Luckies under the bed,
for nothing died so quickly at night,
when we shined our flashlights under the sheets,
as that Little Jack Horner nursery rhyme
of oh, what a good boy am I,
and we were dying to be rid of it.

 

[greenmountaineer]

The House Fly

Misty-eyed, however I tried
not to cry in the tub,
I cried
as I recalled our red eye
flight to Napa to drink fine wine.

I'm not sure why I thought of you,
maybe the Bali Hai in the fridge,
when in the blink of an eye
I saw a fly drop into the water.

Well, I wouldn't let that fly,
so I scooped him out of the tub,
but there on the floor tile
my little fly died.

Under a bowl of potpourri I
found a doily I used as a shroud,
and then by the toilet what did I find
in a stylish waste paper basket?
but one of my poems of undying love
I crimped into a little casket.

"'Bye 'bye, little guy," I said to the fly.
"you too, Liz" I said to the poem
as the three of us took to water.

 

[greenmountaineer]

Poesia

Torquato Tasso was schizophrenic,
and they would have thought him possessed
by Satan, but for his having penned
La Gerusalemme Liberata
whose verses made love to the Pope's ears,
and in spite of Torquato's suspicions,
he was to be crowned the king of poets
by his holiness Clement VIII,

but Torquato died on the Appian Way
hearing voices, perhaps from Peking
or the man in the moon in his mind,
for who can say, even today
if there is on earth or beyond
such a thing as an unintended brain?

 

[AMoveableBeast]

We joked. We spoke to malign
with lies we choked on like cigarettes
as we poked our teenage eyes at
Mary, Mary's quite contrary
tits off limits to pine tarred hands
of boys with Bull Durham breath,
but not to Roy who'd tell us all
for the price of a cigarette.

To hell with Roy. It’s time to split
for dreams of Miss July we hid
with a pack of Luckies under the bed,
for nothing died so quickly at night,
when we shined our flashlights under the sheets,
as that Little Jack Horner nursery rhyme
of oh, what a good boy am I,
and we were dying to be rid of it.

I adore this one. I like the mix of the profane and the innocence of the nursery rhymes.

 

[greenmountaineer]

We joked. We spoke to malign
with lies we choked on like cigarettes
as we poked our teenage eyes at
Mary, Mary's quite contrary
tits off limits to pine tarred hands
of boys with Bull Durham breath,
but not to Roy who'd tell us all
for the price of a cigarette.

To hell with Roy. It’s time to split
for dreams of Miss July we hid
with a pack of Luckies under the bed,
for nothing died so quickly at night,
when we shined our flashlights under the sheets,
as that Little Jack Horner nursery rhyme
of oh, what a good boy am I,
and we were dying to be rid of it.

I adore this one. I like the mix of the profane and the innocence of the nursery rhymes.

Thanks, AMB. I always appreciate your comments, either as compliments or constructive criticism.

I hope you'll consider a poem or two in future challenges. It's been a while.

 

[greenmountaineer]

Frank's Curtal Sonnet

They transubstantiate Him more and more.
It wouldn't matter, Lou, if it was John
or Matthew, Luke or Mark, their black hate sprayed
in quotes on picket signs. They're looking for
more goats to banish from their nation.

Ain't nothing like another new crusade.

Leviticus 18 verse 22
Repent! It is an abomination!

You ever wonder why they're so afraid?

For Chrissakes, Lou. They think this is how you
praise Him.

 

[greenmountaineer]

Ode to Micky Spillane

"My books are the chewing gum of American Literature."

"More people eat peanuts than caviar,"
you said when you took on the eggheads
you'd like to get in the ring with
down at the Teaneck YMCA
or somewhere out in the Meadowlands
after they skewered Mike and you
in "Book Reviews" of the New York Times.

To hell with their ring stains from Chardonnay
and the crumbs from their blues or bries
on coffee tables from Copenhagen.
You like your spit polished barstool
at Benny's who slides you a free pint,
I swear, Jesus Christ, 15 feet
whenever Sims throws a TD.

And after another brew or two,
you'll figure out who the next doll will be
Mike is gonna screw, and which sicko vomits
when Mike cocks his hammer
that makes the jungle right once again
with "betch yer ass in Hackensack
another best seller, Ben."




.

 

[greenmountaineer]

Conquistador

Enrique fried seven fishes for
his weary compañeros
as he gave his thanks to the newly sainted
Diego de San Nícolas

after washing his body
and blood from a breastplate of armor
as red as the padre's tonsured head
who dreams one day he will own

for the glory of Jesucristo
a catedrál emblazoned in gold,
not far from the fishbones strewn on the shore
that once were the earings the pagans wore,

but for the sword Enrique swore
came from the best Pyrenees iron
forged on an anvil in Spain
por el amor de Dios.

 

[AMoveableBeast]

They transubstantiate Him more and more.
It wouldn't matter, Lou, if it was John
or Matthew, Luke or Mark, their black hate sprayed
in quotes on picket signs. They're looking for
more goats to banish from their nation.

Ain't nothing like another new crusade.

Leviticus 18 verse 22
Repent! It is an abomination!

You ever wonder why they're so afraid?

For Chrissakes, Lou. They think this is how you
praise Him.

I can't say that I am fond of this one, even though I agree 100% with the sentiment. To me, it's too on the nose. It's a hard subject to approach in a fresh way. The talking heads have drained the words from it in some way, I feel.

"My books are the chewing gum of American Literature."

"More people eat peanuts than caviar,"
you said when you took on the eggheads
you'd like to get in the ring with
down at the Teaneck YMCA
or somewhere out in the Meadowlands
after they skewered Mike and you
in "Book Reviews" of the New York Times.

To hell with their ring stains from Chardonnay
and the crumbs from their blues or bries
on coffee tables from Copenhagen.
You like your spit polished barstool
at Benny's who slides you a free pint,
I swear, Jesus Christ, 15 feet
whenever Sims throws a TD.

And after another brew or two,
you'll figure out who the next doll will be
Mike is gonna lay, and which sicko vomits
when Mike cocks his hammer
that makes the jungle right once again
with "betch yer ass in Hackensack
another best seller, Ben."




.

Now this, I absolutely love to death. I'm well aware of Mickey Spillane, and his prototypical hero: Mike Danger (later called Hammer--loved that reference). This was a worthy tribute, but entirely original and relevant to the ongoing discussion about the merit of commercial literature as opposed to literary fare. It accomplishes so many things at once. And in such a tight space. That's poetry.

Once of my favorites of yours that I have read.

As to your previous reply earlier in this thread, which I missed until now, I will try to participate in a challenge soon. I've been doing the writing part of my whole poet/writer gig. But I much prefer this place to that other one.