greenmountaineer's thread

[greenmountaineer]

Vermont Pantoum

The smell of wood smoke curls the air.
Meanwhile we trod on fallen leaves.
Brown whitens on the snowshoe hare.
The creeping thyme no longer creeps.

Meanwhile we trod on fallen leaves
as does the banded wooly bear.
The creeping thyme no longer creeps.
The tiger moth has disappeared.

As does the banded wooly bear,
the field mice soon repair to sleep.
The tiger moth has disappeared.
The peeper frogs no longer peep.

The field mice soon repair to sleep
when only green is balsam fir.
The peeper frogs no longer peep.
A stone cold ice will soon appear

when only green is balsam fir.
Brown whitens on the snowshoe hare.
A stone cold ice will soon appear.
The smell of wood smoke curls the air.

 

[greenmountaineer]

Camp Shomria

During his red-eye flight from LA,
Harv remembers Camp Shomria
somewhere up in the Catskills
where he made the thingamajig
he couldn't wait to bring back home
for Mother waiting on their porch

in Queens as quiet as a shiva
whose covered hallway mirror
and table shine two diamond earrings
that dangle from the best number one
pipe cleaner pussycat ever made
one summer at Camp Shomria.

 

[greenmountaineer]

Toe Jam Trilogy

No Shoes, No Service

Toe Jam returned with a red crayon heart
for the lady down at the A&P
deli who gave him a free slice of meat.

She thought it more than a poor try at art
because with her measured eye she could see
the good of what's drawn from a sacred heart.

"No Shoes, No Service." He knew how to read
who sleeps in the dark of a Greyhound bay
down at the Port Authority.

Toe Jam, take heart; you now have a friend,
your size nine wearing Fitzy's size ten,
and a reason for the "To Addressee"

letter the wind swept onto the street
you drew a beautiful red heart on
for your Valentine at the A&P.

Toe Jam Goes to Church

"Dearly Beloved," the sermon began
that sounded like a funeral mass,
except for the Reader's Digest joke.

The priest and I were counting sheep
when suddenly, Toe Jam sidled in
a pew without any shoes on his feet,
a suffer little children come unto me

who sneezed an ugly display of need
whereupon, let's call her Helen
whom altar boys would go to war for,
looked in her purse while a blue haired lady
looked at Toe Jam like mortal sin.

I thought of St. Francis who talked to trees
and sang with birds in disheveled clothes
when in a singular moment of squee
a brother's keeper wiped Toe Jam's nose.

Waiting For God at the Port Authority

Toe Jam who doesn't wear shoes in summer
forgot to say "I took a shower"
to the cops who called him "disodorly"

in a belly full of Greyhound buses
he said to the judge with a promise
to the bailiff and steno he'll bathe

to get back home for his Wild Irish Rosie
and a loaf of Wonderbread he'll share
with Fitzy as thin as a praying mantis

who waits for the Jam in their hiding place
down at the Port Authority
where God is surely coming today.




 

[greenmountaineer]

Your Tired, Your Poor, Your Huddled Masses

"Chop. Chop! Toot Sweet! Ándelé, ándelé,"
forgetting what language to use today,
the boss's lackey red-face says,
"or, sure as hell, the oranges freeze,"
pulling from one of his pockets
what's left of his spiral of Tums.

But José, who likes his dólares fun,
no comprende, decides that he's done
with América for merely eight and a quarter
bucks an hour, and heads for the sun
on the other side of the Rio Grande

while Jean Paul remains for his little Boubou
in Port Au Prince who plays in the mud
where God only knows what's in the sludge
as dark as he is on a frigid night,
spraying water for an orange's life.

 

[greenmountaineer]

The Word for Hunger Sounds Like Femme

Since last I played her like a song
I later sang with harbor whores
who drank with me in Martinique,
stood Genevieve, I had been told,
whose widow's watch in Normandy
had Beauchamp in her heart and soul,
Trafalgar in her rosary.

I would not risk my life said I
for Emperor Napoleon,
so off I sailed for fortune where
I'd profit as a buccaneer
until in time baptism rained
torrential as the hurricane
that tore apart our brigantine.

With murky water left to drink,
few victuals, I had a dream
last night there came my Genevieve,
a mermaid she who swam the sea
to gain this sliver of a reef
and henceforth make sweet love with me.

As once pled she, so now I plead
that God to whom I never prayed
might change the heart I once betrayed
while I bemoan the splinters of
a shipwreck with its treasure trove
I'd give to Rome for Genevieve.



.

 

[greenmountaineer]

Surreal Poem 23: Google is your Friend

Fred who's dead isn't sure he's in heaven,
since Fred has been turned into a blinrutz,
which according to Merriam & Webster
is a neologism,

a word or phrase that doesn't make sense,
except to the coiner of the same,
in this case the Word some sages say
always was, is, and always will be

in Tohu wa-bohu long before
bereshit in the Garden of Eden
which isn't what you think it is
because it's in the beginning

and as to Tohu wa-bohu,
I wouldn't know where to begin.

 

[greenmountaineer]

Polytech Sophomores on Spring Break

A Periplaneta americana,
otherwise known as a palmetto
bug shares the room with Sherman and me
in a fleabag motel, Daytona Beach,

as I flip through hot off the presses asses,
and Sherman staples Miss April
trifold centerfold pages from Playboy
above his bed while we stay up late,

having purchased Dr. Love's set of
3 CD's for 99.99
and 25 more for postage and handling
to listen to as we chug-a-lug,

Sherm his Diet Coke, me Mountain Dew
whose chemical compound of aspartame
I was explaining at Hooters to Mary Lou
who had to return to Birmingham.

 

[AlwaysHungry]

Polytech Sophomores on Spring Break

A Periplaneta americana,
otherwise known as a palmetto
bug shares the room with Sherman and me
in a fleabag motel, Daytona Beach,

as I flip through hot off the presses asses,
and Sherman staples Miss April
trifold centerfold pages from Playboy
above his bed while we stay up late,

having purchased Dr. Love's set of
3 CD's for 99.99
and 25 more for postage and handling
to listened to as we chug-a-lug,

Sherman his Diet Coke, me Mountain Dew
whose chemical compound of aspartame
I was explaining at Hooters to Mary Lou
who had to return to Birmingham.

I find the concluding line to be very deft, wryly understated.

Being a boomer, I feel as if I ought to know who Dr. Love was, but I don't.

 

[legerdemer]

Vermont Pantoum

The smell of wood smoke curls the air.
Meanwhile we trod on fallen leaves.
Brown whitens on the snowshoe hare.
The creeping thyme no longer creeps.

Meanwhile we trod on fallen leaves
as does the banded wooly bear.
The creeping thyme no longer creeps.
The tiger moth has disappeared.

As does the banded wooly bear,
the field mice soon repair to sleep.
The tiger moth has disappeared.
The peeper frogs no longer peep.

The field mice soon repair to sleep
when only green is balsam fir.
The peeper frogs no longer peep.
A stone cold ice will soon appear

when only green is balsam fir.
Brown whitens on the snowshoe hare.
A stone cold ice will soon appear.
The smell of wood smoke curls the air.

I love this one. If I've said so before, please take it as evidence of my admiration rather than my crappy memory.

 

[greenmountaineer]

Polytech Sophomores on Spring Break

A Periplaneta americana,
otherwise known as a palmetto
bug shares the room with Sherman and me
in a fleabag motel, Daytona Beach,

as I flip through hot off the presses asses,
and Sherman staples Miss April
trifold centerfold pages from Playboy
above his bed while we stay up late,

having purchased Dr. Love's set of
3 CD's for 99.99
and 25 more for postage and handling
to listened to as we chug-a-lug,

Sherman his Diet Coke, me Mountain Dew
whose chemical compound of aspartame
I was explaining at Hooters to Mary Lou
who had to return to Birmingham.

I find the concluding line to be very deft, wryly understated.

Being a boomer, I feel as if I ought to know who Dr. Love was, but I don't.

Thanks, AH. "Dr. Love" exists only in the hot tub of my imagination.

 

[greenmountaineer]

Vermont Pantoum

The smell of wood smoke curls the air.
Meanwhile we trod on fallen leaves.
Brown whitens on the snowshoe hare.
The creeping thyme no longer creeps.

Meanwhile we trod on fallen leaves
as does the banded wooly bear.
The creeping thyme no longer creeps.
The tiger moth has disappeared.

As does the banded wooly bear,
the field mice soon repair to sleep.
The tiger moth has disappeared.
The peeper frogs no longer peep.

The field mice soon repair to sleep
when only green is balsam fir.
The peeper frogs no longer peep.
A stone cold ice will soon appear

when only green is balsam fir.
Brown whitens on the snowshoe hare.
A stone cold ice will soon appear.
The smell of wood smoke curls the air.

I love this one. If I've said so before, please take it as evidence of my admiration rather than my crappy memory.

Thanks, Mer. The "stone cold ice" has already appeared. I woke up to two inches of snow on the ground this morning, so a "snow poem" is on my agenda.

 

[greenmountaineer]

Christmas Poems: #1

Don't Argue with Sol or Sammy

Even though it's a blue Sunday
they saw you outside and let you in,
and at sixty cents on the dollar, Mary,
for clothes, toys, and other sundries
that didn't sell well at Macy's or Klein's
you'll make your kid feel like Christmas
is Christ Almighty! the Promised Land
and what you came from Sligo for.

Things are looking up, Mary.
Sol said he's found some hockey skates,
just one size too large for Jimmy
he can wear with two pair of socks
and skate all winter at Central Park
and after that raise you're hoping for
maybe even at Rockefeller
with lunch at Horn & Hardart.

Why, just last week the sweater you bought
you paid one buck ninety-five for,
you find out the zipper gets stuck.
So Sol sits you down, hands you some tea,
and Sammy hands you two from his pocket:

"Buy some Kool Aid for Jimmy, Mary,
No, no, the nickel's yours,
Sol's a wiz with thread and needle;
new zipper, give him a day.
Buy it back, for you it's one fifty,
Mary, Mary, what are friends for?"

 

[greenmountaineer]

Christmas Poems: #2

Here:

 

[greenmountaineer]

Christmas Poems: #3

Do You Hear What I Hear, See What I See?

Willy hears silver bell registers ring
when store doors swing open in or out
instead of hearing clink, clink, clink
in his cup by his favorite subway grate
on Broadway near the theatre district.

Willy thinks his arms are too long
in his olive jacket drab with fatigue
as he walks with his hands in torn pockets
to his favorite restaurant dumpster
to feed on a customer's disappointment

Tony will give him who washes dishes
after the dinner crowd leaves for the theatre
to watch Les Mis that's all the rage
because it won the "Antoinette Perry
Award for Excellence," known as the Tony,

lost on Willy, wrapped in a blanket
on a mattress of flat cardboard boxes,
who pops the lid on a styrofoam basket
half of it filled with leftover bread,
the other half seven pieces of fishes.

And once he's sated, Willy looks up
to see a box with a bow on it
he opens to find a pair of mittens
and Navy blue peacoat he swears to God
he's seen on the street or in a dark alley.

 

[greenmountaineer]

Christmas Poems: #4

Caroling in the 'Hood

Because Tyronica's colors were blue,
Grandma Thalia is raising Kalisha
far from beautiful downtown LA

where tonight the greater Los Angeles
Philharmonic proudly presents
Pyotr Tchaikovsky's Nutcracker Suite.

Meanwhile Daronté beatboxes a dumpster
to Come All Ye Faithful as Jayla becomes
a moon walking back alley ballerina

because he's asked her to be his blue diamond
until giant mice, the color of blood,
rat-a-tat-tat pa-rum-pa-pum-pum.

 

[greenmountaineer]

Christmas Poems: #5

Peace on Earth. Goodwill towards Men.

He'll light the menora tomorrow night.
The grandkids will get their chocolate gelt.
Sadie will fry her latkes in oil
she'll serve to all with sour cream.
However, today at twelve-fifteen,
nervous expectant mothers can wait
until next week to hear Dr. Epstein's
words of assurance in Short Hills, New Jersey.

He brakes the Chevy for one more light,
a moment enough to pray and give thanks
for the name, rank, and serial number
on dog tags from one Joseph O'Leary,
his gift for Franz when he came to the States
he'll still be wearing, when home at sunset
he'll give the blessing and praise his Sadie
for all the wonderful things that she does.

"Tomorrow is Christmas Eve for my gentile
friends," thought Franz who recalls the prayers said
at Dachau when a C-ration tin
of beef stew wasn't soup water thin,

and a medic poured holy water for him
from his canteen that by some miracle
that very same medic taps as a draft
where rounds for the faithful are on the house,

and everyone knows the service by now
that's held once a year for working stiffs,
an obstetrician, and anyone else
who enters "O'Leary's Bar & Grill"

as Joe and the good Doctor Frankie shout
at the top of their lungs, raising their beer,
so half of Newark, New Jersey will hear:
"L'Chaim! L'Chaim! L'Chaim!"

 

[greenmountaineer]

In Memoriam

Childermass

The schoolyard playground looks like a frozen
cenotaph that once was a forest green
sandbox Little Girl wiggled her toes in.

Vestibule photos put on the notion
we all lived in a yellow submarine.
The schoolyard playground looks like it's frozen.

I said last May, "She's poetry in motion.
Come Fourth of July, she'll likely be seen
skirting the ocean dipping her toes in."

Little Girl loved the boardwalk commotion.
I scream, you scream, we all scream for ice cream
and a fluffy prize she nestled her nose in.

The priest says to pray that all souls repose in...
Christ! Not the one with the magazine!
My nightmares still bleed calamine lotion.

"The Christmas toys were already chosen!"
I screamed to the deadeye killing machine.
The schoolyard playground looks like a frozen
sandbox Little Girl once wiggled her toes in.



In Memoriam
Sandy Hook Elementary School
Newton, Connecticut
December 14, 2012

 

[greenmountaineer]

Christmas Poems: #6

Prayer of The Fourth Magus

That those who would make of the story
war in the name of convenient gods
not herald you, O Little One,
nor bring you gifts. Witness Darius,

claiming Zoroaster, who called himself Great
but defiled half the world in his reign
that they pay him homage to live
and feign that their living was peace.

Indeed, last week on the road at the well,
a Greek who said he studies the stars
argued with two Romans the Age,
whether it be Ares or Mars.

That you bring the Age of Aquarius,
that our women's bellies swell with the meek,
that we not make much of the stars,
that you teach us we have what we seek.

 

[greenmountaineer]

Christmas Poem: #7

The City of Charn is Dying, Mike.

The city of Charn is dying, Mike.
It's always winter, never Christmas.
After she coldcocks Rumblebuffin
Jadis, the queen witch, freezes Tumnus.

Mike hasn't heard a word I said,
but for the cartoon names, of course,
that look a lot like "Looney Tunes!"
he squeals to his rocking horse.

It's a picture postcard Christmas outside
while inside on our TV show
some scary organ music plays
as Aslan does a quid pro quo

on behalf of Edmund Pevensie,
not much older than you are, Mike,
since Jadis, queen witch of Narnia,
lured Eddie with her Turkish Delight.

The beavers are silent, so is the faun
as you and I cross the Rubicon
in Digory's wardrobe, so to speak,
to see death approach the altar stone.

"Change the channel!" your mother shouts
from the kitchen before the commercial
for something all little boys must have
under the tree to be someone special,

but let's rejoin our scheduled program
as the good guys win the insurrection.
You rock with joy on your rocking horse,
having forgotten the vivisection.

And let's not forget t'is the season
for all the good little girls and boys
to get their share of Christmas toys
Rejoice! Rejoice! Rejoice!

 

[greenmountaineer]

Christmas Poem: #8

Stille Nacht

As if the Vienna Boy's Choir sang
on Christmas Day in Westminster Abby,
young voices made soft the calloused hands
that lifted barbed wire in No Man's Land

to trade cigarettes, tin meat, a few swigs
of schnapps and whiskey, and a few trinkets,
but for a teething ring that he whittled
from a dead limb where once was a forest.

Not known for her letters, Mary, Oh Mary!
wrote him she misses him and her monthly,
and he frets about what would happen to them

as he prays that when the Christmas truce ends
a corpsman won't find among what remains
relics of wood and bone in the pockets.

https://youtu.be/NOz9SpWc_yE

 

[greenmountaineer]

Christmas Poem: #9

Apt. for Rent, 1BR, Heat Incl.

Once there weren't the gingerbread
Tudor houses topped with snow
on Cedar Street, the kids asleep,
dreaming something Christmas Eve
before the mayhem starts at dawn,
the gift wrap and the tinsel torn,
Part A in hand. Where's Part B?

a little cross he'll gladly bear,
sitting in his wingback chair,
a cup of cocoa in his hand
which prompted thought of Sister Claire's
first grade class at Holy Name,
construction paper on his desk,
in the groove a No. 2
lead pencil Sister handed him
with which he drew an outline of
a Christmas tree he colored in
on top of which he glued a gold
star he won for spelling "God."

"So fine a gift" Sister said,
and Mother said the same to him
as he leaned back upon her lap,
her yellow robe as soft as straw,
a cup of cocoa In his hand,
and though there was no morning Joe,
Mother Mary smiled at him
and what he thought a tree should be
he Scotch taped on the kitchen wall.

 

[greenmountaineer]

Christmas Poem: #10

Zygote

A zygote is a diploid cell
made from male and female gametes,

namely, an ovum haploid,
the other haploid a sperm,

a preimplantation conceptus
as it's known to those in obstetrics,

attached to the uterine wall
for neuro-, myo-, and organo-

genesis to become an embryo
when indifferent gonads form

testicles or ovaries
after which more features are born,

for example, Mullerian female ducts
or so-called Wolfian, if a male,

invisible to the naked eye
until something rather miraculous

turns a young man into a father
and another young woman

into a blessed mother.
Oh, Joy! Joy! Joy to the world!

 

[greenmountaineer]

The New Poets

Where once there was coinage
with words, 30 pieces of silver pundits
say Look! At the end of the day
and we watch so expectantly
until our late show poet
keeps us awake past midnight,
having opened a can of laughter
in his opening monologue.

Why, even senators and congressmen
wax poetic on their tongues
whose lyrics flow like lava
while making sounds that bite,
and they will fight, fight, fight for you
with nursery rhymes for simple minds,
my fellow Amerikans.

The Lake Poets wrote of lakes,
Wordsworthian hills and vales;
Dante wrote of heaven and hell;
Vivaldi wrote poems with strings, and we,
well, there's always something to sell.

 

[AlwaysHungry]

Some minor kibitzing: although most people only read the Inferno, Dante also wrote Purgatorio and Paradiso. The intriguing thing is that when he gets to Paradise, he talks about science.

 

[AlwaysHungry]

Damned cell phone. Or should I say, infernal.