Zingaro

One night when a swollen moon hung low
a gifted child was brought to the earth
she knew things few would ever know
fulfilling omens with her birth,

her hair was darker than a demon's maw
her stunning eyes were emerald green
when she cried out all the gypsies saw
her little tongue was serpentine.

The elders shouted, "She's the One!"
and wildly danced the whole night through
they knew before this girl was done
the gentry's hearts would suffer rue;

for centuries the upper class
had made the gypsies live like slaves
but once the birth had come to pass
the wealthy fools were bound for graves.

When adolescent pangs brought forth
the terrible power she carried within
she disappeared in woods to the north
her mission of vengeance about to begin

with hoops of silver in her ears
and a silken scarf upon her head
she'll make you feel your deepest fear
and curse your soul until you're dead.

Darn

I feel gypped
my manuscript
must not have been compelling
to elongate
the entry date
is really rather telling
I don't know why
I continue to try
it seems I'm just a glutton
a hookless hasp
of limited grasp
a hole without a button.

Yearning

The poetry of the people doesn’t
care for turn of phrase
we seek a song to carry us through
lengthy grueling days
your fancy words don’t mean a thing
to anyone that’s felt
their stomach growl relentlessly
despite a tighter belt
we want a cheerful ditty with
a catchy chorus too
to help relieve the throbbing ache
of living like we do
so please refrain from telling us
how clever you can be
you’re drowning out the music that
can dull our need with glee.

Xanth

In the southernmost state
is a magical realm
you may know it—but wait
there’s no mouse at the helm,

it’s a place of excitement
and affable fun
with just one indictment
a penchant to pun.

The trees will accost you
the springs warp your mind
there are ogres and harpies
and treasures to find

where a rude wizened gnome
with a snake-headed wife
will cause you to roam
to change your whole life,

your passage is all set
so do it today
you’ll never regret
this storied getaway.

Wilhelmina Stitch

If you’ve read my T post from a couple of days ago, you may be curious about the poet I alluded to as the subject of an upcoming post. Well wonder no longer my friends for today I present to you, Wilhelmina Stitch.

A lot of books I find are by poets whose names I recognize, but when I don’t it’s time for Google. It seems Wilhelmina Stitch was a pen name for one Ruth Collie (1888-1936) whose details I won’t post, as they’re out there for those interested, my main concern is this little book, ‘The Fragrant Minute’, and this poem which begins with a W on this designated day:

Where Is He?

How disappointed God must be
when those who question, “Where is He?”
go blindly past a gracious tree,
see nothing there at all.
Who never note that overhead
the sky has changed from gold to red,
that little fluffy clouds have fled,
and shadows clasp the wall.

How He must grieve and feel forlorn
when on a rosy day newborn;
a pink-veiled, dewy, glorious morn,
we ask Him for a sign.
Nor ever note how He each night,
brings sister Moon with visage bright,
and also makes, for our delight,
His little stars to shine.

I think—should we still make request
for some sure sign, when on her breast
a mother rocks her babe to rest,
and sings her babe to sleep;
if we should question, “Where is He?”
in face of this great mystery,
our doubt would stab so painfully,
I think He fain would weep.

Whenever I’m lucky enough to find one of these treasures, I hungrily comb through the pages, anxious to discover what nugget of wisdom may lie therein, or what gloriously worded beauty (such as above) may dazzle my eye. This one was a little different because there are many handwritten entries connecting moments in the owner’s life with one of the poems, possible because there is a blank page before every poem. On one page there is even a little white feather taped with a notation ‘Dicky’s Feather 1938’, it gives me chills just thinking about it. This book wasn’t just read, it was lived, it was believed, it was cherished by not just the owner, but by others as there are references to ‘Our last meeting’ and other group statements. I can picture them around a fire sharing special poems and thoughts with each other while the world around them was ramping up for WWII, their idyllic existence about to change forever.

This is without a doubt one of the most special books I have ever found and I shall honor it as those before me have. After posting the poem on my blog I wrote my own entry in there, hoping that whoever finds it after I’m long gone can sense my respect and appreciation for these wonderful words from the past that still ring true today. The best part is that inside the cover the owner claims the book with a date of 1937, so this was found after the writer had expired, what a testament to her talent. And as a writer, it is my greatest and most profound hope that someday even one of my meager offerings can instill someone else with that sense of wonder, that ultimate respect for life that is savored not just through the mind, but with the heart and soul as well, a true living legacy.

Vacuity

The giant grew addled (as they tend to do)
as walls are for windows, not head butting through
he roasted the clucker (as her egg went bad)
then drafted a dodger that’s traveled a tad
but lost all his money (as giants will joke)
by suffering losses when going for broke
and now his whole kingdom (as far as that goes)
may crumble much quicker than anyone knows.

Unsung

The first responders braving death to battle every blaze
or soothing dwellers devastated on dark destructive days,
the cop that finds a precious child wandering and scared
or takes a bullet willingly so innocence is spared,
the parents that instill their kids with courage to do right
and how to love by holding them in sickness through the night,
the boss that helps finance a worker's quest to finally read
or takes the time to truly try and understand their need,
the teacher that buys art supplies with pennies that they earn
or makes their students eager to be curious and learn,
a would-be poet succumbing to the confines of their pen
and never letting the virtue of their voice be heard again.

Trunk

It's been my luck to somehow find
another store that needs be mined
for sparkling mysteries sturdily spined

that musty whiff from every page
the singing soul of a somber sage
my booty of beauty from a bygone age.


***The very first poem I wrote to post on this blog almost 7 years ago is about a garage sale held at a local church twice a year where I have been blessed to find old books of poetry almost every time I go. This time it was Longfellow, the 1937 Yearbook of Poets, and another which shall be the subject of an upcoming a-z post. It seems this may be turning into a mission as I have found and saved many works of artistic worth that were passed over by hundreds of people scrabbling over modern paperback tripe like vultures on a putrid carcass. And the best part? The most I've ever paid is $5, this go around - .75¢ - YES seventy five cents, unbelieveable. I feel like a bit of a 'bookaneer' ;-)***

Investment

When you scrounge for every cent
can you afford to be content--
when you have enough to fold
will your empty heart turn cold--
if your interest is above
could the dividend be love?

Senator Sam

Senator Sam
didn’t give a damn
when media hounds
were screaming - SCAM!

He had the votes
the dirty notes
and feared no sounds
from severed throats,

he was so smug,
his greed a drug
but never planned
to have a bug.

Senator Sam
didn’t give a damn
with a steady hand
it ended - BLAM!

Rehab

Only the freedom of mind can prevent the state from becoming totalitarian and from issuing totalitarian demands – Friedrich Durrenmatt

The clouds are splayed across the sky
as though the hand of God
has finally come to wipe the world away
the few alive keep moaning Why
because they grimly plod
through vacant cities clogged with foul decay.

And thus the current age of Man
comes grinding to a halt
annihilated by avaricious lust
a breed convinced it had a plan
to counteract each fault
that kept it ever dying in the dust

but no one could have guessed how well
these brutes would learn to kill
until they were assaulted by the stink
that corpses give off when they swell
or indiscreetly spill
to teeter on eradication's brink.

Survivors are the ones that balked
at soiling their veins
with anything the government condoned
and warily, these people talked
reluctant with the reins
afraid to feel again like they were owned.

The cleanup will last many years
a generation scarred
but wiser as it resolutely delves
into a future fraught with fears
where living will be hard,
a hopeful age of thinking for themselves.

Quarantine

"Authorities urge the public to be
innoculated" the head on TV
related, "This year's flu is very bad
and preventative measures are the key
to always staying (cough, cough) excuse me,
disease free. I just had a chance to see
my own doctor (cough, cough) and boy I'm glad
I got that shot, and best of all, it's free!"
The government commanded everyone
to get their needling without delay,
the domesticated sheep complied,
and when the campaign was finally done
the people felt protected in a way
and then they all went home, and promptly died.

Pandemic

In a well hidden lab
where death is designed
it's drearily drab
acutely confined
and sterile stubs stab
a rodent behind
to search for a substance along the vein
of being lethal yet humane.

They labor with care
in this misguided mill
alertly aware
for the tiniest spill
one cell in the air
sufficient to kill
an army at a rapid pace
or even an entire race,

but they also make
a serum or two
that people can take
to weather the flu
and a horrid mistake
was bound to ensue
when someone slightly less concerned
made sure that protocol was spurned.

Extinction stored
in a vial of glass
the hapless horde
so cravenly crass
can ill afford
to let it pass
but no one checks it very well
and soon the world will go to hell.

Scenario Seven

I know the government has contingency plans for everything imaginable, I've never read a list but assume they're numbered some way, so here I now submit a trilogy of poems over the next few days that I shall collectively call - Scenario Seven.

Otto Bee

I, Otto Bee
haven’t always done the things
I oughta. Bee
convention is: The Queen’s decree,
and her displeasure really stings—
why can’t I be the worker in the wings
I oughta be?

Neology

We’re showing every sign
of a species in decline
denying the divine
we keep on building,

and thus we’ve set the stage
for a truly dismal age
where we caper in the cage
that we’ve been gilding;

if we were less concerned
with the items that we’ve earned
perhaps it could be turned
around for better

and once the captive see
our spirits are the key
we may at last be free
from every fetter.

Proliferation

What if the earth on which we dwell
is simply a tiny part of a cell
within the magnificent mind of God
and what if all in creation we see
is just his sprawling anatomy
would our minuteness seem odd?

As we witness it expanding
we must face one conclusion
omnipotence is demanding
requiring profusion
of matter to manipulate

it's all, at best, belittling
despite our deep denial
and like a blade keeps whittling
until the final trial
when we, at last, accept our fate.

But if we are creatures of happenstance
what is the astronomical chance
that we are alone in the universe?
The only course for our copious race
is voyaging forth through the vastness of space
to chart the cosmic currents and disperse.

Meal

I cracked the shell
so egg could gout
said 'What the hell?'
a poem plopped out

I don't know how
you like your fare
but I avow
to cook with care

so don't be shy
and dig right in
for that is why
I made it *grin*.

Mongia

Well here we are at the halfway point in our alphabetical extravaganza, and since M begins so many words I think we'll do a Multi-post to give your minds much to masticate 8-D

So today I must begin with the M word that has been on my mind just about every day at one point or another since the tragic house fire that happened at the end of October 2008 - Mother.

My relationship with her has been somewhat documented here and I won't go into much detail as far as that goes, the poems are in the archives, but I would just like to take a moment to ask anyone that reads this to say a prayer, regardless of religion, that she is finally at peace. For someone that spent their whole life in pain it was unbearable to see her burned body writhing in agony at the end.

I am going to conclude this plea with the chorus of a song that my guitar teacher Matt Smith wrote (bass player's brother died), his link is at the right, the song is called Flow My Tears:

For every life there is a season
Every death must have its reason
Who am I to question why God wanted it that way
Life ain't fair and life ain't pretty
Life is hard, it has no pity
For those of us here left behind to live another day

List

Will I ever be lucky
and learn how to live
can I grasp the importance
of living to give?

Could I ever be lucid
enough to relent
this liking for lyrical
lines of lament?

And when will I listen
so I might detect
the lilting allusions
my longings project?

Should I loosen the lanyard
to litter the deck
or lustfully loop it
around my own neck?

Can I launch limitations
that lessen my pay?
I'm cheerfully leery
but leaning that way.

Knucklehead

Kevin the Klutz
had oversized nuts
and all of his peers
had him pegged as a putz

he loved to drink Jack
both the green and the black
like grease in the gears
it helped him stay slack

he constantly failed
and always got bailed
but over the years
stability staled

till he was let go
beginning the flow
of piteous tears
when he shot his own toe.

Jealous?

I'm not quite sure how you leapt
to the conceited conclusion you did
but I've never been known to envy an inept
self-delusional kid

I've got much more experience
and it seems a bit more skill
while all you are is a bad expense,
an ever growing bill

not to mention how they're up your ass
every second of the day
when my shift's done I let it pass
and simply walk away.

I

Today's the day you came
and joined in oneness with the whole
you were christened with a name
but more importantly, a soul.

Highball

I can hear the avian refrain
above my aging engine's strain
the sky above so clearly blue
I find it difficult to brew
decanters of disdain

instead the draft that I proffer
is effervescent to be sure
a light, refreshing bracer shared
with anyone whose thirst has flared
for a spirit that can stir.

Unflagging

The day our Lord was resurrected
disciples once undone by grief
were irrevocably connected
by the bonds of true belief.

The heavens must have blazed with light
the day our Lord was resurrected
while those bewildered at the sight
intensely genuflected,

His restoration unexpected--
had they not laid Him in His tomb?
The day our Lord was resurrected
redemption from a holy womb

was borne unto a wicked world
for anyone that's willingly selected
to stand behind the standard He unfurled,
that day our Lord was resurrected.

Group Therapy

No one knows
the painful throes
of doubt a writer undergoes
but others versed
or likewise cursed
by dreams not easily dispersed
that make them fight
against the night
with brandished pens combining might
to take a chance
that they'll advance
a more creative circumstance.

First Light

I picture our ascendants in the brush
their shaggy heads thrown back with gazes aimed
above, upon the heaven's freckled blush,
in awe of all the things they hadn't named
and how their nascent thoughts were so untamed,
it must have been a truly sacred rush
to see the fledgling universe that flamed
each night, the clan assembled in a hush.
The eons passed and somehow we began
to grasp the inkling of a grand design
by looking, in amazement, to the sky
and while we're still uncertain of the plan
we're waiting for a brilliant dawn to shine
because some ancient person wondered why.

Escape

Exasperation and elation
two extremes that frame creation
can help us earn emancipation
through elemental extrication.

Defiant

Down in the depths of this dismal disease
that batters my body and buckles my knees,
restricted repasts are a regular chore
but now, I am nettled like never before,
denied my delectable cheese.

What previous crime
in another lifetime
condemned me to torture like this?
I’ll stomach a stone
for some sharp Provolone
and swallow the pain for some Swiss.

Chicken Soup for the Bowl

Today shall be an attempt at a bit of prose, something I occasionally have fun with here at Average Poet. While the vast majority of postings are original rhyming poems, there are several free verse and short pieces of prose, as well as some pencil sketches I’ve scanned in, always trying to keep it fresh.

At any rate today I’m going to have some Chicken and Rice soup with my lunch mate (which I made from scratch yesterday) and it got me to thinking about those inspirational books titled after this deliciously steaming concoction, so here’s a yummy treat that I was lucky enough to be served recently.



Regular readers may have seen posts concerning my grandson whom I love dearly. As mentioned before he isn’t my biological grandson as I’ve never had kids, but truly do feel that bond with him that goes beyond any connection blood could ever bestow. It’s kind of strange because I never knew either of my real Grandfathers. One died in WW 2 and the other had absolutely no dealings whatsoever with my Dad. Both Grandmothers were with men, my maternal with Frank, someone that was a wonderfully kind and talented person, and my paternal lived with and cared for an aging gent named Nick who was also quite nice. They were both great guys but I never did click with either in that classic male role model way.

So fast forward to this last weekend, we just closed the diner for the day and Westin says “Papa, get out your guitar and let’s jam.” Now mind you this kid is only 3 but loves music like crazy. He watches that new boy-band show Big Time Rush, and while I’m not a fan, they recently covered some Beatles tunes so they’re not all bad I guess.

Westin and I sat on the couch in the back, me strumming, both of us belting out-

Life is very short and there’s no time
For fussing and fighting my friend
I have always thought that it’s a crime
So I will ask you once again

I wish you could have heard his little voice singing right in key, my wife stood there with her mouth open in awe, I just laughed. Then I said, “Hey check this one out buddy.” I figured I’d drop a little Neil Young on him as I’m always telling him how old I am, so I started singing Old Man (because I got to sing it to my Dad once – see pic below– and it’s a special song to me) then I hit the chorus-



Old Man take a look at my life I’m a lot like you
I need someone to love me the whole day through

Then Westin shakes my leg until I stop and serious as can be says, “But I love you Papa, I love you.”

I don’t think I’ve ever appreciated that song more.

Bandwidth

How wired can we get?

Will we even go in debt
to get our fatal fix,
to feel those harsh electrons jet
and virtually mix
with all the bloody tears and sweat
that tangle up our ticks
like unresolved regret?
C’mon, just for kicks
let’s populate the net!

How wired can we get?

Art

We dot or we dab
we stroke and we stab
imagine, imprint
revise or re-tint,
we scribble and scrape
express and escape
devise and defend
our tries to transcend.

National Poetry Month goes Alphabetical

Well here we go, April is my favorite month for many reasons: Spring has sprung, NPM of course, and my birthday. Originally I planned an H poem (last name starts with H) for my bday because I thought it started Monday because of skipping Sundays but that's OK, I'll just write about I on that ominous day.

Came in to the diner at 4 am as usual and started prepping for today, we got slammed yesterday and afterward I sat there exhausted and realized that the challenge started the next day. I usually just go with the flow but knew I needed an A poem so thought about why I was doing it in the first place and came up with art, something I think anyone creative can relate to.

I look forward to reading entries that challenge my mind and meeting new blogging and non-blogging friends. Have a great day and a great time.