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?