The ceremonial supper summoning dance

All is calm in the house

save keyboard klackety-kiss

no creature was stirring 

ah sweet peaceful bliss

then thump-whump tippy tap

pitter kitty -pat-pats

meorowy serenade 

of two hungry little cats

Their litany opens with 

ritual dinner dance

summoning food gods with

tandem ceremonial prance 

paw two three four swish

up two three four bump

minor fall,  major lift

the arabesque counter jump

gratuitous reminder nips

and clawing of the knees

less of the Grand Guignol

dear brutes if you please

snapping "it's only half past"

you cant' be hungry yet

if I feed you early 

that is all that you get

oh, very well, have at it

in life three things abide 

death, taxes and needy cats

from them you cannot hide

slipper shuffle scuffle 

opening tins with curses 

slop slup-glupped into dishes

shuffle back again to verses  

nom-nom noise of tucking in

to their stinky fish feasts

post-prandial bathing of

two silky furred beasts 

last roundy-round with knead

as they tenderize their beds

twin VW engines snoring 

as they rest weary heads 

Eulogy to today

sun flares in great Amen

as to netherworld she goes

cosmic beach ball on lake

leaving all a flaming rose 

sunset sky afterglow 

puce and vermillion red

solar consolation gifts 

signaling time for bed

Crown Royal purple night

blankets lake back dune

spring peepers greeting 

felt caterpillar cocoon

on mouse pillow willow

from snake eyelash depends

defying laws of gravity

as in mid-air it suspends

in forest fire swamp

gilt embroidered log

diamond crusted snails trail

glimmers in gemstone fog 

molasses deep groans

from velvet butter bells

bidding us good rest 

as the Last Post knells

day neatly folds herself

in envelope of night

never to be seen again

new one dawns with light

So I shall dedicate

this poem to today 

a wholly gestalt self 

thank you for your brief stay

Nightmare Carnival Macabre

don't need no tickets

for these carnival rides 

nor the circus big top

with the heaving insides

three rings of thrills

my own funfair midway

endless freakshow parade 

greets my end of day 

organ grinder monkey

on his hurdy-gurdy 

croons nightmare lullaby 

to the clown's calliope  

show starts the moment

I close my eyes and brain

sleep finds me caged

on circus animal train

swirling tilt-a-whirl 

Hurky, jerking, twerking

wits spun out of order 

by the octopus lurking 

wish it took money

for Ferris wheel seat

So I can get off

and find my own feet

the rides that begin

must come to an end

my mind loop-de-loop

just rounds another bend 

foot stuck on the track

and here comes the train

following the leader

round the carousel again

tartan skirt stuck fast

in spinning bar stool

gladiator winding me

up to play the fool

maybe it's the zipper 

a bolt's snapped at last 

never knowing where I am

or just what has me fast 

trapped by my bad arm

dragged along the ground

oh God here we go

on the Mary-go-round

see the little dolly dance 

and vomit on the floor

has she had enough, folks 

or shall we cry for more?

shout out Himalaya!

if you wanna go fast 

faces melt like cheese toast

in the mob whizzing past

stop the Gatling guns

of the shooting gallery

I want to get out now

no more firing on me

Now playing at cranes 

losing and never won

fed them all my coin

till I have not a one

who said this was fun 

why am in this place?

mirrors only leading to

more images of my face

tiny dancer twirls

for the girl who owns

revolves upon toes

crumbling her bones

ballerina coffined 

in the jewelry box 

entombed by the child

with keys to the locks

clown in the torn skirt

and the Mr. Punch mask

contorting balloon dogs

is his happy task

with this Pied Piper

marionette frog march

down tunnel of love

to hell's marble arch

beckoning with candy floss

so sweetly he does urge

behind Spartacus smile

we don't see his scrouge 

nightmares so violent

they threaten sanity

if I told they'd lock me

up and throw away the key

This started as a nature poem, sigh. 

 

On stopping by a diner with kids

Long road trip overtired crabby kids in need of sustenance, stopping by a diner on a snowy night in the middle of nowhere. A proper greasy spoon,  open 24 hours where the waitress is insulted if you call her a server and wears a proper waitress uniform with the orthopedic shoes. 

She's been serving people since before they put the new highway in, when the place was just called Truck Stop. She  doesn't hover asking how everything is tasting every 6 seconds but keeps your coffee fresh, filled and hot and remembers each order without writing it down. She calls you "Honey" and brings extra napkins and not just one but a dish of lemon wedges for the snooty oldest teen daughter's lemon water. 

Where truckers belly up to the lunch counter, perched on red vinyl covered stools you loved to spin on as a kid.  Chatting with the waitress behind the counter with the bubbler dispensers of of temptingly colored Hawaiian Punch and Orange Hi-C.  And the dessert case with individual pieces of Saran-wrapped cakes and pies. Men apologizing for accidentally making crude references. But no one really minds and when the mouthy behavior police 9 y/o asks why he said that, you say because people just do sometimes. Mind your business, don't stare it's rude and eat your supper. 

Tired men who drive across the country and are just glad they got there in time for a slice of the rhubarb pie, special of the house. Smiling at the kids, offering them quarters for the gumball machine which you would rather they did not take and gum they need like a hole in the head. But you feel obliged to say yes, because no one wants to hurt the feelings of someone with such bonhomie. And golly he reminds you of your kooky uncle Dave, may he rest in peace. 

Most of the kids eating eff all of the canned green beans you insisted they have with their meal. And snooty teen eating NOTHING BUT broccoli to spite you because she's mad you didn't stop where she wanted to. Or some such thing. It's so hard to keep track of what they are mad at you for at that age. 

And the rest filling up on French fries and pancakes drenched and syrup then eating the jelly out of the little plastic cartons that the waitress set out for the breakfast crowd. And kids playing with salt and accidentally spilling it . And copying their father putting creamers in his eyes and saying "take me to your leader!" Worse than the children! Kids begging for ice cream with half their pancakes uneaten. The little one eating French fries off the floor. And snooty one glaring at everyone. 

Mom and dad unwinding over their coffee and hot turkey sandwiches, relaxed by food and warmed by the cozy, grilled onion ambiance. Just kind of letting the kids' chaos happen a little. No one seems to mind. Leaving the waitress an astonishingly big tip to thank her for putting up with you all. And then she comes and tells you you have the best behaved kids she's ever seen and brings them free ice cream anyway. And the kids smirking at you over their chocolate mustaches. 

Hang on to these times. Savor the memories like syrup drenched pancakes. They're gone before you even realized they were there. 

In memory of a diner called Truck Stop along U.S. 2 in Michigan's  U.P. And a waitress named Barb who charged us whole pie price rather than individual pieces which would have cost twice as much. And bringing out a massive commercial size whipped topping thingy, to boot.  And Molly, serves you right your broccoli was overcooked and you went hungry. You should have had the chicken like we said. 

Poetry metacognition

I've been asked a lot where 

I get ideas for my poems and 

I don't know how to answer without

sounding fatuous or enigmatic 

or precious and tiresome 

To say I don't know is truth and lie

Can you know and not know

Or maybe you don't recognize

till you do and then you knew

you knew them all along? 

So I just start writing and see where it goes

Usually I end up more scribe than author

for there is an impetus I can't name 

that drives my thoughts and my pen

like spirit writing advertised at seances

What I've learned is that poems 

don't come from the atmosphere 

they don't grow on a tree like

ripe peaches waiting to be picked

if anything, poems pick you 

Mine come from muscle memory

and kneejerk responses and too long

silenced grief and frustration and 

feelings forced into tiny envelopes 

that can't hold them and split 

like a rug you stumble over because

too much litter has been swept under it

They source from my mind tree's trunk 

and course through my like sap in heartwood

They're don't come from or through, they are me.  

Some verse bursts like a lanced boil

others leak out in weeping you can't hide

some bubble up like a well tapped

others sit and stew, marinating this 

the time comes for them to speak out 

One thing I know for sure is you 

have to write when it's time. Don't push down

go big and deep and loud. Say stuff that 

might sound silly. Don't just say it, 

spray it like a huge graffiti mural

Don't let the hakken-kraks hush you 

don't second-guess or back down

it's poetry and there are no wrong ones

save those you don't give voice

that would be the real tragedy 

To rhyme is sublime and to not is fine

gonna try to break the rhyming

and the syllable counting habit 

so I can get my thoughts to coalesce

like turmeric and coriander bloomed in oil

more robust and diffuse and less restricted

rhyming can be a girdle worn

to compress or shrink ideas into 

tight boxes, but like Mexican  jumping beans

it may not flow in stricture of parsing 

in sound byte and measured stanzas

Rhyme isn't critical to  poetry

I mean look Williams' famous ditty

"this is just to say" about the plums

it was a note left on a fridge 

like an accidental scrap 

I didn't use to verse found it too tedious

but once begun my mind can't stop 

(Even now I'm seeking rhyme for tedious)

it's like you forget your mother tongue

by learning another language 

and having said that, rhyme is good discipline

it makes me struggle to find partners words 

and counting syllables gives a nice rhythm

poetry worth writing should come with 

some wrestling and head scratching and a few curses

It does however mean that I must forgo

words I'd really like to use because 

they don't fit, like a can that holds the door

open because it is proud of the shelf

But (there are lots of buts) that

too, stretches me to find that 

chef's kiss word to nail the dish

like the spice you didn't know was missing till you did

I test drive countless words to 

hit the flavor I'm seeking 

it might take Edison's 3,000 tries 

but when you get it right, you know

and the whole thing  lifts and takes off

and your heart sings

Steaming down from Birmingham one cold December day

in the shrine of the pine

in murky backdune gloam

last call for this train

as it steams us home

we're going deep tonight 

on lonesome railroad ride

 find your seat, ticket please

let's don't miss the other side

listen to her rumble as 

she croons to hobo's squall 

earth mother locomotive 

sharing herself with us all 

Serdeczna Matko dear

so beloved it hurts to sing

I don't know much about you

perhaps we've met in passing?

load-bearing ferry-woman 

carries her children safely home

Gaia, our goddess mama 

will never leave us alone 

many images of mother

mashed like praties for me 

I'll have to go rogue 

to get me any clarity 

choo-choo train and deity 

my Immaculata lady 

can anyone find my mama 

or a mama to love me?

 

I saw three ships come sailing

Father, son and Mother Mary 

steaming down from Birmingham

with shoulder rides for little me  

Mixing references like drinks

upon this night-night train

is the only way to make sense

of my mashed potato brain 

too cold to take off my coat

clacking away at my rhyme

cold that gets in your soul

and doesn't warm with wine

feet like ice blocks carved 

from lake Michigan whole 

when they used ice tongs

which grampa found and stole 

(from the abandoned Swett place in the dunes

long-forgotten. If they wanted 'em they should have taken them and they didn't so no harm done)

on highway made of steel

endless faceless porter men

no points, none keeping score  

Will we ever see their kind again?

the railway's done and gone 

but a few ghosts I sill see 

of old men and their daughters 

rolling out of Kankakee. 

I'm the dad and  daughter

my old man and the sea

Granddad and the porters on

the train they call Memory  

For my da and granda and my husband and his da and his granda and my boys and girls. And me.