Bombazine becomes Electra

we interrupt this métier

to answer macabre knell

Got myself bitten by

gothic mourning bell 

(not my fault! don't judge, keep reading)

of mourning and morning

and many hues of grey 

doves in morning suit 

locomotive gray ombre

( don't even get me started on why it's "grey" as in "earl" and gray as in Eeyore.. 

death on little cat feet

or is that fog at play?

it becomes Electra to go

round roulette wheel today 

got up in bombazine

counts jet rosary beads

corseted in her hated

a thneed's what she needs

place your bet, milady

as the croupier tells his tale

watch now will the die turn

a snake-eyes shade of pale?

tough luck you lose, you

drank fizzy lifting drink

cocktail called "bitterness"

one part gin, one printer's ink 

black lipstick stained tumbler 

tumbles down to the floor 

You called for another yet

couldn't even find the door

well that's what you get 

for dicing with the dead

the wound-too-tight has-been

who's about to lose her  head

the doom's come upon you

in your spiked Flavor Aid

you got slipped  a Mickey 

now watch your color fade

(and here's another of my famous sexy kazoo key changes) 

Rise up sister and dance

puppeteer loosed your strings

Time to can-can like you can-can

shake loose grudge-holding wings

let the pigeon drive the bus

crack the mirror side to side

flip Rorschach psychedelic 

Play the acid punk B-side

Here we go, gonna get loud now...

So before you ask, what the actual just happened, I'll tell you. I don't know. I was clacking along down my reluctant gothic poem trail, when all of a sudden, Mother of Tarquin! Cue the sound the cartoon makes when it backs up and starts over. It's like a Polish dzu sound. With the z, j plus sh sound. Like bezsh-oop, plus the double take doy-yoy-yoy-yoing. Hey, don't laugh. You try spelling out what a cartoon sound sounds like)

Anyway, that is what has happened to my poem. It has done a double take with about face. And as so often happens, the poor poet never saw it coming. Here was I just trying to write my psychedelic verse, for once, without tying it up in any sensible ending. I wanna do one of those urinal or paint drip works of art thingys that gets understood. When it's just a blasted bed pan!!  And if like Man Ray or Jackson Pollock it makes millions, well, all in a day's work. 

So I wasn't even on board to go down the bloody gothic route. I mean, look at the picture AI made me. It's so Helen Mirren, Winchester--esque. ( I hate anything -esque.) The "Rorschach" in the dew of the window. Bangs head hard on desk, requests refill on the gin and ink drink. Even that sounds Seuss-esque!! 

But did I quibble when the muse-whatever called, nooo, Not I!! Needs must, I soldiered on. And we turned left, Again!! It's that damned pigeon's fault.

Hello, it's me the clay

Hello, it's me the clay

on the potter's wheel

waiting for the girl who

My form's fate will seal

mind turns endlessly

thoughts begin to reel

hands that shape my base

have a strangling feel 

cold, wet, smooth and hard

grip me so very tight

forcing me to shapes where 

I cannot see the light 

squeezing me into what 

I do not want to see  

I don't even know just 

what it is I want to be 

maybe potter knows best

I should just let her mold 

go along to get along

release from life my hold

cast myself upon the

whim of the almighty 

let my self go down 

the drain of infinity

(this is a rather melodramatic piece of clay!)

If I knew for sure 

what for me she'd choose

would it make it easier 

my autonomy to lose? 

It would look rather odd

if clay began to shout

"take your hands off me

quit all this pushing about!"

How would I even start 

to articulate my choice

what could I ever say

do I even have a voice?

well here she goes now 

she is about to add glaze

I have fully emerged

seems I'm a flower vase

Guess it could be worse

my neighbor next door

his potter got upset and

smashed him on the floor (!)

I can live with a vase. 

My lady of the lake

well they say all good poems 

begin with a stiff drink

I've had two so far so

slainte ma, I'm ready I think

I've written to them all

my baby grands have one

yet tremble I to air 

firstborn's poem to the sun

why am I who blathers 

on transient views 

felled, like timber by a

wee girl in teddy shoes?

that's how I remember her 

my universe true deity 

with pompadour ponytail

"high and to the side, mommy"

it's not for her growing

that my heart does grieve

it's how she grew and flew

before I ever saw her leave

to ode-ify milady 

blanc page in quill noir 

even dreamings can't sound

all to me that you are

as a sojourner 

Setting out upon quest 

no foreseeable destination

just the road traveled less

I could tell of beepees

her softie nighttime friends

I wake keening when

my memory dream ends 

you only hold your babes

when they're on your breast

you spend your life asking when's

the last time you laid them to rest

is it regret I'm feeling 

that's a familiar pain 

I've often penned on that

repeated sad refrain

for my little girl not lost

just lost to me it seems

Kahlil says I can't go to

her world even in dreams

I hear self-indulgence

as words drip from my pen 

a railroad whistle stop I'd 

rather not halt at again

but if I can't even sit 

for a spell with my rain

even in my verses 

Can I not try to explain?

Not trying to didact 

ain't no preachers on this train

just a limberlost momma 

trying to sort out her brain

I think recall hurts 

and makes it hard to say

all the stupid things I did

in all my yesterday

things I know now but

I didn't see clear then

I wish I had it, my love

to do over again

I'll pony up and admit

I got so much wrong 

even that sounds indulgent

I should play another song

so here's the B-side of 

my melancholy memory

I'll make it all about you

instead of my misery

because I'm not (miserable)

I'm most delighted to see

the wonderful you are, honey

that kinda came through me

k, here's what I never got

but I surely do now see

I was but a footnote in

your amazeballs history

You'd never deprecate me

you'd always make me shine

that's my baby, mister

I'm hers and she's mine!

she deserves more, milady

you'll understand some day

my baby star-god deity

will always have her say.

selah. 

Elysian fields forever

 

here I go again making

it all about me and yet

there's a heuristic logic

that the young have yet to get

this one picks up where

my other poem left us

wrangling with specters of

my memory prospectus 

and why I get buy in

on my kids grown and flown

they came from me dammit

they're all that I've known

they get it, I guess 

I don't ask for more

probably better than most

 still they close my door

I'm tempted to compare 

my parents' shut tight

locking me in and out

alone in the cold light

that's a place I won't go

sadly never to rescue me

only to protect now folk

who'd never be able to see

the rub is ironic

can't show me now nor then

that damn chafing blister 

hurts like it did back when 

we who'd nothing then

still have nothing today

all our now are gone

up and went far away

time was I was all to them

they're still here technically

but it sure as hell feels like 

they're sure as hell gone from me

it's about me, damn time

that's what this verse explores

it ain't about mine now growing 

but mine then closing the doors

--sexy guitar riff--

Damn them. What do they know??

Why am I writing this poem?

Why each night do I keep 

mending the "unbroken circle?" 

(and we're back to the lament of the lonesome child and the outgrown parent)

it's about us because 

it's all that we have left

what was ours is gone

we're inexplicably bereft

graveyard friendly ghosts

we see but are unseen

haunting living footsteps

eager to help, we keen

should I stay or should I go

is there a place for me

with my little loved ones

is where I want to be

yet I can't drag them back

to elysian fields we knew

they've flown to places 

when past me they grew

mute ache of them going

for lose them you sure do

can't sugarcoat it, my dears

someday it will happen to you

the unbroken circle comes

round and round once more 

wish I could, my darlings

close for you that door. 

wish we could all stay 

in my Elysian field mind

there's room for everyone here

and everyone is so kind 

Transmogrified Friday Feasts

Jesus on the mount

begot loaves and fishes

I'm blest to be fed

on pescatarian dishes

species so beloved

yellow perch and brook trout

once graced our tables

now all but fished out

floating fish factory

forced austerity

sad contradiction to

our "land of plenty"

more than mere food these

beasties provided we 

round grandma's table 

haute gastronomy

Friday night dinners

white box with string ties 

from local fish joint

with coleslaw and fries 

chatting as we ate

in her cozy kitchen

no TV interrupted 

weighty discussion 

such as what kings held

I said sepulcher

that's a grave, gram gravely said

he carries a scepter 

(Grampa didn't weigh in because he probably didn't know himself.) 

she was right of course 

but wouldn't admit mistake

said I was 9 at 10! 

now that took the cake! 

Sometimes grampa grilled

rainbow trout outside 

grama didn't want it

stinking up inside 

Alaskan sockeye salmon

reigned with halibut 

hooligan in it's own oil

don't knock till you try it

Louisiana catfish

fried in lemon butter

or as court bouillon

too yummy to utter

No matter what we ate

I always loved best 

fish picnic suppers 

like those the Lord blessed 

sad to think our kids

seldom fish do see

what teemed the lakes

swam into history

So I pen a verse
of thanks to these beasts
for sharing themselves as
transmogrified feasts

Riffing in ombre on a blue Coltrane

riffing in ombre 

London foggy rain

strolling in Memphis 

in the blue Coltrane

psychedelic raga

once wept from sitar 

Carnaby street lad

now props up the bar

his Nehru jacket

in velvet brocade

for a proper pint

he'd now gladly trade 

those were the days we

thought would never end

now hurdy gurdy man

can't even find a friend

fancy Afghan coat 

once posh and natty 

can't turn his collar 

the fur's so ratty 

so go striations

a bedrock timeline

in Jurassic coast

can you spare a dime?

it is not kismet

it's no fault of his

nor karmic justice

just is what it is

youth calls to aged

folks who crossed the bar

a dear old lady 

who reached out a spar

my ancient mariner

by the name of Mary

her bar-crossed Russel

old lady of the sea

riffing begets memory

as down deep I go

wind at my window

holy wendigo 

I' ne'er cease ceasing

to call and call more

shall I bid the gods

enter through my door?

Disco requiem at the rink

riffing in ombre

liquor layered drink

drain rainbow cocktails

round the roller rink

long before deejays

played your favorite song

a man on the dais 

piped us all along 

playing grand march on

Wurlitzer organ

gaily funereal 

round we go again

mirror globe twinkles

gypsy crystal ball

many tinsel diamonds

reveals us to us all

did it show me sad?

when my dad said no

only up the block

but I couldn't go

there was a time when

nothing stopped we two

back before they came

and he'd other things to do

(hmm conspiracy theory there. Stepmother needed me there to babysit.)

he'd bought me white skates

with pom-poms of pink

but I wasn't keen to 

wear them at the rink

time for pom-poms past

while he bypast me

I had moved on too 

I'd other life to see

skating rink changed too

no more organ dances

now the records spun 

on to other chances 

or to letdowns when

the one I loved so

after saying he'd come

he didn't even show 

(hmm sounds like SOMEBODY's DAD! oy vey, men. I ask you...)

so oddly it seems

I see so clearly 

me in the mirror

that boy I don't see

don't know who he was

yet I do not blame

this two-faced lothario

whatever was his name

got no time for grudges

on this memory train

does he recall me 

my half recalled swain? 

what I see are colors

FD&C Red No. 4

kidney killing yellow 

candy floss blue floor

Fanta red pop and Hi-C

tried some recently 

nearly gagged myself 

just for posterity

tawdry and garish

artificially bright 

the best place to be

on Saturday night 

ubiquitous shag

carpet lines the walls

fluorescent remnant

to buffer the falls 

booby-trap bathroom

with sink hole floor drain

mind how you go now

or you'll fall again

skater hangover

not from too much drink

Sunday morning bruises 

from punchup with the rink 

hadn't thought for decades 

of all my rink rash 

those damned waxed floors and

falling on my ass--hhh

signature scented 

mildew, carpet and sweat

stale popcorn machine

I can call it up yet

garish colored walls

all go rushing past

so merry were we

how quickly they passed

hollows echoing

lilting organ call 

we'll never hear again

plays to no one at all

rinks evaporated

no more disco requiem

now bougie sweet shop

still I see and hear 'em

dad and stepmom sleep

many moons in the ground

so  quietly gone that 

I barely hear their sound

saw by Facebook photo

that boy has just died

like Kinks at the Pally

for youth's death I cried

Let us keen a dirge

calliope symphony

 the circus death march 

sung in perpetuity