Cue to Verdant

Cue to Verdant

Rampant, yellow forsythia herald the breaking dawn
Of spring, while late daffodils sip coffee, and
Redbuds catch their by-a-nose breath.
Dogwoods bark in pink and white
I go outside to wake the sleeping myrtle.

-Ildane

13 Black Cats Crossing Under Your Ladder

13 Black Cats Crossing Under Your Ladder

People are always reading
Meaning
into every little
crease
like the wisdom of
fear-filled
superstition
must be heeded,
obeyed,
deferred to,
“just because.”
Like when you see
a banana peel
lying in the road
and you know that
you must,
you must,
you must write
a poem
about clowns
& monkeys
driving amok
through town
until that
errant banana peel
takes
them
down

unless, of course…

it’s a day like today
where that lack of banana peel
is an enigmatic
void filled
with a claxon’s call
a four-car funeral procession
& a jury of buzzards
in a Kodak moment
sitting on fenceposts
hoping,
hoping, hoping
one of those nearby cows succumbs
to the humidity.
Yet,
instead of attaching
to ominous portents
I
prefer to talk about
clowns and monkeys
& surly
banana peels
that just might be laying
threateningly
across your
path today…
or not.
Because life’s
just a salad
bar of ideas and
you can either load
up on garbanzo beans
(unless, of course, you
happen to call
them
chickpeas)
or
you can walk on by
and
believe
in something
else.


-Dag

Lascaux

Lascaux

The writing is on the wall…
With dirty, ochre fingers, black soot
Crocus yellows, and white wax,
I smear my woes, my dreams, my story,
Onto the granite canvas of time.

Bison, horses, buffalo run,
Run off my fingertips
Into a forever story of running.
Run solo, run with the herd,
Neither toward, nor from.
Run in dreams… finger dreams.
My own dreams of running free,
Free from hungry thought.

By firelight,
My oily fingers caress
Stone walls of home, so
That my grandchildren’s
Grandchildren may learn
Of the herd and the hunt,
And my dreams.

I tell of my dreams
With soiled fingers –
That they may learn
To tell their stories
With their own oily hands.

60 plus degrees - a SoCal December in Maryland.

Nothing new, but after the recent weather we had, I find this oldie apropos.


Heat Wave

it’s a heat wave in December
so people hit the streets -
tank tops, sandals, gaucho girls
no cars, just on our feets.
we cool ourselves with melted snow
and chase it down with gin.
we praise the greenhouse, “Glory be”
and celebrate in sin.

it’s a heat wave in the winter
the ozone layer’s gone,
I think I’m getting sunburn
from my head down to my thong.
I’d really like to see it snow
it would be a thrill,
global warming go away
and let us humans chill.

it’s a heat wave in December
and cats are chasing dogs
the geese all fly in circles
while sleds are pulled by frogs .
we cool ourselves with melted snow
and chase it down with gin
we praise the greenhouse, “Glory be”
and celebrate in sin.
I’d really like to see it snow
it would be a thrill
so global warming go away
and let us humans chill!

c. 2004

2008 Takes a Final Bow

2008 Takes a Final Bow

‘twas the last day of a man,
On the planet earth
Where under an eyelash moon,
A tortoise with elephants on his back
Raised up the tidal spoon.

And man he saw the sun go up
And then it went back down.
And man he smiled unto himself,
then frolicked in the town!

He sang to trees,
He hugged streetlights
He hummed with bees
All earth’s delights.

He danced until he
Reached the sky.
Then turned and bowed,
Bid earth goodbye.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Vaya con Dios, 2008!
Bien venidos, 2009!

'Tis Naught But Jabberish

Jabberishy

‘Twas Thursday night on Monday morn
Did crinch and cryngle on the boaf
All twimsick were the cheetalopes
And the hyoo flaffs fidloaf.

Zoom zoom the Branglebogs mi’lad
The choom that skwank, the vram that gangk.
Sendoop the garpletom and vad
The smarlish gigglepan!

He took his pencil and his pad
(Eons passed by as on he tread)
So camped he ‘mong the cryberry bush
And wrote of Gilead.

And! As in muselish frame he wrote
The Branglebogs’ effluvium
Came flarting through the bramblan
And skidgered as it came.

Eins, Zwei, Eins, Zwei! And thruff, and thruff!
His number two went Cricky-crack!
He broke its lead and dropped his head
And came, a sulking back

And hast though writ the Branglebogs?
No, my dear? Then go to your room
No soup! For you, an empty spoon!
He castigated the buffoon.

‘twas Thursday night on Monday morn
Did crinch and cryngle on the boaf
All twimsick were the cheetalopes
And the hyoo flaffs fidloaf.

Monday Nonsense!

Did I Whither, Dideraye?

Whither dither, Dideraye?
Whither did I die?
Did I wither, Dideraye?
Did I whither, die?

Would I dither, did I, wood?
I would dither, aye!
Wood I wither, did I dither?
Did I, Dideraye?

I did dither, did I whither?
Did I, Dideraye?
I did whither, did I n’ither!
I did, Dideraye!

Wither I did, n’ither eye,
N’ither did I die.
Whither I did, n’ither die,
I did, Dideraye!