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Devils, you know

Hoppler and Ickle
give winklets and snorts,
callous and curmudgeon troubles of sorts.

Beleaguered daydreams
seen grousing in gloom-
colloping seeds of an impending doom.

Walking their cretins
on boardwalks of bread
opening quand’ries, revealing their stead.

Driving the demons
all gone malcontent –
cavernous morass of judicial intent.

Watch well the swindlers
and give them no sway
shine light upon them and thwart their foul play.

Hoppler and Ickle
won’t deal with the fact
the devils you know is just what they lack.

Paragon

The frost that abides on the blades of grass
in the early morning darkness,
will sublimate as the sunbeams rise and amass
and reveal the work of the artless.

The light will envelope a verdant day
and warm where cold was belated,
then tarry with a lush and capable stay
just as salvation created.

Listen

I’ve spent the week listening to songs
and paying tribute to old movie stars.
Ol’ Gator and the Crewe are gone,
the coffee pot is growling on.

The songs I heard are old and true,
yet still they sound like yesterday.
I send them out from me to you.
The coffee pot is growling on.

Ol’ Gator fought the crooked law
and justice served the Crewe at last.
Even bandits fight against their flaws.
The coffee pot goes growling on.

What could happen, which is worse?
Posed a voice I recognize.
Are our leaders so accursed?
the coffee pot goes growling on.

Where did all our heroes go?
I ask aloud – inside my head.
The lonely people – they all know
the coffee pot’s still droning on.

Songs and stories will often tell
us who we are to be:
Poet, lover, bootlegger rebel.
The growling pot has stopped, it’s done.

Wurst

It seemed lovely, oh mavourneen –
You won and you preened.
Yet, when such is your bailiwick –
Spreading the hate and reeling the sick –
you’re a wandering nudnik
taking in bathos and spreading disease.

My galimatias notwithstanding,
your governed approach to this whole dismantling
contains a truth you have never once known
amongst your whole opuscule – blustered, overblown.

Your stemwinders reveal all your foibles and flaws.
You actually blow all the wind in your cause,
And the ignominy you will sooner feel among laws.
Words capture and stall e’en the worst of us all.

And this apotheosis I leave in verse, the paroxysm-
I’m leaving it all uncoerced and letting them burn
in their own mixed up wurst.

For poetry gives me a hope to instill
and words are a means for spreading good will.

*******************

I wrote this in response to a challenge by Cricketmuse.

The challenge was to use a specific set of ten words in a written piece.  I’m a sucker for a good sounding word.  And these are probably the most unusual (real) words I’ve tried to incorporate in , as per my normal approach, a poem.  I kind of like it.  I hope you do too.

 

 

arise and sing

Of leaves,
liven up their dance
a rustling disturbance,

The wind, entr’acte, passing by,
does prick and ply their motions.
Embrace them, turn and whirl,
and love-struck, fails to die.

A wind swirling with its bustle
causing them to rustle
(as leaves are sessile).
Their time and captivation ending
with hues of autumn shifting.

Rending.

The wind, incitement with a sound included;
leaves breaking free
then flight from tree, soon denuded.
This joy in purpose released towards the heaven.

Of lives, they leaven.

********
The reworking of an old poem from ca. 2005-6. I think I like this better.

Lumbolesh

Seeking the sun and feeling the sky,
the bumbledy centipede swerves and winds by –
Consoling caution with captive replies,
the yippee-ki cowboys sweer by their eyes.

Sing me a lumbolesh, blow on a conch –
fling to the puzzling cat on its haunch.
Open your eyes to the sunlit above
and swerve and console and just sweer,
well sort of.

wood would knot

It’s a reminder of dead branches in a tree trunk.
A natural thing. When processed and managed, it is a would-be imperfection that could be nice to look at, causing a waving grain, adjusted in directions exploited by purpose. It is decorative and agile in its language, but still a defect.

A flaw to the strength of wood, it leads to weakness for tensile and compression, especially when under perpendicular forces or being pulled in opposition. This would be structurally unsound to build upon. The knot can lead to cracks and would not be of benefit in building because of the warp, the check and the shakes.

Some who construct would know the impact.
In a dissonant chord, it is the note that sings loudest and rings a disjointed sound.
In a poem, it is the missing iamb of a sonnet, tripped and stumbled upon. In a house, it is in the failing wall or a cracking joist, unable to stand the weight of heavy burden.
In speaking-it is missing a word and rushing over – leaving a hole. Such work is helpless and unsound.

What remains would not be usable.