Monday, April 23, 2007
Words get pillaged.
Some get carried off
by Genghis Khan in full drag.
'Gay' went that way.
One day it frolicked at summer picnics
children's parties and merry Christmases.
Next day it was gone
abducted in the night.
I suspect 'rooted'
shifted ground more subtly.
A well-founded worthy word
it shunted noble elements
in deep osmotic transfer.
Building foundation for high
branching futures of all varieties.
But sometime in the decades after
the Americans shafted
their colonial lords,
the Australians, perhaps some
crudely cultivated convict mind,
first leered at penetration by
root of tree in moist forest soil
and found there an
excuse for prurience.
Whatever the source
it is regrettably hard
to say 'rooted' in the Antipodes
while maintaining much hold on dignity.
(Aussie joke: Wombat eats roots & leaves.)
Thursday, April 19, 2007
NASA's doughty little droid
sent us perfect pictures
from far surface Mars.
Why can't these same
American minds create
a toilet that does not
splash a sitter's bum
or gag at extra paper
strands as grand it
swirls a wide and
Sunday, April 15, 2007
is a beige brick bead
strung among highway 70's
Louie's Auto Sales
Mid America Peterbilt
ABC Billard Tables
Cee Kay Welding Equipment & Gases.
Behind the sliding glass Mrs Patel
smiles up from her pocket size
lends me a laminated city map.
Food? she muses,
'Mexican restaurant half mile.'
She warns of trucks and splashes
from the traffic. I traverse the
sodden median stubble between puddled
customer parking now evening empty
my 'super-lite' umbrella pressed
against my skull.
It's a long half mile and
I eventually give it up -
puddle straddle back to
room 222, a bag of 'trail mix'
and the red wine
leaking among my clothes.
Tuesday, April 10, 2007
Saturday, April 07, 2007
Response to Sunday Scribblings prompt.
The story's old, the hero looks to lose.
Designer dull and dated on the op shop shelf, this
Good News for Modern Man does not enthuse.
Alive from the dead. How does that sit?
The empty tomb, the witnesses with stubborn clues.
Good God, how we have buried it.
Euaggelion is gospel Greek for news that's glad of print.
The word extends a wounded hand, eager for my assent.
A mere micro second we've had breath to be
among the sunsets and seas. The planet’s
small. It’s only what we cannot keep, we have
to lose and by that needle's eye be taken through
the tale that tumbles death and birth. New birth
to shed the pride that outs me in the cold.
Is there a place this Easter hope to hold?