C.U.S.P.

(Catching Up on Some Poetry). I've been writing for the last three and half weeks, and yet, somehow I think there should be more production than this. At least it is jump-starting my work on the novel. Something has cleared in my psyche allowing me to write again and whatever it is, I am grateful.


[untitled]

It tells me to awaken
But it doesn’t know the time
It makes me feel the punishment
Though it doesn’t fit the crime

It’s with me like a lover
As intimate as touch
So long we’ve been together
It’s become an awkward crutch.

ltv
10/1/10


[untitled]

the means of my isolation
are always out of reach
instead this slave of society
can’t practice what I preach

labor beckons in the morn
of five out of the seven
I suffer willingly through them all
for those two days of Heaven

ltv
9/20/10

Ever since I was a child I liked to make up new words to songs and poems. Each year on birthdays or Valentine's Day I would write a poem for my Mom bastardizing the "Roses are red" classic or "Mary had a Little Lamb". Everyone seems to do that as well, which makes it difficult to find new versions that are both entertaining and clever. Here is my latest attempt (followed by an homage to my little cancer-kitty).


Mary had no extra RAM
And her processor was slow
On every link that Mary clicked
Her browser wouldn’t go.

ltv
9/15/10


Kestra was a little cat
With needs as big as air
Every time I turned around
It seemed like she was there

She followed me upstairs one day
As I lay down to nap
She howled and meowed ‘til I sat up
Then jumped into my lap

ltv
9/15/10


E.A.P.

I look into the eyes
of the macabre master
the photo -- monochromatic
and grainy but still
detailed enough to show
the intensity of his suffering
I wonder whether
a demon was trapped
inside this human host
or whether his body
was just an ill-fitted disguise

ltv
10/5/10



Morning Meditation

The warmth of my coffee
Reaches my nose
Before I lift my
Colored mug to drink
Eyes closed more from calm
Than typical work day torpor
The awkward crunch of kibble
And the tinkling of the glass bowl
Alerts me to Willow’s presence
The lazy cat waits almost an hour
After I awake to make her way
Downstairs for breakfast
Kestra purrs dutifully on her chair
The one she howls at me to move
So that she is directly by my side
Or rather even closer to the meal
She is hoping to sample and never does
Weekdays aren’t as fun as those
Only-for-me days I relish – but
They have their own rewards
When viewed with my eyes closed

ltv
10/7/10


Eve of Man

When Man first was
Created from whatever
He might have been
Before – dust or ape –

The process of becoming
The existence first
Survival – negotiations
With other species
All lead up to that
Moment of self-realization
I am - you are

Oh! To be a Time Traveler
Going back thousands
Or millions of years
To when – absent of gods
Or science – Man’s first
Thought beyond hunger
Or reproduction
Formed in the brain
Would we be surprised
To learn the being
Who was first – might not
Have been a man at all

ltv
10/8/10

Florence Poets Society 2010 Fall Poetry Festival

It's been a week since the FloPoSo Annual Fall Poetry Festival and I have finally had time to blog about it. What can I say about five hours of poetry on a beautiful day in Look Park? I stayed awake the entire time?  No. Well, yes. I mean, I did. What I meant was, no, that's not nice to say. It was a beautiful day and there were many wonderful readers and some fascinating poetry. I must rave, though, about my poetry partner and I. We stole the show with our explosive poetry topic (a preview of which I gave in the last blog entry).  There were some who turned up their nose at our choice of topic, but we won them over in the end with our clever verse.  Due to copyright issues (and the fact that she is attempting to compile an entire book of her fart poems), I won't be including the poems read by Anita Gallers, my poet-in-crime on that day.

I started out with this one:

On Dad’s Passing

As kids, he led us to believe
he was above the rest.
    He always claimed he’d never.
He was a Renaissance Man, but nevertheless
    he was mortal.
As we grew, we experienced it in our lives;
    but still father stated he’d never.
Regardless of the euphemism,
    it’s not pleasant.
Something in the air
makes us aware of its reality.
    And still father vowed he’d never.
No age is immune: infants, children, teens, adults,
    and the elderly all pass.
And until then father hadn’t.
Now that Dad has passed, he seems
    more alive, more human.

He covered it up by saying,
“Well, even the Queen of England farted once!”

ltv
Anita read one and then I continued with "The Fart", which was included in the last blog post, as was "Belch, Before Loud Voice Resume". Anita and I continued switching off.  Here are the rest of the poems I read:


I Shot a Belch Into the Air
(with apologies to H.W. Longfellow)

I shot a belch into the air
It fell on ears, I knew not where;
For, so swiftly it came out,
I could not see who was about
I then released another wind
A smell of eggs I’ll not rescind
For who can stop so keen and strong,
The body gases held so long?
Shortly afterward, in the garden
My belch was known, I gave my pardon
As for the other, I did pretend
It was not I, but the fart of a friend.

ltv


Thanksgiving Haiku

from the swollen depths
a cacophonous release
aahh, room for more pie

ltv


[untitled limerick]

a lady is one who won’t burp full
that push is no match for her pull
    a woman in contrast
    will let out a loud blast
and continue until she turns purple

ltv


As I said, a fun time was had by all. and I would like to thank Carl Russo and Tom Clark (and their long-suffering wives) for their hard work in putting this event together each year.