Monthly Archives: April 2020

Idylls of the Careless Hunt

But sure the antique Greeks were far more mild,
Else of our Sex, why feigned they those nine
And poesy made Calliope’s own child?
Anne Bradstreet

Huntress, fill my pleading glass !
Let this marksman’s blood be merry.
Whether we shoot hind or ass,
Hail our wet preliminary.

Having brought to birth such brave quadruplets,
Let us toast the midwife with our couplets.

Sweet Diana pours her rounds:
Tawny Port and Shooting Sherry.
Hares now flee the baying hounds
For their country sanctuary.

Thine the night, oh bright and savage huntress;
Lead us to the quarry, chaste Artemis.

Conejito, hide yourself
From the charging adversary
Who would change your pelt for pelf;
(All close shaves are cautionary).

Forgive our clanging gong and sounding brass;
They serve to drive the quarry from the grass.

Healing balm: such sporting frolic,
Dares us to stay sedentary;
Banishing our melancholic
State, her bright apothecary!

Wild huntress, let us know you as the Greeks
And quiver as our heart your arrow seeks.

Toast we now the careless hunt;
Spoonerists wax luminary.
Visions of the hairless cunt
Make my lay discretionary.

Allegory of DIANA, Goddess of the Hunt

FAREWELL

ye POETS, SWAINS and MUSES

Thus ends National Poetry Writing Month
  I bid you all fair Adieu.
Trip away, make no stay / Meet me all by break of day . . .

Cat Don’t Nap

My cat WOKE:
Petra Electra Perpetua.

I’m telling y’all, she massive woke;
lit, like wicked wick holy smoke.

She outsmart Christopher Cracker dreamin’
teach a dog where a BONE at,
discern every demon,
(not to mention advanced forensics.)

She rise, she yawn, she stretch, she flex
then start cashin’ every other pet paychecks.

She charge per minute just to LOOK at her fur
while she sharpen her nails. My Petra purr . . .

Dogs be all: WOOF
She don’t even answer.
Scribe rhymed Arabic lyrics
while she beat a belly dancer
with her TAIL, pffffff . . .

My girl don’t tag, she SPRAY.
Mark every wall, y’all . . .
Seen all over the hood, gnome sain?

Offer her Sheba, she like:
Won’t touch it. Give me that Meow Mix.

My girl teach Afrikan lioness about pussy;
pee on a paean, droppin’ lyrics like mice
other feline get fussy
my kitty get NICE.

TikTok your Instagram feed
right into her bowl.

My girl so woke,
save her own fanged soul.

Slip out the house—she gone.
Workin’ secret route to EGYPT.
Roast every priestess in Bastet city;

My kitty taught CLEOPATRA (u feel me?)
about titty.

She scratch Catwoman, pounce on Robin
Batman wet his weak-ass mask, sobbin’.

My girl woke;
so woke she don’t nap, she sleep—

profoundly. Soundly. DEEP.

 

 

PROMPT #29:
write a paean
to your pet.

Pet Poems Past

 

Two from NaPoWriMo 2015 while I try to come up with another for today’s prompt . . .

PardLeo

Leopard Spotted: Night Vision

 

Can the Ethiopian change his skin, or the leopard his spots?
then may ye also do good, that are accustomed to do evil.
Jeremiah 13:23

We’re tired of your feline past
predatory darkness cannot last
your claw and tooth, your fangs, your youth—
they get old fast.

Your sullen, incoherent style
has grown intolerably vile.
After the kill, your prey is still
in pure denial.

Leopard-phantasms feed the flames;
the thing that spawned you whines and blames
although we could call Motherhood
by harsher names.

Jungle law enforcement should
stop crowning you with victimhood
erase your spots, connect the dots—
we wish you would.

Then lambs with lions shall rejoice
while lines with iambs raise their voice;
spotted pards play wiser cards.
(A better choice.)

 

Hymn to Intellectual Curiosity


The cat once killed again takes up her plume
to write in the air with a sinuous tail;
a valiant attempt at true life to resume.
Penultimate of nine? Or eighth to fail…

The literate lioness’s spectral quill
fresh-dipped in fountains of blood-red ink
(along with sharpened claws) warns: time to kill—
but God would give us all more time to think.

Although certain races and social classes
display not a trace of Curiosity,
Humanity (being higher than their asses)
should counter such donkey-like paucity.

Boredom is beastly—it burdens the mind
one should be able to sustain some good talk…
If you finally perceive they are not of your kind
then pity them. Smile—and let the dullards walk.

A good conversation (by block-heads reviled)
costs only the interest—it’s free of price!
This birthright of every man, woman and child
imparts life to variety, adding spice.

A bite on the tongue, or a shake in the pan
enlivens the food, while enhancing the taste.
Be it preaching or sophistry, blessed is the man
consuming such dishes, no wordage to waste.

Yet most are content to survive on stale bread,
or drive through for fries and a Happy Meal.
Then, quickly digested, the pleasure dead,
it’s on to the stop sign. Their tires squeal.

Attempting to talk with such silly people
whose frame of reference is mainly: What?
Can drive one to brewery, cloister, or steeple
in search of that city whose gates never shut.

When word, wit and wisdom flow out of the mouth
enjoyment sings welcome as springtime arrives.
But ignorance pushes the birds further south
re-freezing the surface of puddled lives.

If you need some assistance, go purchase a cup
or run down to the liquor-store. Brew up some tea.
Be sure that your affective filter’s not up,
grammar monitor running functionally.

Art, sports, philosophy, music or sex—
please make it a good one. The topic is moot.
Don’t bore me with shopping. Don’t mention your Ex.
But swim to the deep end or bend for my boot.

The cat is now road-kill, her mission has failed.
One pussy-life left. Let your next chat count.
Don’t claim that you didn’t know what it entailed,
were unsure of the topic, idea, or amount.