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.

Repostería con Cumbia: Las Musas

It’s hard to refrain from posting interesting political/cultural material here.
I need to try to stay on the poetry theme, at least minimally.
Music and dance are acceptable digressions,  however.
So . . . I will repost some of my favorite Poetic/Musical things for a while.
Personally, I think some of these posts are my best (apart from original poetry)
but what my seething multitudes of readers esteem as quality blog-posting—
that is a horse of another color.

I hope you like Cumbia as much as I do.
Consider this an Andean interlude with . . . Las MUSAS  (The Muses) !
Could it be that my muses are fallen and carnal—
or are they challenging me to accept their womanly inspiration
with gratitude to God?

Marching Towards April

I am re-posting previous work during March.
Since 2014, I’ve published 30 original poems
for National Poetry Writing Month every April.

You can read more by clicking the NaPoWriMo widgets to the right

 

Unfortunate Juxtapositions

Our jihad is their day of judgement
Your judgement is God’s retribution
Their threats are not empty
Our iniquity is not yet complete
It’s just alarmist nonsense
It is not actually happening yet . . .

Your data plan upgrade was his execution
My Jeremiad was her Magnificat
Their Canaan is our Babylonian exile
The Babylonian exile was a Manchurian candidate
All candidates are out of commission
Your Messianic return will be their Assyrian uprising
Their fortuitous coincidence is our unfortunate juxtaposition.

One man’s doom is another man’s heaven
Count the hours—don’t stop at eleven
It falls at the end of the sixtieth minute
No matter how the Godless try to spin it
Read the headlines—then get back to me
( you who read poetry blogs distractedly )

Check other NaPoWriMo blogs HERE

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Más Repostería, por favor

 

keep-calm-and-repost

I’m going to shamelessly self-promote for a while.


Why
? ( you may ask)…
Well… if I don’t self-promote, who else will do it?
Therefore I will be re-posting original poems in the coming weeks
until I get tired of doing so.

As always, loyal and devoted connectees,
you have the RIGHT to be OFFENDED
(or bored).

 ☠ ☭