Disaster Poetry 1

Timmy the Scribbler

Of course our naughty earthling could not keep
long secret the vial of sentiment
so to the surprise of no entity
when the queen of all the wolverines read
– rather heard what the nervous courier
reported (she of the pantheon school
that said reading was for lazy people)
– so basically, when she understood
a minion dared to entertain thoughts

independently and dared to venture
beyond borders long ago fixed as strict,
well such an insubordinate action
could not at all be allowed to flower
since none but the queen was worthy to soak
much less take a deep seat, languidly sup,
so much as half a shaft of a sunbeam,
she had no choice but to enact contact
with a typhoon who owed her a favor.

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the purpose remembered

Timmy the Scribbler

Figuring out what it’s even vaguely about.
That this motivation remained so well hidden
as revolutions came and went; that it never
utilized the white flag; that ridicule was told
to take its knack elsewhere, such as dictator thrones;
well it humbles a fellow and for that fellow

sort of reorients the bearings and begins
to in patience go about collecting debris
– no hurry nor no shame in letting a whistle
spray the slowly clearing atmosphere – before long
the travel craft’s buoyant bobbing sets the tempo
to the forgotten timeless tune of adventure.

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honestly not very accessible

Timmy the Scribbler

To draw from a space that missed the chance to
apply for membership to the black, white,
or negative shady societies
suggests the hoping trip spirit will come
up empty or should tamp the tendencies
which are totally understandable
but will run ragged the meter arrows,
cruelly tugging at the sweater sleeve
to arise and point at flower and star
at the same time: forever half past noon.

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