more from the morning crows

“Further details do not apply to you,
not meaning to imply or outright say
you intruded though you did kinda poke
your nose where it need not go poking,”
the crow cable continued, and as
the addressee poet read he need not reach
deep within to see what was the clearest

truth for the least of the poetic
souls to see, and so he knew the crows
in themselves were not evil as true
evil often lives in temples built by hands
that swear they are to heaven dedicated,
head to toe, heart and soul, but this never
intended to explore existential

concepts or get lost in a forest
riddled with rabbit holes, as a crow cable
offers quite enough playground space,
or ought to offer as much, assuming such
a space does not attempt existence
where buffaloes caught in frenzy roam
– forget about a set for cool swingers –

by now the crow scene – or more like snippet
or a twig plucked from a vignette – has flown
a good half a day away – nature
only knows how many amazing scenes
popped open like eager meadow blossoms
since the autumn sun entered and then ducked
out for the usual global samples.

“You might be surprised, oh so-called human,
how many episodes play in many
a concretely real nest that feature guess
who, so travails, tribulations, and joys,
why heck, some of us know your lines by heart.
By the way the two of us in the air
are lifelong buds; scouting for a diner.”

Taking a sip from his nightly green tea,
the would-be-poetic-type let his head
softly nod, since memory could not find
a file suggesting a time of reading
a more sensible explanation.
And to think it was written by a pair
of local crows flapping a soggy sky.

crows reply

moments later a cable bristling heat
of a youthful heart landed in
the presumptive poet’s ethereal
postal box, proving that indeed in a way
words and deeds do ricochet or in layman
lingo news gets around – the message
did not contain a statement so explicit
but if a crow or crows wrote it the lesson
could be considered implicit

and this was not an If but fact concrete
– the dirty scrawl extolled the depth
of appreciation and frankly
significant pangs of flattery
that a couple of humble mountain crows
as they were noticed on this routine morn
if a bit of an extra foggy one.
Not merely noted but given some small
spotlight action. “You did okay in a way,”

commended the crow cable, but it had
only just begun, continuing with,
“and thank goodness you knew not our names.
Had you known our names and used them, oh man,
we would have to make life nightmarish for you.”
Just as the reader wondered how a crow
could make a poet’s life nightmarish,
the text went on to say, “we would begin
with making you the butt of all bird jokes.”

soupy morning scene

let’s intuit the crow that flies ahead
is a she who cannot take anymore
from he who flaps about fifty-five yards

behind, cawing through the soup, Oh Baby,
How could I know a couple bourbon snorts
those six or so months of mornings ago

would graduate to what you call a habit?
But onward she flies, crossing the river
along which a sister lives in a fir.

Or the crow in the lead could be a he
trying to escape a mate’s dark sayings.
Or they could be brothers laughing at life.

rambly exercise from this evening

midnight rose and mister happy
pumpkin in the patch formed a lazy
yawn that only passingly regarded
starry arts, though a bit of a giddy
sensation made mister happy pumpkin
erupt in a great goosebump tidal wave

at the way the moon’s gold glow
lent highlight to mister happy
pumpkin’s plump October orange
belly so hearty. Meanwhile about
six loose yards away a crinkled ashen
cornstalk said in sync with a soft breeze to

a fellow cornstalk, “what I’d give to exist
in such bliss that is ignorance
of what the biped rulers
always cause to come to pass
around this time of every year.”
Fellow cornstalk shrugged.

“I have heard by way of soiled tales
they feel virtually
nothing as the cutting is quite quick.”
“Maybe the cutting. But the gutting?”
“Oh yes. The gutting.” The cornstalks
shut their gray eyes and shivered together.

Just then a pair of freckled foxy twins
originally created within
one of many a tale saddened due to
one of those too-familiar delays,
well anyway, these freckled foxy twins
said at last this pause has gone on
quite long enough, and since this pumpkin

and cornstalk scene is found
in a typical rural setting
and the forlorn tale the foxy
freckled twins came to life in is
also set in a typical rural
setting, the foxy freckled twins
had not a great journey to get

from one typical rural scene
to the next typical rural scene
and so that’s how the foxy freckled twins
were able to slip into this little tale
that thought it would come out and do
a little jig and then return
to the lounge where the wine may not always

be vintage but is by local
tradition decree always on the house
for any tale short or long. Well, the foxy
freckled twins were not alone,
for they guided another who was
one lucky farm boy, Roy his name,
son of the other tale’s Farmer Tucker.

“We doubt your put-on toughness act.”
Somehow they positioned the lucky
farm boy Roy so the foxy freckled twins
towered over him, giving him
four firm reasons to surrender

his fabricated existence
to the supernatural swoon
sensation swearing to flood all
indications of rationality.
They then took note of the pumpkin,

having no way of knowing this pumpkin
went by mister happy pumpkin
chilling in his gold and greenish patch.
The foxy freckled twins chimed as one
about what a swell pumpkin specimen

and did the moonlight not do some fine work
as in the broad creamy strokes all over
the pumpkin’s super-smooth belly.
Just then the self-appointed limit
signaled with a shriek the work shall now cease.

trying to get the feel back with a brief ramble (anybody out there?)

————

Once upon a time,
or more like once upon
a sunny young morn,
one of the good lord’s fluffier
creations nibbled a grainy nugget
but did so in ignorance; this was
not an all-encompassing ignorance
on the fluffy creature’s basic account
as hardly a composition
enjoying any degree
of animation could not but be

aware that the sun
recently risen
must’ve gone to the atmosphere
market during the night,
mighty likely succumbing to a seed
hoping for once to grow into great
motivation, meaning the sun
for once did jump at the news
of midnight discount specials,
and now having finally seen the light,
put away personal

animosity for the big box
retail style and picked up a whole case
of the newer better bulbs,
forced to wonder about guilt
for a kind of theft
because of the unbelievable
bargain and fitted them in time
for these daytime duties; truly,
every vessel or cell that felt
the warmth find and fall upon them
were given little other choice

except to succumb to happy feelings,
if for no other cause than existence;
not a few could ably argue
against a mood that happened to be
in the vicinity, one of those moods
almost always high on gaiety,
this one suggesting they all sway
and swoon to the lilting rhythm
courtesy of a new tune being sung
by a sparrow quintet using the nearby
faded fence as their little makeshift stage,

and though the sparrow quintet did get
into a chatty debate
about a spotlight,
or lack thereof, agreement
was reached about the prudence
in testing this roughly sketched tune
on the public and consider
fine-tuning it for
an evening that would hopefully
exist within easy grasp
of a relatively near future.

a not-necessarily improved tweak of the previous thing

“Perhaps I disappoint you
when I admit a storm growls
in my most private pit of my stomach.
Well it does – the storm I mean –
stirring a storm. After those months
of classroom safety, well, here I am,
first call, and can’t help wonder
about the real existence

of tangible evidence when we
enter into that place. Shall I look
without one wince or flinch if
I must place my gaze on one
who has committed a trespass
oh so utterly foul? Please pray I not choke
in that time. True, in our training
we trained as though we did not train

but did handle true blue items
of incrimination strung to acts
that the ordinary citizenry,
those we know as the good people,
should never be forced to know of
in detail – yet now to see this is all
very real and there may be
actual substances these hands shall touch

and to imagine it possible
these nostrils may suffer so,
well, I guess I hope the report
turns out to be an innocent mistake
on behalf of the informant,
especially one alerting us
from anonymity. Yet I know
I cannot escape experiences.”

So a lieutenant who more or less
babbled inquired of the major
at the wheel and who had served in
Salvation Squad long enough to forget
what it was like to be a sapling
and green as April or May
on a neighborhood beat keeping all ears

and eyes open for signs of a fool
committing an immoral deed.
For this babbling newbie
Salvation Squad lieutenant
wasn’t just any babbling newbie
Salvation Squad lieutenant.
This particular Salvation Squad
lieutenant was a sprout freshly

pushed fluffy but not too fluffy
because to be too fluffy was a sign
one entertained the darkest
of all emblems and levels
agreed across the board as born
from the oldest agents of darkness
– anyway, this fresh and safely
fluffy lieutenant of late
a graduate from the mightiest

academy – its might no
coincidence for its motors
were minds of men who seldom
laughed or even let themselves chuckle;
meaning they meant serious
business though not so much
business as in selling products
and hoping to bring customers
an innocent moment of happiness;

no, this academy’s stout foundation
and stalwart walls rose in stony
erections for the sake of training up
a moral core on the order
of an army numbered with ranks
made numb to echelon analysis;
able and eager to squelch flesh
philosophies that long ago

corrupted golden traditions,
but at last (or alas for they
who assumed they could continue
to do as their ancestors did)
the mystical pendulum swung
from that which for so long was to that
which for a dark and humor-free age
had to be. All pleasures had to come
under microscopic scrutiny.

Forming bureaucratic agencies
numerous enough to fill a fat
metropolitan telephone book
was the ultimate dream solution,
but such a formation magnitude
was beholden to pragmatism
that said they may as well settle in
for a slow stroll across Nebraska.

opening section of another story-poem that will never come to completion

Will we discover evidence
when we enter into that place?
So inquired the lieutenant
fresh out of the academy
built for training a moral core
able and eager to squelch flesh
philosophies that long ago
corrupted golden traditions,
but at last (or alas for they
who assumed they could continue
to do as their ancestors did)
the mystical pendulum swung

from that which for so long was to that
which for a dark and humor-free age
had to be. All pleasures had to come
under microscopic scrutiny.
Forming bureaucratic agencies
numerous enough to fill a fat
metropolitan telephone book
was the ultimate dream solution,
but such a formation magnitude
was beholden to pragmatism
that said they may as well settle in
for a slow stroll across Nebraska.

I trust we all agree general drollery
ought to occupy our upper priorities
as forward we march to restore true decency,
spoke an architectural patriarch back then
(in rhetoric this voice had gifts in abundance,
rising as a beacon stout enough to withstand
as many lashes and blasts as a hurricane
foe boasting a dizzying array of techno
weaponry wizardry may care or dare to deal,
and many an oratory hobbyist knew
dreams of riveting from podiums had to die,
so the man with oral magic could lead the way).

If I Could Draw 2

so a wind hauling a load of loud
examples of mainland bluster
chose the worst junction to clobber words
in the process of trying to sketch
a quaint illumination, hoping
to shed some sense on a personal stance,

knowing under the blankets the same
desire as ever softly slumbered.
Meaning to say: truth is I see
the loud wind possesses pull these days,
and many a fiction excursion
converts this universe to Iowa.

If I Could Draw 1

If I could draw
I’d star a meandering man
(and he’d obviously be
autobiographical)
perusing destinations
listed at a station – be it bus
or train or whatnot – public

means being the point; my
cartoon man would like me
be a bit rumpled in the wardrobe
and often mistaken for
harboring a standoffish air.
The agent behind the booth mesh
wakes with a sharp bark he who

forgot he was not lounging on
the cloud of a couch set on a porch
formed from soft plastic and warps
easily and for the sheer enjoyment
that meaningless warping
inherently is. Realizes
the agent behind the booth mesh asks

where our meandering man intends
to travel to, so there can be
an issuing of a ticket.
Honestly I am a bit stuck
says the meandering man.
Something about all destinations
attract me but I see I must choose

one or not go anywhere at all.
Too bad you haven’t a program
that would reward an adventurer
by allowing wide allowance
in the arena of choices.
Ah but we do have such a program, said
the agent behind the booth mesh. Buy one

special ticket, proceed to the platform,
and you can hop on whichever vessel
that most appeals – maybe strike up a chat
or simply snatch a snack and sit
and observe and listen; these folks
are going there and those folks are
bound for this world’s other end.

2014 #297

around four hundred crow-miles away,
the glossary who’d left the trial toolkit
in the tale’s house tried to block the hum
of droning dictionaries
gathered at a table in the pub
the glossary had just entered
and tried to zero in on the strong rye
the bartender set in front
of the road-weary glossary

and just when the glossary picked up
the shot glass of rye, some of the humming
dictionary drones denuded
themselves so it was clear the dictionaries
were discussing the glossary
and not a few of the words
were adjectives very bitter
and steeped in emotional abuse
and adorned in unkind colors