Golfers Senryu
Chipping-in from rough
white ball disappears at once
swallowed by the hole.
You’ve got a birdie
usually is good, unless
it tweets back at you.
A greenie in golf
means that your aim is steady
and your ball behaved.
Having a low score
is highly desired but
tough to accomplish.
Bionic golfers
one putting keeps the pain low
control beats power.
Focus, concentrate
soon you will beat us
winners grin in place.
Lives Lost in The Fire: A Reckoning
(An excerpt from- The Katya Chronicles)
Katya was clearly in danger. The prince was deranged. It was time to travel again, time to face her fears. Where is Tiki?
Clean the black mirror, the Prince commanded, the private room is no longer secure.
I need to see past my reign.
I'll fill you in later, Katya replied, not anything we need to discuss at length.
I am a lonely hero, crooned the Prince, reclining on the bed pillow behind her, arching his back, ready to pounce on a moment’s notice.
" Get up, my brother, she meowed get down with this badass kitty and talk dirty to me.
I don't speak your language, he sighed,
got lipstick stains on my passport, and no exit visa.
What is this chemistry you speak of?
She leaned in
put her face inside her reflection, it swirled as Katya M. Cartouche, April's Fool
danced alone in the moonlight to Alicia Keyes, “On Again,” and looked back at the comfort one last time.
The mirror smoldered as Katya turned and fell through the looking glass, tumbling down into the fiery maze.
" Help, I don't understand,” she cried
Katya, the gypsy, thought, lately, I've been losing sleep, but I'm happy
counting stars in this faraway country, where there is evidence of past lives.
Let go, Katya, the mirror challenged
Here I will stay until you find your way back. Let the storm rage on
take that money, watch it burn, everything that kills you makes you feel alive
and besides, the heat never bothered you anyway.
So here comes goodbye, she cried, her meow echoing down the proverbial rabbit hole,
The gravel road beckons. Don't let the door hit you…
…
I am Katya, the many-faced feline
I seek the way.
I bow before no kings or fanatics
My modes of transportation are alien
to those who cannot see
cannot bend time
cannot reckon that every little thing must be considered
in its proper sequence.
Katya confronted the fruminous Bandersnatch
It was a liar,
had to be shrewdly dealt with.
These nonsensical creatures clearly had a problem forgetting her.
One of the pitfalls of time travel.
Another Day on the Roof
The cock crows
as the blinking moon slips into a dark corner.
She crawls out of bed and pulls on her faded jeans
long stiff from the stench
that no machine can wash away.
Soon her well-worn shovel will crack the old tar and gravel, splitting it into thousands of shiny black chunks, the black dust settling everywhere.
Fragments become tons and are hurled into a lumbering truck caked with dirt.
The roof is swept and swept again, exposing an acre of plywood and a growing mountain of debris; as the boom box drones in cadence, to
Shovel, hurl, sweep
Shovel, hurl, sweep
Shovel, hurl, sweep
The body learning what the day requires.
By eleven a.m., the roof is sporting a black tar paper suit studded with silver nail buttons
to be finished by day's end, when it will be complete in modified bitumen torched down to create a seal. A silver reflective coating is later rolled over it, as the sun continues its onslaught, frying her soot-soaked skin.
She works until sundown, and they drive to dump the debris. Then, to Safeway to buy dinner, looking like a trio of grimy vagabonds, hungry and bone-tired. Drawing curious stares as she brusquely fingers moist cash and blows black snot into wads of brown paper napkins.
Hours later
sinking into the couch
her feet are propped up on top of the coffee table
ten painted toes pointing and flexing
inhaling Rocky Road ice cream.
Exhaling slowly as exhaustion sets in
as she steels herself to begin again tomorrow
for another day in paradise
another day on the roof.
Send THEM to War
Send the gangsters,
the murderers, rapists
the terrorists, the child molesters
the ones with more than their fair share of piss and vinegar.
Send the bad attitudes and the free-loaders.
Send the ones that want to die with their boots on.
Send the experienced ones
A few good men
the Dirty Harry’s the Brave Heart’s
the Rambo’s and
the Rock’s, the ones
with the snot-free noses.
The ones that know-how
and won’t think twice
to fuck you up.
Send the salty, the psycho
and the drug lords, permanently stoned
on their last leg.
Send the ones who want
to leave this earth making
a statement, leaving their mark
their sweat
their blood.
Send Them!
Let’s leave our youth alone
and their wives and children
with their minds and their bodies intact.
Leave them to care for this country
to bring us back to sanity
to give us hope
to revive our economy
to renew our faith in humanity.
Let’s harness those hormones to rebuild our bridges and dams
to patrol our borders, and to forge new alliances
without any preconceived ideas of what they can and cannot do.
Let’s sit down and think about how we treat each other
Reassess wants and needs
How we teach our children
Let’s take a lesson from history
and send the Neanderthal to fight the age-old feuds
leave our kids to save the planet
and send the apes-- the missing links.
Send Them!
There was a young girl from County Cork
was rumored six times with Sean O’Rourke
She was a strong Philly,
seduced his poor Willy
then delivered twin pickles, the stork.
…
You’ve shot a respectable Birdie
Applauded the sweet crone, Miss Purdy
Your score is quite good,
But you’ve misunderstood
Save it, tweets now loud, proud, and flirty.
..
In Galway city at Kelly Greens
Lives a bonnie lass we’ve named Paulene
She has a soft shoulder
It couldn’t be colder
Lads, steer clear of her critical stream.
...
My class, I’m told, weighs heavily on their plate; they must scale back.
The spoken word must wait.
Things may change sometime down the pike.
We could relearn history or later take a hike.
A world without poems is going to leave a hole.
Admit it, can you face the world without a soul?
So, listen, mister, please, have a little heart
And contemplate my gist; let’s save some time for art.
Because if you take the art out of the E-A-R-T-H,
all that’s left are two letters; all that’s left… is “EH”.
They want to get back to basics,
cos vinyl fencing rules, and plumbing brings home the pay.
But humans don’t thrive on work alone.
Change is a process…in this drug-free zone.
They say that art is an act
for people on the fringe,
poets, painters, performers waiting to unhinge.
But we are not all nihilists on the periphery.
We are not immaterial
or The Walking Dead in misery.
Expressing yourself clearly, as you know, is an art.
Our Slam Poets learn to frame an argument
increase their gray matter
by reimagining their unique purposes in life
thereby translating the sea of information in which their minds swim.
Poetry teaches them to reflect on their choices,
raises their consciousness
enables them to define their place in nature
not apart from it.
Self- Expression must continue to be a part of the healing in force,
because their perspectives without writing or lucid discourse… is “EH”.
I stared
at the silent phone
listened for a footstep
beyond the doorknob
that did not move.
Outside, the sun was still up.
I waited and paced,
wearing a track in the hotel carpet.
The luminous clock face on the nightstand flashed 4 a.m.
You left us there, without so much as a see you later.
To wait and wonder
Forsaking us to the dread that overwhelms me now.
The pimply platoon that reappears to march up and down my arms
soldiers marooned with no place to go and nothing but time and fear to kill.
I share this sad night with our twelve-year-old son, an innocent casualty of your private scheme.
Then open and close the shade in the hotel room again.
Noting that it is finally getting dark. It is July
here in Fairbanks, where nothing is fair,
the days are endless, and we wait sleepless
for you to return from your private
birthday celebration.
