To Feel A Line

To feel a line
Drawn over the arc of a hip,
Is to feel the creation
Of beauty.


To feel a line
portray the curve of a breast,
Is to create sensuality
on a page.


To feel a line
Bowing into the arc of a neck,
Is to be captured
By pure joy.


To feel the beauty of a line
Is to be seized
By a moment of
Of absolute delight.
         --Scheherazade

I smell the...

I smell the breeze

I smell 5:00 a.m.

I smell the pricked-up ears

I smell the skritch-sktratch of claws

I smell the jump up into the compost box

I smell the squelch of rotting apples

I smell the furry black-and-whiteness

I smell the soft chirp of your mate

I smell you, skunk.

                        --Agatha

The Breaking Waves

In response to this postcard prompt, Zazu sang a song to us, in place of a poem. Here are the lyrics, by Felicia Dorothea Hemans (1808):

The breaking waves dash'd high

On a stern and rock-bound coast,

And the woods against a stormy sky

their giant branches toss'd.

And the heavy night hung dark

the hills and waters o'er,

When a band of exiles moor'd their bark

On the wild New England shore.

Not as the conqueror comes,

they, the true-hearted, came;

Not with the roll of the stirring drums,

And the trumpet that sings of fame;

Not as the flying come,

In silence and in fear:

They shoo the depths of the desert gloom

With their hymns of lofty cheer.

Amidst the storm they sang,

And the stars heard, and the sea.

And the sounding aisles of the dim woods rang

to the anthem of the free.

The ocean eagle soared

From his nest by the white wave's foam,

And the rocking pines of the forest roared,

This was their welcome home.

What sought they thus afar?

Bright jewel from the mine?

The wealth of seas, the spoils of war?

They sought a faith's pure shrine.

Ay, call it holy ground,

The soil which first they trod:

They have left unstained what there thy found,

Freedom to worship God.

Tracking My Glitches, or Where's a competent file clerk when you really need one?

This poem was written in response to the prompt "Tracking my glitches."

Preface: Arthur Conan Doyle’s character, Sherlock Holmes, says that the brain is like an attic: when it’s full, you can’t put anything more in unless something else comes out. I think the brain is like a filing cabinet with unlimited drawers and file folders.  Everything is still in there, but, as I age, I have more and more retrieval problems, perhaps due to increasingly-sloppy filing.

  

Describing my participation

in some recent recreation,

I sometimes choose precipitation,

perspiration, palpitation.

My filing clerk is on vacation.

Requesting facts on the last earthquake,

I’ll ask about a chocolate shake

or a new class I hope to take,

and so my query is a big mistake. 

My filing clerk is on a break.

Here, Fido, Dogbert, Rover, Hammy!

Come get your dinner, Tiger, Pammy!

Whatever your name is, it’s uncanny.

You cats—whoever: Oh! Jupiter! Sami!

My filing clerk dealt a double whammy.

Telling friends about the ways

scriptwriters fooled the Code of Hays,

instead of Ben-Hur (Heston’s play),

I name Ben Gurion, BenWa, Ben Gay.

My filing clerk has gone away.

From A to Z, there is confusion.

Perhaps I’ve suffered a contusion,

or do I need a brain transfusion?

My retrieval skills are an illusion.

My filing clerk is a word Malthusian.*

          --Agatha

*Malthusian—Thomas Malthus (1821) theorized that population tends to increase at a faster rate than its means of subsistence, and that unless it is checked by moral restraint or disaster (as disease, famine, or war), widespread degradation inevitably results.

My Double-Wide

I'm happy inside

my double-wide.

It's just the right place for me.

Some folks want more,

like a house by the shore,

or a mansion by the sea,

but I'm happy inside

my double-wide.

It's just the right place for me.

I don't try to hide

this double-wide.

I've painted it so you can see

it from outer space,

this bright yellow place,

next to an apple tree.

Yes, I'm happy inside

my double-wide

It's just right for me, you see.

My double-wide

is my joy and my pride.

It's where I want to be.

It's got room enough

to hold all my stuff

and room for my honey and me.

We fit here inside

this double-wide.

It's where I want to be.


          --Sappho

Directions

[The prompt for these poems was to create a set of directions to the poet's own house.]

(Recited to the tune of “Take the A-Train”)

Please, don’t take the A-Train

or the Chatanooga Choo Choo.

Just, go north on Hiline,

then a right on Chubbuck Road will do.

Turn, left on Johannson,

take the first right you come to.

That’d, be my Monika Manse, son,

hidden behind tall bushes of yew.

            --Zazu

Come one, come all from South or North 

at "Exit 69" go forth

head West like Lewis did on Clark

beware the snake, the tunnel dark

when you emerge, a straight-up shot 

the First Nash Bar--you're getting hot 

past library, plumbers, the old saw mill

    (that's just thrown in to confuse you)

Tacoma redskins hold the hill.

You're centered now.

            --Agatha

But Then

Suddenly

a flash

a cold shudder

a blinding light

I see the truth

I am a speck

clinging to a spinning ball

hurtling through space

All is lost

There is no hope

I see the truth

But then

Suddenly

a soft breeze

warmth

the smell of sagebrush

I see the truth

I am one of a multitude of specks

clinging to a beautiful blue spinning ball

hurtling through wide open star speckled space

I have nothing to lose

I hope

I see the truth

          --Sappho

I Protest!

This postcard was the inspiration for this poem by Xena.












Wars and rumors of wars
I protest!
Torture and other horrors
I protest!
Corporations who think that they are peoples
Money-grubbing churches with their gilded steeples
I protest!
Discrimination against females
I protest!
Rhetoric by Palin/Bachmann she-males
I protest!
Abuse by the clergy of our children
Execution of those who used a cauldron
I protest!
In fair weather or in foul
I protest!
For all good causes, I will howl!
I protest!
I protest!
I protest!

Fireworks

These women are like fireworks

I've stood in the dark and

I've peeked at them through my fingers

They sizzle and hiss

like sparklers

They go off

like roman candles

I want to get close enough to reflect their colors

feel their heat

smell their sulfur

but there is danger there

I look at them

but if I get too close

they might see me

I listen to them

but if I get too close

they might hear me

I want to know them

but if I get too close

they might know me

            --Sappho

Life Goes On

This poem was inspired by the above postcard.

Life goes on, it's said,
then it ends.
And, if we are lucky,
in between
we have love and friends.
               --Lucretia