Friday, August 30, 2013
Friday, August 23, 2013
Which silly songs should I sing to my offspring?
Which among the endless favorites do I frame
in fleeting windows of cultural training,
training, bo-baining—banana, fana fame?
The Ministry of Silly Walks. Ning Nang Nong.
Everything on YouTube is, in ways, the same.
Which silly songs will my offspring sing to me?
Will they loop It’s Peanut Butter Jelly Time
behind some failed candidate’s concession speech?
I dig it’s a catchy spoof, though I’m aging
with the standards in my organ’s memory.
To share is share enough! We have in common
maps, spots, sing-alongs, phrenological peaks.
The specific GIFs, luckily there, carry
our closeness closer in true and skewed rhymes—so
Sing the Beer Barrel Polka, that peppy air,
or make something up over Scarborough Fair.
Friday, August 16, 2013
Friday, August 9, 2013
Warts and all
At the marketplace, my eggs sell themselves.
My basil’s gone by nine, and my rhubarb
pies fetch a creamy price, so my walk back’s
weightless. It’s just me and my empty cart.
You see? It doesn’t matter that my face
scares bats. By day, my visage stays downward
on dirt, scales and coins, but my nose lifts up
ambling back with a jingle as the stars
glint like tavern lamplights off raised ale cups.
If I can jingle, who could say I’m cursed?
I was foul and fourteen when my pop-pop
pulled me bodily out to the garden,
bent my stubborn knees beside the turnips,
gave me a trowel, looked in me and said: “Start.
Warts and all. Start.” My body sprouted warm.
That day I became apprentice to dirt.
It never kills me that their comments hurt.