Sonnet Ending with Two Words from a Willie Nelson Song (Day 2)
With thanks to Robert Okaji
Another death hoax? Gee, how original…
Learn more about this project here
humor
Chartreuse
Sour-apple-flavored candy
The team color of your alma mater’s rival
A jacket that never gets misplaced
The labial-nasal fricative of choice
for cicadas & fire-flies on a summer’s night
The vaguely perturbing chortle
of that quintessentially hip grandma
who reclaimed her youth through Yoga
The tinkle of that crystal bell
you long ago purchased in Prague for a song
An herbal cold remedy’s fizz
Key-lime pie’s tang
The fizz & the tang of a Midori Sour on the rocks
& the fuzzy socks
that of course you wouldn’t be caught dead in
The vinyl stool you still covet in your mother’s kitchen
& the satiny ribbon you once got for honorable mention
In other words
the dessert menu’s less lethal option
for the lactose intolerant on a date
If I Saw Aidan Turner Walking Down the Street…
I would not stop to contemplate the earth beneath,
nor for a second consider that I
was already in junior high when he was born,
never mind that my daughter is now the age I was
when that star-to-be emerged from the womb,
replete with a tuft of black curls, which I can’t help
but to surmise. The pubescent one views
him in his full, adult glory: deep voice, just enough scruff
to pass as a vampire or Middle Earth heart-throb,
provocatively bedecked in black leather
and a lucky cloud of Irish cadences.
The girl, I’m certain, believes she would reach him first—
fully trusting in her sprightly aptitudes,
and in my usual habit to step aside
in favor of promoting her self-assurance.
True, I’ve not been tough enough on her in some ways—
I’ve resisted going in for a hard tackle
to strip her of a ball at foot in one quick breath,
nor have I generally used my advantage
of momentum in everyday foot-races:
ordinarily, I’ll feign a fall to foster
her confidence in her maturing limbs;
in most cases, I’ll give her a healthy head-start, but
if I saw Aidan Turner walking down the street,
I would at once neglect her youthful sighs,
her earnest blushing, her sweet, redolent gaze
transfixed in goofy stupefaction, and discard
the prospect of the joy I’d feel in watching her watch
herself becoming a woman (through watching him
make love to cameras in a perfect balance
of feigned humility and stunning sex-appeal).
In fact, I’d rather not imagine the abject horror
my impressionable offspring might well suffer,
if I saw Aidan Turner walking down the street.
An earlier version of this poem appeared in Sixfold magazine, winter 2014.
Rest assured, my daughter has since made it to age 16, no worse for the wear.
Convection
“/kənˈvekSH(ə)n/ noun: the movement caused within a fluid by the tendency of hotter and therefore less dense material to rise, and colder, denser material to sink under the influence of gravity, which consequently results in transfer of heat.” Google
“In the beginning, when God created the universe, the earth was formless and desolate. The raging ocean that covered everything was engulfed in total darkness, and the Spirit of God was moving over the water. Then God commanded, ‘Let there be light’ (…)” Genesis 1:1-3
If before the beginning something
had not yet appeared from nothing how did
nothing manage to imbibe the god’s breath
that marked the beginning of creation
(particularly since before there was something
there surely wouldn’t have been things
such as gods or breaths)?
For that matter out of what non-thing
was said sudden cloud burped
into the slate gray chaos that hung
in a sky that couldn’t have been there but was
ostensibly sandwiched tidily between
the turbulent blue water (we’ll address that later)
& the gauzier ‘ether’ that was not yet the air
for the deities who were not yet themselves?
& if in the beginning (as the story goes)
those twin neonates formlessness & desolation
comprised everything
that was at the time nothing
from where for the love of sanity
did that ‘raging ocean’ arise?
I mean of the untold passions we might’ve presumed
preceded all extant matter & manner of cognizance
why did we dream up an ocean & infuse it
with fulmination only then to have it (not) be
‘engulfed in total darkness’ as if to deflect
attention from how much we were trying to make
out of a whole bunch of nothing?
Aside from being a bit fishy
the story does lend itself rather poorly
to proper revelation no doubt
amounting to the non-existent body of water in question
being (or more precisely not-being) rightfully fraught
that antiquity could do no better than to liken it—
in its purported (not to mention impossible)
shared subsistence with nothing—
to Phorkys the weedy-bearded progenitor of the gorgons…
Is it any wonder
the artists should depict
so much transference of hot air
as the white wisp of a ship
vanishing in the distant mist?
STEPHANIE L. HARPER
This thought experiment was inspired by the (impressively copious) weather satellite video loops of convection clouds popping into existence, which my son has been tracking down online and sharing with me… just another example of the uncountable, humbling insights into the natural world that I’m sure would have failed to blip on my radar, if not for his beautiful influence.
An earlier version of “Convection” appeared on this blog in Summer 2016.
Ode to Sea Bunnies
“The cuddly-looking creatures come armed with ‘incredibly long copulatory spines,’” Ángel Valdés, Ph.D., sea slug expert in NatGeo Sea Bunnies
Adorable, uh, sea slugs…
So small, you might’ve remained undetected!
You wonderful creatures possess verve and charm,
all sporting accessories sharply erected
(your cuteness-incarnate is quite unaffected)
and poised for the pointed delivery of sperm.
So small, you might’ve remained undetected,
surviving the eons as nature selected,
earning maximum bang for the buck…What’s the harm
if a parcel perchance has a part that’s erected?
Where kits are concerned, a caboodle’s expected…
You sweet marine emblems of Easter disarm
with spirit too bold to remain undetected,
though vitreous bodies—with vision obstructed
by airborne banalities, vague and infirm—
still pigeonhole widgets (however erected)
as watertight proof our souls should be deflected
from courses and aims that outdistance the norm…
Too large for this world to remain undetected,
you hold in your quivers my hope resurrected!
STEPHANIE L. HARPER
Trumplewocky
‘Twas feckish, and the irkly grobes
Did fark and fistle in the slade;
All dingly were the rectiprobes
And the dampnuts updrade.
“Beware the Trumplewock, my friend!
The bigly mouth, those puny mitts!
Beware the Tweet bird, and off-fend
The cronious Perkletits!”
She packed her poisal voice and went:
Fat chance the vapid imp she’d spare—
So quivered he ‘neath his Cheato tree,
And feebly cried, “Unfair!”
And, as the greelish light grew pale,
The Trumplewock, with wits of wood,
Came grabbling through the femly vale
Because he thought he could!
Eins, zwei! Eins, zwei! And quick as pie
The poisal voice sliced fierce and true:
“Go flay yourself, you mawkish elf,
And burn the residue!”
The Trumplewock would rue the day
He left his diddlepot of lack.
The frankish words would haunt him ‘til
He went galumphing back.
‘Twas feckish, and the irkly grobes
Did fark and fistle in the slade;
All dingly were the rectiprobes
And the dampnuts updrade.
STEPHANIE L. HARPER
Inspired by Lewis Carroll’s unmatched feat of “glorious nonsense,” JABBERWOCKY.
January 2017 Open Mic
I am participating in the January 2017 Open Mic on Words and Feathers. Please go to the link provided to hear a rendition of my poem, “Anatomy of a Fustercluck,” which was recorded with help from my son, Matthew.
Many thanks to Crow for hosting this event!
Anatomy of a Fustercluck made its first and only prior appearance on Rattle magazine’s website in February 2016.
It’s a new year. We’ve all got these feelings still building up inside us like moisture inside a kernel of popcorn If we don’t let them out soon, POP! out insides will be outsides and no amount of butter and salt will make it better.
I’m here for you. The January 2017 Open Mic is now open for you to record your poems/songs/rants/diatribes. But please, no money-making schemes.
The Skinny:
- Record yourself reading one of your own works.
- Post it on your site.
- Include a link to this site in your post.
OR Comment on that month’s call for entries
OR send me a message using the contact form. - I will post a link with your name and poem title RIGHT HERE.
- It’s an open mic invitation. NOT a challenge.
Some tips:
- Go simple.
I record using my iPhone, then email/share the file with myself. I very rarely edit it…
View original post 247 more words
Convection
This thought experiment was inspired by the (impressively copious) weather satellite video loops of convection clouds popping into existence, which my son has been tracking down online and sharing with me… just another example of the uncountable, humbling insights into the natural world that I’m sure would have failed to blip on my radar, if not for his beautiful influence.
Yaroslav Gerzhedovich’s Stormy Sea, courtesy of Google Images
“/kənˈvekSH(ə)n/ noun: the movement caused within a fluid by the tendency of hotter and therefore less dense material to rise, and colder, denser material to sink under the influence of gravity, which consequently results in transfer of heat.”
“In the beginning, when God created the universe, the earth was formless and desolate. The raging ocean that covered everything was engulfed in total darkness, and the Spirit of God was moving over the water. Then God commanded, ‘Let there be light’ (…)” Genesis 1:1-3
If before the beginning
something had not yet appeared from
nothing
how did
nothing
manage without lungs no less
to take in that convection of a god’s breath
that marked the beginning of creation
(particularly since before there was something
there surely wouldn’t have been things
such as gods or breathing)?
For that matter out of what non-thing
was said sudden cloud burped
into the foggy slate gray chaos
that hung but didn’t
in a sky that couldn’t have been there but was
ostensibly sandwiched tidily between
the turbulent blue water
(we’ll address that later)
& the gauzier brighter frothier ether
that was not yet the air for the deities
who were not yet themselves?
& if in the beginning
(as the story goes)
those twin neonates
formlessness & desolation
comprised everything
(however antithetical to actual substance)
that was spontaneously no longer
nothing
from where for the love of sanity did that ocean arise?
& why (never mind how) pray tell was it raging?
Of the untold passions
we might’ve presumed preceded
all extant matter & manner of cognizance
why did we resort to imagining rage?
Do we unknowingly float
upon the ocean’s foamy resentment
at the resonant indignity of not yet
being not
nothing
but still getting scapegoated for concealing
the primordially shapeless absences of
nothing
with its own nothingness
(unjustly condemned for the volition & malice
that nonbeing precluded it from possessing)
even as it itself was entirely concealed
in the total darkness we all know is really
just another way of saying a whole lot of
nothing?
To wit aside from being a bit fishy
the story does lend itself rather poorly
to proper revelation
amounting no doubt
to the non-existent body of water in question
being (or more precisely not-being)
rightfully fraught
that antiquity could do no better
than to liken it in myth—
in its purported (not to mention impossible)
shared subsistence with
nothing
before the beginning began—
to Phorcys the weedy-bearded
progenitor of the gorgons…
Is it any wonder the artists should depict
this mystic transference of hot air
as the wisp of a ship
dissolving into the mist?
STEPHANIE L. HARPER
Fuel for Flight
Aaaand… one more, while we’re on the Shakespearean Love Sonnet theme… I wrote this for my beloved husband just a couple of years back! Don’t mind the roadside warning graphics — they’re only ornamental!!
from Google Images
Your love once sent me flying to the moon,
But now I’ve landed solidly on ground.
Your jets at idle, I no longer swoon
From ventures superceding speed of sound!
You dress to go on your bi-monthly run;
I dress, if there’s somewhere I have to be.
Your eyes (do they still sparkle like the sun?),
Without my specs, my love, I cannot see.
No longer do I dream of bees or birds–
The hives are barren; nests have blown away:
Our teenagers now speak the “choicest” words,
For we are out of fertile things to say.
My love, though we have traveled beyond lust,
Jets may have cooled, but haven’t lost their thrust…
STEPHANIE L. HARPER
Deliverance
Just in time for the Holidays… Hot off the presses — whoops, my bad — I mean, let go by a press that’s gone under (Booo!), but now available FREE for your consumption, er, enjoyment!
Google Images
While wrapped up tightly to our necks in wool,
Sequestered in our homes in winter’s chill,
Whene’er we yearn to get our insides full,
A cardboard box in car delivers thrill…
Swelling with exhilarating spices,
Its savory scent comes wafting through the door––
Pepperoni, amongst other vices:
Meatballs and cheese and fat and carbs galore!
We sluggish’ eat while satisfaction grows––
All down the hatch, slice after slice, it goes––
Until its warmth has reached our very toes,
And caused onset of shameful gastric woes!
Oh, pizza, how you vanquish dark, cold days
In deviously insulating ways!
STEPHANIE L. HARPER
SLHARPERPOETRY 