The Mammoth Beast
The mammoth beast, the mammoth beast, most beastly of the beastly beasts –
Bequested, boastful, yet it sprawls,
With jettisons of rustic wings and shamrock greens
Between the lake and sea.
With Vichy lace, a Sasson face,
Or yet, perhaps, a Carolinian facade of coup de grace.
Nocturnally content to gaze upon the crashing mist,
With glassy eyes of candlelight, on this can one exist?
“Come closer,” sighed the Irish maid, as if with no alarm.
Invitingly she beckoned him to sheath her sheet rock charm.
While lounging in her cushioned room, so dry, so warm, so neat –
With towered bells and spangled frills duplexially sweet.
The beast came glaring down the hall to view the maiden’s quest.
The beast stood standing in the hall as if the maiden’s guest.
And stopped he was before her door – no sheath, no charm, no key –
While on the wall his fire hose was hung for all to see.
“Quite causal…,” said the fire chief when he heard what had been done.
From volunteers who hosed the mess and counted up the endless sea of ashes one-by-one…
And to this day the village speaks of sharp memories decreased –
Of plastered, painted, wooden worlds, once destined – now deceased.
The Belles of Olde Saint Mary’s and the Dames of Notre Dame
The Belles were known for Beauty
The Dames of course for Brains
And in-between the Irish men
Were asked to please “abstain”.
What resulted was a scandal
A great feud beyond all fame
‘Tween the Belles of Olde Saint Mary’s
And the Dames of Notre Dame
It all started with some mischief
One Saint Mary’s girl had aimed
At an unsuspecting Irish Lasie’s
Boyfriend ̶ “Domer Kean”.
She was talking ‘bout her “Daddy” ̶
A great Southerner by name
Who had made his wealth in oil ̶
And played Life just like the game.
A scuffle soon developed
In which neither side sustained
Any losses which were lighter
Than slight scratches, bites and sprains.
Soon the mood turned much more hostile
As reserves were called to play
And in less than one short instant
A full-scale war was underway.
The Dames soon gathered in a huddle
And tried to quantify their force
So that they might somehow befuddle
The fair Belles on their own course.
But the Belles held their own fortress
Which was fortified in part
By three-hundred Winnebago’s
Parked side-by-side and heart-to-heart.
The Dames then staged a rampage ̶
A quick attempt to gain new ground,
But in a valiant show of moxie
The strong Belles just knocked them down.
But the Dames had reinforcements
An undetected second wave,
Which was mightier and moxier
Than any panty raid.
They struck first at Old Regina
Then they raided great Le Mans
Then with sudden Holy Crossity
They tore the whole place down.
Not a dorm did they leave standing
Nor a shrine, nor statuette,
And even poor Lake Marian
They drained for being wet.
Then when it was all over
And the battlefield was gray,
If anyone could have seen it
From up above they’d a’ looked away.
For in the air were bits and pieces
Of soft flesh and tutored brains,
And on the ground were rows and rows
Of furball-like remains.
Yet if you were to ask them
Just who should be to blame,
They’d shake their heads and stare at you
And say it was a shame.
But one thing is for certain
Things will never be the same,
‘Tween the Belles of Olde Saint Mary’s
And the Dames of Notre Dame.
Requiem for a President Died Young
Let tales be told and songs be sung
For all our gifted men died young
Those few whose lives have blazed a path
Of pageantry and epitaph.
As so it seemed that somber day
When Camelot’s quest was swept away
Before a battered, weary world ̶
Ten million flags, half-mast, unfurled.
The hallowed dirge and clomping march
Did play a solemn role in part
To tell the world of his repute ̶
The sacrificial son’s salute.
His family kept a vigilant pace
With dignitaried guests of faith,
While crowds gazed on along the course
To view the brave but rider-less horse.
Straight through the streets the mourners crept
With veils of black (…for those who wept…)
Proceeding past the monument
Where Lincoln sat in testament.
Then through the District’s sovereign gates
It passed ̶ the horse-drawn casket’s weight;
And all the other worldly cares
His youthful grasp no longer shared.
His bride, she thought it such a dream,
A rank, macabre, Olympian scheme ̶
It had snuffed her light and stilled her pose ̶
Like an early frost for a blossoming rose.
But then, when taken to the field below
The widowed one at last did know,
A legacy in time was sown
With other men ̶ who lay unknown.
The Elect
(Co-written by Douglas C. Bonanomi & Dolores Warwick Frese -- RIP)
Oh Robert, were you first to think of that:
A golden age of poetry and power?
It sounded such a glorious affair,
But nothing seems to rhyme much anymore.
Oh Robert, what is this we’re seeing now?
The shortfalls of your modern legacies,
Or new frontiers, perhaps…?
Oh Robert, when we saw you on that day,
Your glasses fogged (yes, we saw you…)
But you were under worlds of strain and pressed
Between bipartisan heads of state, and yet
You did survive to tell of the great four:
Washington, Adams, Lincoln, and Monroe
(But wait ̶ that’s not how I remember it) …
Oh Robert, were you still awake today
I’d challenge you. I’d leave your sterner pen
In pools of ink; I’d push your outright gift
Out to the brink. But you are sleeping now,
You’re sound asleep.
And so, your golden age goes uncontended.
But Robert. Now those snow-filled days are miles
Behind, and now I think of fire, of ice,
And which, today, for me, would more suffice?
And speaking now to God, as still I sometimes do,
I ask Him if He knows of You…
I’m waiting for an answer. Still.
Snowbirds
When orange and red leaves start to fall in Autumn,
the snowbirds get ready to fly.
“Come along little ones,” Momma bird sings, “We mustn’t be late!”
Papa bird stands at attention at the front of the flock.
“Line up everyone,” he commands.
With still, white clouds stretching southward across the dark blue sky,
the snowbirds take to flight.
Obediently they fly in formation, steadily flapping their wings.
“Good-bye,” the white clouds sigh softly.
A row of sunflowers salutes them on their way.
The setting Autumn sun beams down its golden rays.
“So long,” the sun whispers.
The dark blue sky is speckled with hundreds and hundreds
of snowbirds flying south.
When night falls, the snowbirds are gone.
The sky turns black, and icy frost appears.
The harvest moon seems sad.
“I miss the snowbirds,” she admits.
Not many days later, snowflakes come and fill the air with flaky white.
“Brrrr,” the winter sun says shivering.
The lake is frozen and nothing stirs within the woods.
For days and days the air is cold and the woods quiet.
Then, one day, a tiny sprout appears.
Dark rain clouds come and wash the snow away.
Many more sprouts then poke their sleepy heads out of the ground.
Gracefully the sprouts turn into flowers of pink, yellow, white and violet.
“Oh my,” the sun says to the sprouts, “Let me warm you up!”
He beams down his rays with all his might.
Slowly the rain clouds drift away.
“Do you hear something?” the sun says.
“What is it, what is it?” ask the sprouts.
“Listen!” the sun demands with fiery eyes.
A huge, full moon comes out early.
“I hear it too!” she says.
“Hooray! Hooray!” cheer the sprouts.
In the far, far distance the snowbirds make their noise.
“Honk! Honk! Honk!” they sound.
“Hooray! Hooray!” the sprouts cheer again.
“Hooray!” the sun cheers.
“Hooray!” the moon cheers.
Together they cheer as the snowbirds get closer and closer.
“It is a happy day,” the sun tells the sprouts.
“For the snowbirds have returned!”
Sunflower
Sunflower, fragrance sweet yet oh so dour…
Are you alone a lonely flower?
Would you have faith that winter ice is done
Without first seeing the flowering sun?
Sunflower, can you alone take Mary’s place,
A troubled heart yet full of grace?
Or will God Himself emerge with a smile
And whisk us off to some Virgin Isle…
Perhaps Saint Croix, perhaps Saint John…
(Better yet, Saint Thomas is the one we’re on…)
What true believer could then have doubts
That we together wouldn’t beam and sprout.
So Sunflower, remember, this is true.
You’re a Sunflower, but I’m a Sunflower too!
Little Flower
Christine –
Wistful, wily, child of the city,
Willfully proud, winsomely pretty
(… see her out upon the street
with friends of hers who there will meet
and plant themselves on either side
in bunches…)
Can we see or even hear her?
Do we praise or maybe fear her?
(… is it something we disdain…?)
Peerlessly she gazes toward us
Like a slice her gaze be-swords us
(… is she like we were before her
or is she something new to tame…?)
Sometimes sweet, sometimes dour
She’s the city’s little flower
(… but living in the city’s gloom
will she fade or will she bloom…?)
Speak to her with warm compassion
Something in a nouvelle fashion
(… or is it something that our
modern nuances just can’t explain…?)
Qu’est-ce que vous voulez Christine?
Qu’est-ce que vous voulez Christine?
(Ou allez-vous…? ou allez-vous…?)
(… oh, please be careful, sweet Christine…)
Dearest Flower
Dearest Flower,
Can you feel it – grow – each passing hour…,
This god-forsaken poetic power?
(Yet each Rose must have its Ivory tower
And each Thorn must have its little flower…)
Dearest Flower,
Can you keep the sun turned on?
(Ask a leaf not to turn?
… a flame not to burn?
… a heart not to yearn?
… the world not to learn?)
Can you even keep your light on?
Little Flower,
Can you pray to Her?
Mother Katherine, Marie, Therese?
Mother Mary, Rose, Teresa?
Can you pray to Them?
(…. Little flower…)
Will you let them pass out flowers?
Will you help them build their towers?
Do you mind that the petals smell so sweet,
Yet taste so sour?
Will you mind the midnight hours?
Can you even pray to Them?
Dearest Flower,
Can you conceive some inconceivable hue?
Or paint the sky so its brilliantly blue?
Is what you think even conceivable true?
Can you feel it?
(… grow…)
We know
(… we feel it too…)
[But the world must wait…,
( … and waits only for you…)]
Little Flower, Little flower, little flower…
Dearest flower…
Sarah
Dear Sarah with the happy eyes
That seek hellos but not goodbyes
Come greet us with a big surprise
Of fleecy hugs worth sharing…
Dear little lamb that Sweetness knows
Your angel heart just grows and grows
Before too long you’ll tippy-toe
With longingness and daring…
Oh little one of hallowed grace
A sheepish grin, a lamb-like face —
Someday you’ll make the world more safe
With your tenderness and caring…
Dear Sarah with the happy eyes
We’ll say hello (but not goodbye…)
For every day your angel heart is growing, growing, growing…
Your happy eyes peep out at us – glowing… glowing… glowing…
May’s Child
May’s child, she’s a lovely child
With freckles on her face,
When she takes the floor to dance
She shows a ballerina’s grace.
May’s child, she’s a lovable child
Without her we would miss,
Her girlish laugh, her pretty smile,
The sweetness of her kiss.
May’s child, she’s a loving child
She holds her sister’s hand,
By her youthful vigilance
She lets her sister stand.
May’s child, she’s a flowering child
She blooms like blossoms in the spring.
With her beaming countenance
She brightens everything.
May’s child, she’s a blessed child –
Her soul’s blessed with virtue, honor, light…
When the Lord looks down on her
He sighs with sheer delight.
Dear Susan
Dear Susan, do you wonder –
Dear Susan, do you mind –
Dear Susan, do you think that God
Is much like me in kind?
Or is it any wonder
That life itself is here –
Whose chore is it to make it
Something special, something dear?
Dear Susan, you are wondrous –
Dear Susan, you are pure –
Dear Susan, you’re a gift
From somewhere special, that’s for sure –
Your life is like a poem –
Full of rhythm, full of rhyme…
Your life is like a prayer to God –
Silent meaning put to time…
Is There Anything Lovelier Than a Ballerina?
Is there anything lovelier than a ballerina?
Every part a ballerina part
Every touch a ballerina touch
Every step a ballerina step.
Is there anything lovelier than a ballerina?
Pure pink skin, outstretched limbs
Hair woven in meticulous style.
Nameless, wordless, weightless prose
Burning bright beneath soft pastel lights.
Is there anything lovelier than a ballerina?
Chiffon twists and satin tumbles
All balanced on a single toe
A gritty smile, a piercing gaze
(As if to say hello…)
Is there anything lovelier than a ballerina?
I can think of none –
In this minefield of what once
May have been a civilized world,
Which has fallen, seemingly, to the regimented regime-ists
Who have carelessly forgotten –
There is nothing quite so lovely as a ballerina…
The Meringue Theory
Some say the universe started with a bang
Yet say others, it started with a single atom
I say it started with a harangue
And ended as it is today
All covered with meringue.
It’s a theory (don’t you see?)
For in the Autumn
Maple drops drip down from pining trees
To leave a sugary coating on all those senseless saps
Who think that their magnanimous theorizing’s
Are an asset to this world.
So to those of you who think the universe started with a bang
I say to you the bang is yet to come.
And to those who uphold the singe atom theory
I say: “Please listen to my harangue –
And dig deep below the outer crust
To sample the lemony, sometimes sour, gel-like fill,
Or better yet, the sweet meringue
(Which as you may or may not know
I, a starving poet, savor best).”
Love Knot
The Golden Lady takes a step
Then stands upon a spot
And weaving with her golden thread
She ties a golden knot.
‘Tween you and me the know is tied
It is a Lover’s Knot
And looking up above we praise
The Lord for what we’ve got.
———————————————–
We met one night last summer
In a Northeast cabaret
And since that night the lonely threads
Of solitude have slipped away.
But can our love mean something
More than a daily rendezvous
In a world so void of colors
In a world so tainted with blues.
For I know that God the Father
Sits above us in the sky
And gazing down from heaven
Views the world and wonders why –
Why for in this world of plenty
He can hear the unheard cries
Of babes without their mothers
And the solitary sighs –
Sighs of Loneliness despairing,
Of Hopelessness despised,
From the wars and strife, and hungry mouths,
And Happiness defied.
Oh, Mother can you tell me,
Tell me how or maybe why,
Why the word is filled with hatred,
Filled with bigotry and lies? –
But Mary, she’s already told us
At Fatima, Medjugorje, and Lourdes
Why the world’s in such great turmoil
Why the world’s in such discord.
“This century belongs to Satan…,”
Our Blessed Mother told us then,
And singing to the world
She told us how and even when.
When in time the Lord will come in Glory
While yet the world will end in fright.
Fright for those without a purpose –
Fright for those without a light.
Mary’s told us how to make it though,
How to make it to the end;
Together we’ll live forever, she says
While alone we will descend.
“Love not your own self only.”
Our Lady’s voice inside us says
And spinning within our souls she weaves
A gold, entangled web…
——————————————————-
We met one night last summer
In a Northeast cabaret
And since that night the lonely threads
Of solitude have crept away –
For I know God the Father
Sits above us in the sky
And gazing down from heaven
Let’s a tear drop from His eye –
And I will love you always,
I will love you to the end,
And we’ll face God together
As a single heart we’ll both transcend.
Mocha and Irish
There was a ghastly plane crash last night
And the television media was quick to point out the pilot’s error;
Then they suddenly decided it wasn’t that at all, but engine failure,
Then, more precisely, failure of the hydraulic system.
And I look at Irish – my small, blue and gold, Australian finch
Which I keep in a bamboo cage by the front window
And I say – “Irish – please show the world how to fly…”
But Irish only looks back at me blankly
As if to say: “Don’t you remember what happened before to Mocha…”
Mocha – who was Irish’s caged predecessor.
And I do remember that post-dawn morning, years ago,
When I left Mocha out of his cage
On some unfamiliar Iowa farm.
Mocha squawked at the thought of being free.
And I watched as he tried to exercise his unexercised wings.
Flapping gallantly upward toward the early-morning Autumn-blue sky
Only to encounter a heavy harvest wind, which came and pushed him
violently back to the ground.
“Yes…, I remember that Irish —
That is why I know you’ll be content
To live life in a cage.”
Reflections of 9/11
Can anyone take me to Ground Zero?
I know I’ll never be a hero.
But I hope to bask in the eternal prayer
That the Muslim God, the Christian God, the Jewish God must share
Can anyone take me there?
Can anyone take me to Ground Zero?
I know I’ll never be a hero.
But I hope to bask in the eternal prayer
That the Arab soldier, the American soldier, the Israeli soldier must share
Can anyone take me there?
Can anyone take me to Ground Zero?
I know I’ll never be a hero.
But I hope to bask in the eternal prayers
That the Afghan children, the British children, the Palestinian children must share
Can anyone take me there?
In a single year, I’ve lost faith in my church, but not in my religion
Will you run with me?
Will you pray with me?
Can you take me to Ground Zero?
(I know I’ll never be your hero.)
If nothing else today, in some small way, look up to God above.
If nothing else today, in some small way, think of whom you love.
Six Designs of Freedom
I.
My page is short.
My legs are short.
My life is short.
My eyes can only see
The orange painted wall.
II.
In a small white cubicle
Stands a man.
Naked.
He is looking at the inside of the walls.
But the walls are sealed tight
And there is no way out.
III.
In a prison cell
Sits a man.
He is a criminal.
But the cell is clean
And to pass the time
He likes to run
The cold water.
IV.
There is a girl
Who I see
Every now and then.
She is short
And very pretty.
She has big, brown watery eyes,
Her hair an amber blond.
If she were to cut off her hair
And sell it as gold
She would be rich.
V.
In a glass-plated hourglass
The sand falls down
With a regular frequency.
On the bottom lies a man
And the sand falls down
Upon him.
Sometimes the sand feels good
But sometimes it hurts.
The man would like to crawl
Into the upper chamber to watch
The falling of the sand.
But the sand is heavy
And the man is trapped.
VI.
Still life, after birth
In the confines of a lonely chamber
A young girl lies –
She is a mother.
There is no one there
For her to talk to
And she feels
Like isolation.
The baby that was to be hers
Is stillborn –
And the father
Is only an empty promise.
Silently she crosses her arms
Clutches herself
And says a prayer.
Finally, she leans to one side
Near the middle of the bed
Closes her eyes
And goes
to
sleep.
Silent Trees
One hopes that one shall never see,
A barren wasteland strewn with trees –
Bare branches brown and barkless trunks,
Black leaves befallen mindless funk…
Tall, fruitless souls of indefinite bounds…
Thick, hollow wood – no lingering sounds?
Consumed within its deadwood toil,
Beggars, thieves, of infertile soil…
Crooked arms stretched out to thickening skies above…
Seeking tangled embrace – from past vibrant love?
Discarded aims from a decaying breach,
No longer living, just shadowy reach…
How loveless is their ghostly lore –
Wet, silent trees, and nothing more…
Ode to Emily
Heard a fly buzz sipping an Emily D. libation,
The lifespan of which was nocturnal –
I taste a liquor never brewed it was, I think –
Or, a narrow fellow in the grass…
It slithered through the ethernet,
Then clawed and sawed in Somerset –
Went round and round in featurette –
And landed on its slumberette…
Juxtaposed in slumber,
The buzzing never ceased –
Yet somehow seemed increased –
Quite awkwardly, deceased…
To rest in peace eternally,
A lifetime of infirmity —
So, what’s the buzz…, the infernal buzz…
… for buzzing Emily…
They make me trudge through
quicksand every day –
They make me trudge through quicksand every day –
Constant slog-slog-slogging of swollen feet,
An existentialist’s dismay,
Hardly indiscreet…
Seeking firm-firm-firmer standing on some sun-drenched shore…
Surer log-log-logging of unsettled feet,
Uncertain how much longer to endure –
Non-admittance of defeat…
Finally land-land-landing on blessed sun-baked ground –
No longer wait-wait-waiting for Samaritan’s retreat,
Feeling thankfulness abound –
Totalitarianism’s sweet…
Now…, they march me through dense mine fields every day –
Indisputable side-side-stepping of unaligned feet,
A pragmatist’s forlorn dismay,
Seeking quicksand now…
– tout de suite…