Thursday, May 31, 2012

MUPOD #1

Made up Phrase of the Day


Mixed Mythaphor

Eg:

There in the back of the little room was a huge pile of gold colored blocks, which made me think of the story, And so the mighty Bast, Cat Queen of all Turkmenistan, hurled a lightning bolt from her screaming hammer, turning the lead lamb of Mary's flock into a Sheep of Golden Fleece, which was scooped up by the Englishman hater Greek giant, Enceladus, eater of greeneries, and whisked off to Ragnarok, where it shed yellow bricks for all of eternity!

or...

I felt a little nauseous, like that Indian god did that time when Indra was angry! He'd eaten far too much curry! So he jumped into his chariot and rode across the top of the sun in search of Oghma, Pharmacist to the gods! One Guinness later, and a little fishing with his famous trident with which he was able to spear a half dozen water orcs, then roast them neatly and serve them on a bed of shaved Valkyrie to Gordon 'hath no fury' Ramsey as part of a competition called "Hell's REAL Kitchen", he was cured of his indigestion and retreated to his magic kingdom where Ali Baba had last stolen his Japanese lantern collection.

or...

The sun was so bright it made me squint, almost as painfully as when Brigit grabbed her bow and shot an arrow in the air, and where it fell to... was a matter of some debate between Gilgamesh the beefeater and Xochiquetzal, chocolatier to the stars. As it turned out, the arrow was found poking from the single eyeball of Correlon Larethian, the Elven Cyclops.

Monday, May 28, 2012

In A Nutshell


She’d not have had to look my way with eyes like anagrams
her brow had told me quite enough, her stance had added some
as, though her words sprung forth as if a drove of newborn lambs
her aura stated lioness, a breast most worrisome  

I’d not, I’d said, been out all night, with wenches by the score
I’d only hastened riverside to pen a poem or two
Then she, so sweetly I might add, said “who’s your latest whore”
I said “I’ve not the time for one, I’ve far too much to do.”

She said “you’re lying, I can see right through your thin disguise”
I groaned as now she’d plucked my strings, as if it were her place
Through gritted teeth I said “look here, just what do you surmise?”
She said “you’re like your father, you’re the essence of disgrace”

The thought of just unloading flashed before me in my rage
I was a young man after all, and boys are prone to shout
But I had come to recognize the sickness in this stage
and I knew what mom’s spiteful accusations were about

It wasn’t but a week before the doctors were involved
A few more days of censure was the only price I’d paid
And once I’d had a moment’s peace, her actions were absolved
It’s not that I’d dissolved my pique, but more, it’s been mislaid

Sunday, May 27, 2012

Down a Single Lane


Well I'd hoped to pass acquaintance
yea, I thought we could be friends
sure I know that's silly sounding; I'm just slow to comprehend
it was feeling fine that kept this lie a few days overdue
I'm just sorry that I spent it all on you.

I'd just noticed things in common
it was really my mistake
I had thought to share a cause or two, to play at give and take
I admit to my distraction, it was selfish on my part
I thought you could help me heal this bleeding heart

It's all the harder to imagine
never having seen your face
that we'd ever come to care for real, beyond this fictioned place
It's a sickness that I live with; always want more than can be
It's the stone my life is built on, you're my next futility

What it is I have to offer
would not be enough reward
I will only entertain you as I'm falling on my sword
If it's seldom that I offer love, the reasons all are here
each new breakaway just makes my life more clear

It's a worthiness connection
It's the fear to go alone
it's the days of watching only wind, and hearing only moan
it's what drives me to compete again, for others precious time
and to pen an endless stream of pointless rhyme

Well, I'd offer an apology
if I was in the wrong
but my wishing's not the issue, just my giving up that song
I had hoped to pass acquaintance but I know that's not to be
so with open arms I set your image free

Saturday, May 26, 2012

Crystal Tears


They prism, as crystal; the tears of an angel
once rare as the leaves on a frost covered tree
now commonplace really, these trifles of sadness
they weep for the innocent's deep misery

The children are kidnapped to serve as an army
the children are taken to serve as their slaves
the children are wired to massacre children
the children are piled in the deepest of graves

We've come now full circle, from pond scum to pond scum
we've lost what was civilized, cowed to the fear
too oft' turned our heads from the plight of those ravaged
'till anger's come calling on those we hold dear

The angels are trying, they do what they're able
supporting a few that support a few more
yet they're not immune to the scenes of our slaughter
and one day e'en angels will fly from our shore

Brainstorming


Ronald Jackson of Were Industries stepped through the double doors and into the Gitchegoomie conference room where an impatient collection of creative directors, writers and artists were awaiting their new client.

"Sorry I'm late," he said cheerily as he walked to the head of the table and gripped a leather chair back, leaning toward the gathered and slowly taking in each face one at a time.


Horrified and quite speechless, the elite of Mason-Williams Advertising stared at the new arrival; a tall, muscular man with an unusually elongated face framed by swept back, coal black hair. His ears seemed a little too pointed as did his teeth, which showed themselves as he smiled in greeting, his upper lip near folding onto itself, baring a set of unusually long, gleaming canines. But it was the still dripping mess covering the client's Italian suit that had the staff excessively worried. By the color of the stain on his white shirt the liquid had to be blood, but worse were the obvious bits and shards of flesh and bone stuck to clothing and hanging from his well trimmed beard.


"I've met with your director and sorry to say we had a disagreement as to his creative proposal, he was very adamant yet, I just couldn't get my claws around the idea. Does someone else have a better concept? A show of hands?"

Thursday, May 24, 2012

Teapot Glory


Once it was in kitchens dark when tools stood proudly on the board
our little teapots languished in the corners of those rooms;
whence fickle fads enveloped us, the Asian liquid’s ox was gored
and soda pop raised up to send the teabags to their tombs.

Yet that was in America, where hula hoops have ruled the day
and Slinkies have come charging down the center floor plan stair.
Poor shredded leaf was covered o’er by dried beans bearing strong bouquet.
Ah, coffee, drink of elder gods, the heavens brought to bear.

In deference to the heathens who would spur fine wine for tree bark soup
the islanders kept faith with their ambrosia born of shrubs.
For centuries the Brits have held, through Arthur, Churchill and their troupe
that tea’s the perfect beverage, once ignoring those from pubs.

And now it seems the Yanks awake, the leaf is favored once again;
our kitchens prone to brewing are now steeping by the droves.
And in their teapot glory, kettles loudly whistle their Amen,
to prayers they’d once again reign proud, atop the U.S. stoves.

Molten Ire


She appeared as porcelain; a hand made perfection that might shatter if bumped from its pedestal. Her hair, blazing red like the fires of Galway Forge, flowing over her rounded shoulders in waves as if molten ire. Her breasts spoke of warm nights and soft nuzzling; her hips flared, their tender flesh covered in emerald brocade, cinched by a silver, tasseled rope. The lady's feet were minuscule, dressed in blackened buckskin and eye-hooked silver braid; she gripped an oriental paper fan, her long, delicate fingers comforted by Irish lace gloves, their cuffs pleated, and fastened by a single silver button.

But her face was my most wondrous prize, her magnificent face with its startlingly dark blue eyes that set upon their target as if the smallest bird alighting on a willow switch; under which a long, slender nose led one's gaze to her full, cherry red lips, pursed slightly, wetted always.


She had no idea I existed; that I adored her features, her grace, that I considered her a natural masterpiece. No man of means or station, I am invisible before her glorious beauty. Of that I am saddened yet resigned; I know my place and it is not beside one as she. But I must here in pen and ink rejoice in the gift God has bestowed upon me by allowing this one glimpse into heaven; for this angel of light to have crossed my path was a blessing from which I may never fully recover. I am hers and so will leave this place, that I not become overwhelmed by my love and speak out of turn, that I not shame her by a random petulance. Yet her visage is burned into my memory and when the rose of Sharon blooms no more, when winter's bite snaps away all but that which is crisp and white, I shall see her face and be stilled... that I might be warmed by the image of her radiant smile.

Monday, May 21, 2012

Little Dog Agog


From deep within the black furball that rests on my unmade bed I see the light brown iris of a single eye, rotating in time with my movements. He is still entranced by the sandman’s call, yet the excitement of knowing what is about to happen forces one lid to the upright and locked position lest he miss his witness of the supernatural. A second eye opens as I undress. (I feel it more than see it as I must concentrate on relieving myself of my jockeys without distraction or meet the floor face to face)

As I move toward the master bath I hear the telltale tinkle of a nametag and license. His head had surely risen. He is aware. He is coming. And yet there is no movement below the shoulders until the scrape of pretend metal on cheap plasticy metal; until I slide the shower door back and reach into the stall to grip the controls.

Suddenly there is a flurry of activity. The bed and the little dog part company as if one is a cannon and the other, an unemployed college student unable to find any job save the one in the circus. His face, cute even while disheveled, appears in the doorway and the staredown begins. He waits, patiently, his tail moving in a circular motion signifying great anticipation. I can taunt him no more. I pull the knob thingy and water gushes forth. From high up on the wall. From where there had been no water moments before.

He stands like an ebon statuary, eyes pinned to the gush, head cocked ever so slightly; and then without fanfare he turns to go, acting as if he’d lost interest in the blink of that singular brown iris buried within a mass of curly black fur. Another day has come. Another miracle has transpired. Time for a nap.

Saturday, May 19, 2012

Answers to Ashes, Dance to Dust


As if I could make a difference I offered sanctuary
from the cold,
from the dark,
from the beatings,
from him as it were
or a dozen hims if need be

She accepted my shield for a time
and though she sometimes tried to ply me
I took no payment
Wanting nothing, but her safety
guardian
not replacement

But she returned each time
the bruises and excuses
demanding this fool be fooled this once
and next once, whenever that came
That I might leave well enough
alone

The months turned to years turned to decades
As if I could make a difference she reached out to me
pleaded
asked too much and I pulled back
the years had not been kind to either of us
I had nothing left

She may have killed herself
she may have been killed
either way I helped spill her ashes
she asked too much and I pulled back

and I will always painfully regret my cowardice

as if I could have made a difference.