In greeting an old woman of Belize
a tourist praised, “You speak English with ease.”
“I know it, you fool;
they teach it in school!”
English is the state language of Belize.
Belizean Limerick
1
Tag Archives: poem
Austrian Limerick
There once was a man from Austria
prone to coffee house nausea.
“Our cafés are held dear,
but I can’t get near…,”
said that lonely, skinny man of Austria.
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Nepali Limerick
There was a short man from Nepal –
self-conscious of not being tall,
“Our mountains are grand,
but I have to stand
on a crate to see over the wall!”
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POEM: Changing Times
A city lies under the sea,
from unknown tragedy.
Ancient pillars stand still and tall.
Could we lose a city?
If we did, there’d be no sign;
it’d be washed to refuse.
Once towns lasted, but info perished;
now engine ‘s swapped for caboose.
And bad facts are like bad pennies
while streets change year to year,
and nothing outlasts those notions
that form the sum of fear.
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POEM: Rocketed by Book
I donned this book like sunglasses
to tweak my old worldview,
but that intent was overshot
and I saw all anew.
I peered at the page and there saw
another universe.
Through eyes not mine, but no better —
nor in any way worse.
Eyes that’d seen things unknown to me,
but not this world of mine.
We’ll have to work together to
unravel space and time.
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POEM: Scrapping Labels
The brain wants to slap a label on everything it comes in contact with —
good… bad
pleasurable… painful
smart… dumb
naughty… nice
Having reached the time and disposition to tear away these labels, I find that some are stuck fast —
though they went on with the ease of a sticky note.
And so I unpack concepts and scrap labels —
sometimes with ease
&
sometimes tediously.
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Three Kyōka
I
the post-perched bird
remains still, but for its eyes,
which dart about —
below, fish shoot and jink,
thinking the post oddly shaped
II
the mountains reflect
off of that glassy lake
with such clarity;
all know which mountains are true
except for the fishes
III
behind the barracks,
some local women gather
to bath at the well.
he pretends not to look
they pretend not to be seen
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POEM: Painted River
I walked beside that gray river;
fog blurred the trees of the far bank.
The grass and ground were wetted down
as if the clouds had crashed that night
and slathered moisture on the world
as a damp mop dragged over might.
It’s cold and wet and as subdued
as a painting in shades of gray.
Have you seen the world look painted —
as if it were more art than real?
Then you may know what I walked through —
its look rang false, but – oh – that feel.
It felt like every nerve burned bright
despite that dim, mid-winter scene.
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POEM: Seeking Union
The dangling vine curls at its end —
a hook in search of hold.
The breezes bounce and sway that hook —
‘t looks blindly pushed and pulled.
But that creeper ‘s not drooping free.
It’s reaching as best it can.
Awaiting opportunity —
too patient for a plan.
One day, in sway, it’ll set its hook,
and wrap its way around,
and – day-by-day – will climb its way
still farther from the ground.
‘Til it links its roots to canopy.
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POEM: Rainy Day Rambling Brain
Sitting on the balcony, watching the rain, I see spreading concentric rings ping into each other in the puddles below. The expanding rings of big drops swamp those of the smaller droplets. More evenly-matched pairings of waves becomes something new — not pure chaos, but much more complex than either of their parents. The analogy to the workings of my mind is intuitively felt — if not intellectually understood.
A pigeon struts along the ledge of concrete slab on a building under construction next door. The slab intends to become a balcony like the one on which I’m sitting.
I want to think that only a winged creature could walk so confidently on that ledge, but I remember reading that skyscraper construction companies in New York City hired lots of men from a certain Western tribe known for fearlessness vis-à-vis heights.
But were they fearless?
Sooner or later, fearless creatures become careless creatures — at least among humans.
The chipmunk bobbing at the twiggy, distal end of a branch seems fearless to me, but I also feel that I’d see a lot more sidewalk-splattered chipmunks if the little beast didn’t have some kind of feeling about the precariousness of its situation. Maybe, I anthropomorphize.
And one puddle reaches a tipping point, pouring into another…
