Good Day for a Flow Tale

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#onesyllablewords, Canadian poet, Elaine Stirling, poetry for fun, sonnet

I love the sound of the sea, so one day
my friend and me set out on a small boat
from the brook near his house. I heard him say
I think this is the way, if we can float

and not look back, just go, dare I say flow,
to where the slow speeds up a bit, we might
come to a bend or fork, I do not know
for sure, but who does? This may well prove us right—

—or wrong. Life, as they say, can be a song
you sing out loud or just a ton of work.
My friend was not the type to think for long
on thoughts he did not like. He was no shirk.

The shark that took him flipped our boat, then spat
him out. We swam to shore, and that was that!

~~~

One of my favourite improv games is to play a scene or tell a story in words of only one syllable. This is a sonnet written in the same spirit.

© Elaine Stirling, 2018

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Good Old Saint Lav

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Canadian poet, Elaine Stirling, homage to Rudyard Kipling, The Egg-Shell

In a house at the end of Liberty Lane
lives a man named Lavender Mudge.
When I was a girl my grandmother asked me
to bring him a plateful of fudge.
He’s not always friendly with children, she said,
but it’s only because he is old.
We should always be kind to our neighbours, she said,
for kindness is dearer than gold.

So I took him the plateful and knocked on his door,
expecting an ogre or worse.
He invited me in to his trim little house;
over tea, he read me some verse
from a book that he slammed. This is trash, he said.
I’d expect nothing more from a ring-a-ding.
Not quite the description he used, then he said,
but you’re just a kid. You don’t know anything.

Today in the house at Liberty Lane,
there still lives a man named Lavender Mudge.
He doesn’t come out much, has little to say,
but this morning, I brought him some fudge.
There’s really no hope for the world, he said,
over tea that tasted like sludge.
But don’t look at me! I warned them, he said,
good old Lav of Perpetual Grudge.

Author’s note: This ditty is a shameless attempt to emulate Rudyard Kipling’s rollicking narrative poem called “The Egg-Shell”. A friend posted it on Facebook this morning, and I was immediately agog. If you’re curious, look it up. You’ll see what I mean. For all Kipling’s flaws (and we’ve all got ‘em), when he was on fire, he was genius.

~~~

© Elaine Stirling, 2018
Image of Crooked Man by Ken Lamug

Would it Kill You?

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Canadian poet, Elaine Stirling, Medieval form poetry, ringelreim, rondeau

~~a ringelreim~~

Would it kill you to say something nice?
Lean closer to sweetness than spice?
Since I know your full spectrum from meh through to hate,
I doubt, though I’d love, a good reason to wait
for a positive roll from your dice.

I have seen you relax once or twice,
though it seems to exact quite a price
to let up on fate. Would it kill you?

From me, you should not take advice.
I do not hold the knife that determines the slice
of the pie that you fear has already been ate,
but I do, as you see, have the power to grate,
to be cheesy, for once, would it kill you?

~~~

Author’s note: Ringelreims, a form of rondeau, have a tight rhyme scheme with the addition of a refrain, repeated three times. In this instance, the refrain, of course, is “would it kill you?”. That’s the serious poet’s explanation. My explanation for writing a ringelreim is that skipping down a sidewalk, as an adult, is frowned upon by the very grumps one is trying to escape. Ringelreims are the second best option.

© Elaine Stirling, 2017

Social Media Be Me Rag

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Canadian poet, Elaine Stirling, poetry for fun

Click, share, like, react,
does it reinforce a fact?
If you make me look at that,
do you wrest control from me?

Does my pause intensify
those emotions that you try
to smother deep or magnify?
What an odd psychology.

Lock step, real quick,
don’t argue with my politic!
Friends together have to stick,
God forbid we disagree.

I know who will slap my wrist
if I say unicorns exist.
They’ll tell me they could not resist;
it’s hard, I know, to let things be.

You love science, she hates fiction,
I’m a stickler for good diction.
Conflict is a mean addiction
to our fastest-growing industry.

Pity poor or hate the rich,
some days I just don’t know which
cheap polarity to ditch—
Robin Hood, we’re up a tree!

By the time I end this poem,
a million cells I will have grown,
to feed on whate’er seeds I’ve sown
in my garden of biology.

You think we’re in our final act,
maybe never coming back?
This life might be a single track
on the  album called Infinity.

~~~

© Elaine Stirling, 2017

Boldly

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an epitaph I could live with, Canadian poet, Elaine Stirling, French medieval fixed verse, villanelle

~~a villanelle~~

I’ve always only ever been
as friends and kin will testify
the type to boldly wander in

to my delight and their chagrin
my motto is, explore or die!
I’ve always only ever been

indifferent to the public whim
of politics and what to buy.
The type to boldly wander in,

it fits me like a second skin.
The over-cautious bleed me dry.
I’ve always only ever been

attracted to the fiery rim.
It won’t be your fault if I fry.
The type to boldly wander in

knows, yes, that one day she’ll begin—
and boom! Living kills you, then you die.
I’ve always only ever been
the type to boldly wander in.

~~~

The only way, sometimes, to get rid of an annoying earworm such as “always only ever” is to quadruple it into a villanelle. Off you go, little worm…

© Elaine Stirling, 2017

Giving a Ripe Red Fig

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breakfast inspirations, Canadian poet, Elaine Stirling, poetry for fun, Richard the Lionheart

I love that there are figs.
I love that figs exist.
I love that figs have been preserved
to grace the plates of ancient royalists.

A day that starts with sweet
and old from orchards of Provence
means more to me than all the tea
and crumpets you might find
in fancy restaurants.

Good breakfast makes us champions
and this I do believe,
for even Richard Lionheart
from battling nasty dukes
each morning took a brief reprieve…

with crusty bread, a blob of jam,
and fresh ground chicory, he pushed
the foes of Aquitaine back to their
smarmy lairs and claimed
his figues rouges-fueled victory.

All hail therefore the mighty fig,
its Maker, and this day
where once again I’m free to choose
my battles, how to fight them—
and where not to give a frig!

~~~

© Elaine Stirling, 2016

Jeb Miller Clancy & the Silk Knitter’s Fancy

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Canadian poet, Elaine Stirling, humourous verse, narrative poetry

This is an ode to Jeb Miller Clancy,
publican of The Silk Knitter’s Fancy.
Rented out rooms by the seat of his pants, he
never saw life as forbidding or chancy.

Night after night in his tavern on Mile Street,
Jeb Miller Clance served his clients a wild streak
of savoury pies and craft beer called Hey, Wheat!
seldom bothered to tally his eat, sleep & play week.

Normally, now, in an ode of this type,
we expect our protagonist living his right
and substantial good life to encounter a fight
with some jerk and his knife, or a moll
with a history of psychos and strife.

But the aim of this verse isn’t what you might think,
for the life of Jeb Clancy, while centered on drink,
food, and bed sheets avoided the brink
of self-pity that wedges us into a chink
like a tiddly wink…

…of belief in a past or a future of doom
with barrages of fact that deny wiggle room,
See, the thing about Jeb and this jiggedy tune
is that death will o’ertake us all, later or soon,

as it did on a cold stormy October night
when Jeb took his sweetie out dancing. The light
of the moon caught them kissing just right—
when the meteor struck with spectacular might.

Today there’s a hole where the publican rests
that’s become what you might call a pilgrimage quest.
All who pay homage insist they feel blessed
by the spirit of Jeb who sees you as his guest

of The Silk Knitter’s Fancy that only admits
patrons with hunger for meat pies and wit
and a pint with good friends who begrudge not a bit
your decision to live with fine humour and grit.

~~~

Author’s Note: I mostly wrote this poem for the opportunity to say tiddly wink.

© Elaine Stirling, 2016

The Chicken State

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#celebratediversity, Canadian poet, Elaine Stirling, humourous poetry, Malayan fixed verse, pantoum

~~a pantoum~~

For every point of view there is an audience
a tier of seats with fannies firmly set
and eyes like glue sticks predisposed
to roll, adhere, and plaudit: Just like me!

A tier of seats with fannies firmly set
affirms that I have reached some center stage
to roll, adhere, and plaudit. Just like me
is what my chicken self (cluck-clawk!) aspires for you,

affirms that I have reached some center stage,
a coop d’etat, a free range state with me as head
is what my chicken self (cluck-clawk!) aspires for you…
what’s that you say—I’m cool—steel hatchet?

A coop d’etat, a free range state with me as head
and eyes like glue sticks predisposed…
what’s that you say? I’m cool? Steel hatchet—
For every point of view there is an audience.

~~~

The glorious chicken image comes from http://www.coolanimalspics.blogspot.com.

© Elaine Stirling, 2016

Obsessing

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Canadian poet, Elaine Stirling, Malayan fixed verse, pantoum, poetry for fun

~~a pantoum~~

Obsessing on thoughts on streets that go nowhere
I’m hunching my shoulders, recalling
how yesterday’s runners took up all the tables.
We sedentary saints couldn’t hear ourselves think!

I’m hunching my shoulders, recalling
how someone on Facebook went apeshit again.
We sedentary saints couldn’t hear ourselves think
about hot desert islands and big fat accounts.

How someone on Facebook went apeshit again
is upsetting my mojo that loves to dream
about hot desert islands and big fat accounts—
ought to give you some pause, don’t you think?

Is upsetting my mojo that loves to dream
how yesterday’s runners took up all the tables
as easy to fix as—slow down, silly rabbit?!
Obsessing on thoughts on streets that go nowhere…

© Elaine Stirling, 2016

Rancheras & Tequila

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Canadian poet, Elaine Stirling, Mexican Ranchera, poetry for fun

I have loved Mexican rancheras since the age of three when my parents and I moved to the Gulf coast of Mexico. I heard rancheras on the radio and danced to them with our maid and her hot, 12-year-old son, Miguel. I saw musicians singing rancheras live on the street and at fiestas. Whether I could distinguish Javier Solís from Vicente Fernández I cannot say, but I did have a preference for the super campy, drunken wailing versions. They just seemed so funny to me (and were probably sung by José Alfredo Jiménez).

Decades later, pregnant, I listened obsessively to Cuco Sanchez, the only ranchera album my family still owned. To this day, my Canadian-born son feels an almost patriotic passion for Mexican Spanish.

Recently, a friend delivered a wonderful presentation on the Mexican corrido, a close musical relative of ranchera. She introduced us to their poetry and meter, tracing their origins to Spain and the story-telling traditions of the troubadour. Spun, not surprisingly, to my own early days, I spent the following weekend binge-listening to rancheras on YouTube. “Rancheras and Tequila” is my humble tribute, with gratitude for the memories.

~~~

Rancheras and tequila I’m enjoying
with an old friend who’s in town just passing through.
I am texting this from Rosalí’s Cantina
just to tell you we’re not talking about you.

The moon is full, fish tacos are sabroso;
our friend still has that lust heat in his eye.
From my cheek he wipes a love smear of chipotle
while the great José Jimenez makes us cry.

Ai, ai, ai, aiii, we could have been the toast of Guanajuato,
your killer looks, my brains the perfect pair.
With lonely hearts an ever-growing market,
we dreamed a way to heal the great despair.

We talk, my friend and I, until the moon sets
and our bottle of Don Julio has run dry.
We chase each other laughing to the seashore,
throw our clothes off, to life’s problems sing goodbye.

We’re kissing while our legs float out behind us,
when suddenly he shouts, “Un tiburón!”
I cannot see a fin through all my splashing,
nor the glint of antique silver from his gun—

Ai, ai, ai, aiii, we could have been the toast of Guanajuato,
your killer looks, my brains the perfect pair.
With lonely hearts an ever-growing market,
we dreamed a way to heal the great despair.

These days I hang in Rosalí’s Cantina
and imagine us together, you and I.
Most patrons cannot hear my sad rancheras,
believing the tequila makes them cry.

The shark, he doesn’t visit like he used to.
He’s famous now—what need has he of me?
But one day while he’s cheating some pareja
of their fortunes, he will hear a sultry voice,
“Oh look, a honey bee!”

Ai, ai, ai, aiii, we could have been the toast of Guanajuato,
your killer looks, my brains the perfect pair.
With lonely hearts an ever-growing market,
we dreamed a way to heal the great despair.

© Elaine Stirling, 2016