The Chicken State

Tags

#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

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The Two-Mile Blues

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#bringingbacktheglosa, Billy Connolly, Elaine Stirling, form poetry, glosa, humourous poetry, medieval Spanish fixed verse, satire

Before you judge a man, walk
a mile in his shoes. After
that, who cares? He’s a mile
away, and you’ve got his shoes.

Billy Connolly

~~~

I’ve a case of the two-mile blues
in the back of my truck
that broke down on the outskirts
of a dangerous town where the folk
are known to be mighty and prim
with their sensitive talk
about feelings and wings, always
flapping political, never nonsensical—
makes me want to scribble in chalk:
Before you judge a man, walk!

I’ve drunk half the case
of my two-mile blues, so I’m
just about ready to float
into town. Prepared for their issues,
I’ve brought lots of tissues
to wipe tears of laughter
that spurt when I’m supposed
to be mad. I’ve a date to go
dancing with a velociraptor
a mile in his shoes, after.

The town looks deserted, but that
could just be the two-mile blues
distorting my vision of crowds
with their heads in my business,
yak-talking, and me with my usual
cluelessness, needing to be here a while.
I feel someone stalking my every
move, so I spin around quickly and…
whoa! I cover my eyes. I’m going to file
that, who cares? He’s a mile

high widget with sky-high opinions
stacked on his head like slices
of onion and a girl on his arm
with eyes that keep rolling. They’re
judging my walk and my words
and the pickles I choose
for my sandwich, but the two-mile
blues remind me to cruise how-so-ever
I want. Just throw their whiny views
away, and you’ve got his shoes!

~~~

This poem is my umpty-third glosa, a form you can learn more about here, with the opportunity to buy a whole book of them and a novella to match.

© Elaine Stirling, 2014

Let Go!

Tags

Chant Royal, Elaine Stirling, humourous poetry, medieval fixed verse

A Chant Royal

This day is fresh, you’re born anew, so fling
toward life that lies ahead, awaiting you
with eager arms. Forget the former things
you’ve said and done; there is no cause to stew
unless it’s in a pot with parsnips and
potatoes. Ask no one to understand:
they will or won’t. So what? To wait upon
the maudlin thoughts of others who are gone
into their private mental shacks to sigh
suspends you, and you think you’re all alone.
Let go your futile need to justify.

The nihilist likes to deny; he’ll bring
you to the brink for fun, and when he’s through
he’ll find some other joy to smash. To wing
the speed of life allows you might be blue
now and again, but only so you’ll stand
a little taller, join a brighter band
of light. We’re rainbow’s children, all. The sun
adores and fries us equally. Such fun!
The lonely hearts’ club, darling, is a lie.
Its membership is minus one, plus one.
Let go your futile need to justify.

The pessimist, now there’s a gem! Her ring
of murky moods will smother and undo,
and only then can you be friends. She’ll sing
of pain so beautifully, you’ll think you knew
her deepest needs and plunge you will, a grand
and eloquent swan dive into quicksand.
Once there, you’ll think, such poetry! My wan
and feeble soul laments like Babylon…
Whoo-hoo! The tower fell quite horribly.
Our physics has improved since then, my son.
Let go your futile need to justify.

Neutrality does not exist. That sting
you feel is welcome overstayed. Be true
to those who, when you think of them, can spring
new thoughts of hope and happiness. Imbue
the rest with godhead pre-imagined. Land
on higher ground by choice, and you’ll expand
just like the Universe. It’s all been done
in quantum dance, employed by everyone.
There is no debt, no limits to the pi
we slice. The dice will never come up un-.
Let go your futile need to justify.

The optimist, you are the one with bling
who shines in dark and light. That thing
you do of seeing best, best imitates, ringing
in Creation’s frequencies. Ballyhoo
it might appear to sorry sacks, their bland
retreat and you are not a pair, aband-
on them! You’re under no one else’s gun.
Continue with the capers you’ve begun.
No need to catalogue or prove. Supply
yourself with what uplifts. The past’s undone.
Let go your futile need to justify.

Futility will always seem to some
insurance against falls like Humpty-Dumb.
So let them have their way with gravity,
zigzagging from “I hope so” back to glum.
Let go your futile need to justify.

~~~

© Elaine Stirling, 2014
Image from http://www.photobucket.com

My Anima

Tags

all is truly well, anima, animus, being easy on yourself, Elaine Stirling, humour, humourous poetry, Jungian archetypes, the shadow

She isn’t quite a friend
of mine, a bead of light,
a trickle, spark…I see her
in the silence when I step
outside, and outside hasn’t
noticed yet. A grip of cold,
a rise of sweat, she carries
her own weather and dispenses
like a medic from a space
shaped like a sack that smells
of cardamom varieties
of pills, some bitter,
mostly sweet, a few
that taste of offal grilled—
quite awful till one gets beyond
the need to cluster-rhyme
at every friggin’ trill and turn.

She’s not my Mum
or Grandma, though she
knows the matrilinea from
whence I came down to their
baby toes, and in a pinch
could stand for me and often
has, when heels and early
graves I’ve dug. She’s not
a ghost, though scare you
out your wits she will when
fancy strikes, and haunt
surrounding tables at posh
restaurants until my date
and I are quite alone. She’s
shown the way when I’ve
been lost more times than I
can shake my sticks at, then
she elevates my thoughts to
grasp, however briefly, that
the path is always cleared
well in advance. If I’d be less
a scaredy pants and more a
glad participant, her sight
and mine would true align,
and life would furl before me
like a set design, a plan divine,
divined by me and her with
opposites and shadows central
cast. Of future, present, past
she is my every person, place,
and thing, my noun renowned
and infinite, she is my anima.
You have one, too.

~~~

© Elaine Stirling, 2014
Image by Ben Stirling, ©2005