The Two-Mile Blues

Tags

#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

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House of Last Straws

Tags

Elaine Stirling, enough is enough, fourteen liners, humourous verse, Live in the Momentum, moving beyond, narrative poetry, nursery rhymes for grown folk, satire, self-perception, The Game

I had the recent great
fortune of visiting a creature
rotund and pink whose late
distant cousins had died of a feature
common to swine. She draws
for a living on the island of T____
and lives in a house made of straws,
not a stick or a stone could I see,
and I wondered what nature of pig
would invite such a one as I am
to a weekend of custard and fig
when she knows I am fonder of ham.
“Mr. Wolf, I am pleased. You are welcome
indeed to look around and rest some.”

Our opening moments were tense
for the island resides in a sea
known for storms, and the pretense
of friendship, given that me
and her kind have a past
was a strain to maintain.
“It’s a pleasure, Ms. Piggie, at last.”
To view me better, she drew back the curtain.
“I thought you’d be larger,” she said, “more
of a brute, but these are hard times,
no doubt, for lupines seeking to score
like you did in meatier climes.
I’ve a favour to ask, and you are my man.”
I licked my dry chops. “I shall do what I can.”

“This house that I built of last straws
for many a year has kept me, not warm
but apart and alive, now its flaws
like mad locusts are starting to swarm.
I’ve plans to invest with some camels
I know, whose backs have been broken
from too heavy loads. Their annals,
I’m sure, you have read if not spoken
of. Time has restored them, they’re spry
as young foals, and I’ve no need
of anyone’s judgmental eye.
Happiness is picking up speed
turning deserts to green,
and I do not see myself as unclean.”

Though at first I resisted her porcine
request, I came to oblige. I waited until
her ship had sailed off, streamlined
and sleek, then I worked up the will
that, of late, had grown weak from the shame,
self-inflicted, of the nature of me, and I rose
to the heights of the Alpha Omega, the game
we had come here to play…I suppose
there are bits of her house of last
straws still blowing about and landing
on backs overstrained, but my friend, she’s cast
her cares to the sea of pure understanding.
From here, I am off to dance with some belles
on a veldt. I’ve a taste, as you know, for gazelles.

Thank you, NS!

~~~

© Elaine Stirling, 2013

Kit, my Kaboodle

Tags

authenticity, brave new leadership, duality, enjoyment, free verse, honouring feelings, humour, individuality, intention, light and dark, lightness of being, my voice is my voice, nagual, parody, poetry, satire, self-importance, self-pity, The Corporate Storyteller, uniqueness, vibrational reality

I have a caboose
at the end of my train
with an imp that enjoys
thumbing noses and moons
at the sun when a new dawn
arises my eyes need to blink
and the imp sees his chance
and he hangs from the tail
where he shouts at the passing
terrain, whatcha you gonna do
now, pretty boy?

My imp’s name is Kit, and I do
try to shush him, though not very
much ‘cause he’s got the touch of
a jester at heart, and my brain with
its lore is a bit of a bore, and my
soul isn’t whole unless I can
laugh at the bridges we burn
and the tracks we lay down
and pretend when we crash
that they weren’t our
own handiwork.

The thing is, we all
have to run on the steam
that we bring, and if mine
blows too hot or too cold in
your face, and yours makes
me yawn, we could still show
some grace—not go stupid nutty
all over the place, when our tracks
must diverge. I have no intention
of leaving sweet Kit at the station
or anywhere else for I love how
how he thinks and he sees and
he laughs—he’s divine. Yes,
Kit, my kaboodle, is mine!

~~~

© Elaine Stirling, 2013
Image of caboose from http://www.bbcrc.org

Factoidectomy

Tags

Alan Watts, Allen Ginsberg, Beat poets, Elaine Stirling, Jack Kerouac, obsession with correcting other's people's facts and perceptions, poetry, satire, Zen koan

I spent a day
with the Beats,
Allen mostly, two
degrees removed
from Jack, whose
roots still throb in
Lowell & whose neck
I am in love with.

Our convivée
included shooters,
B-52s and some
weird green drink,
essence of absence,
I think, which begs
a lisp, I know, but
that very urge to
correct is why,
as it turns out,
we’d gathered
in a smoky bar
above a clinic with
swinging doors.

Could I please,
I exhorted Jack,
make these lines
a little longer?
I don’t write
in matchbooks,
never did
the hobo
thing.

He gave me
that squint, you
know the one, where
lightendarkment
spin so fast,
the gap—

We enjoyed
some man woman
stuff—how could
we not?—which
gave Al time
to chat cubes
with Pissarro

and then
in the midst
of our fumbling
for the perfect
image, an orderly
arrived with a tray
bearing pills in a
pink Dixie cup
and a long
silver needle.

The procedure
was over before
it began, next thing
I knew we were
out on the street
flagging a cab.

In the back
between Allen
and Jack I felt
for the two raw
spots behind
my ears.

Try saying something.

Cat got yr tongue?

No urges, splurges,
poor pity-me dirges?

Look, Al,
the windows
aren’t fogging.

(Does that mean
I’m dead?)

beat, beat, beat, beat…

The driver whose face
I hadn’t seen broke
the silence with laughter
& said through the rearview
mirror in plum British tones,
what have you forgotten?

Everynoallthing, Mr. Watts.

The poets hurrahed
and clapped in sounds
that shot swallows and
bats from the hell of
a million belfries

the nasal tone
that builds from
the accretion of
the need to insist
was gone

before I could
determine what
if anything had
replaced it, our cab
arrived at the
firstlastonly holy
place I’d ever
seen.

There was
not a single
unfamilar
face.

© Elaine Stirling, 2013

When a Satyr Dances in the Forest

Tags

Elaine Stirling, Jitterbug Perfume, poetry, satire, satyrs, Tom Robbins

Don’t be surprised to find a set of pipes in your hand and an overwhelming urge to blow. After a year’s hiatus, maybe more, I’m ready to start blah-blah-blogging again, and happily many things have changed since I followed a half goat-half man into the woods at my old website www.elainestirling.com and didn’t know what to say next.

I still don’t know what to say next, and you know what? It doesn’t matter. Because during that hiatus, enough wonderful, crazy things happened to persuade me that goal-setting and visualizing, all those “process” things aren’t what they are cracked up to be. Also, our world is blessed with a writer named Tom Robbins who sits at his desk five days a week, creating the world’s most extraordinary novels without knowing what he’s going to say.

That I happen to be reading the part of Jitterbug Perfume where a satyr enters the story is the kind of superimposition I want to explore here at Oceantics. This will be a space about having fun while adding to the store of personal power we were born with, and learned to push away for a gazillion reasons that all come down to one. I will include poetry, my own, because I have learned to love the craft, and because the Latin origin of the word satire means “poetic medley” or . . . get this, a dish filled with various fruits.

“What’s for dessert?”

“Satire, dear.”

“Lovely. Pass the custard sauce, will you?”

Of course I know that the world doesn’t need more blogsays (blog+essay, plural), but I also believe that the world we think we live in doesn’t know what it needs, so every little bit of ourselves that we reclaim helps. And with that, I shall leave you with a tasty bit of rhyme and hopes that you will enjoy Oceantics as much as I intend to enjoy playing here.

Great Big Buffet

I brewed a pot of worry

on a phosphorescent stove

with potatoes of calamity

from Farmer Beaton’s grove.

***

I stirred a heap of troubles

so they wouldn’t overboil

but stirrin’ made me weary

and my life became a toil.

***

I thought I’d be appeasin’

with my ear pressed to the ground

but all I heard was wheezin’

where’s the reason to be found?

***

Your democrats, your publicans,

the liberals and cons

they’re soundin’ all the same to me

a-gurglin’ in their ponds.

***

Whoever wins there’ll be a heap

of aggravated fish

a-snappin’ at the chance

to overturn the supper dish.

***

These stones and votes I will not cast

but not for lack of carin’

this soup I stir is made of love

I’ve added peace for sharin’.

***

If you would bring the lightening

another bring the pone

we’ll have ourselves a heap of fun

continuing this poem

***

that’s made up of humanity

the whole darned human race

we’ll toss out animosity

and bow our heads for grace:

***

Dear Lord, thank you for

this great big buffet with

room and plenty for all.

Amen.

© Elaine Stirling, 2012