Category: Poem

Housekeeping,
Janitor,
Maintenance staff –
Whatever your title,
I call you a beautifier
Of busy spaces,
Keeping us healthy.
May your cleaning karma
Come back to you
In joy.

Humanity flows
In continuous pulses,
Defying this building’s title.
I hearby rename it
“The Continuous”,
Where beginnings
And endings
Cycle through
A brightly-lit
Liminal space.

(Changed slightly – originally
“Defying this building’s
Designation.”)

Welcome
To another part
Of earth,
Your home.
May you
Never be made dizzy
By its rotation,
And always know
That you are loved.

Barbers don’t barb.
Panthers don’t panth.
Rare fish would walk,
But they just coelocanth.

Upside of the Downside

I won’t be here forever, at the bottom of a well,
Where it’s cold, dark, and hard to move around.
I’ve been here before.
And I might as well be grateful.

There are protective aspects to well-dwelling:

I’m not going to die of thirst.
I will not be blinded by light.
I will not get a sun burn.
I won’t jump off a cliff in a delirious happy dance and thus break all my bones.
I won’t smash my fingers with a hammer while trying to build a house.

There are skills to develop down here:

Drawing on the brick wall around me with mud.
Drumming on the nearby bucket attached to a rope.
Training a mouse to do tricks. (“Roll over. Good mouse!”)
Perfecting my singing. (Where better than surrounded by tall, echoic walls?)

I would like to be clear: Wells are not my favorite places to be.
I miss sunlight.
I value movement.
I like a separate place to put my waste, other than where I exist all day.
I want the warmth of the sun’s rays, and a human’s touch.

But this is a well. Cold. Isolating.
I don’t know how to get out right now.
But I know I will leave sometime.
I always do.

This poem is dedicated to
The forehead of Rita Hayworth
Which had a fine hairline, though
Showbiz deemed it had too much girth.

But let’s start with Margarita,
A talented young girl,
Who’s father, Eduardo Cansino,
Brought her up in the dancing world.

With Irish and Spanish heritage,
And flamenco one of her styles,
Partner/Dad made her wear makeup,
(And called her his wife, meanwhile.)

By the tender age of 12,
She was a budding ingénue.
Bolstered by ball gowns and dance poise,
She knew just what to do.

Flashing those dark hazel eyes
Beneath healthy, thick black curls,
Men wanted her, and used her,
From the time she was a girl.

One of these men, a husband,
Noted a hairline trend,
And electrolysized her temples,
Erasing signs of Spanish kin.

Other men insisted she
Red-blondify her hair,
And make her eyebrows thin,
So she could dance with Fred Astaire.

It would have been a scandal,
Though why, I cannot see,
To pair a white male star
With a Latina-looking she.

Before Ricky and Lucy showed us
Their shared-apart TV beds,
America was not ready
For Margarita’s head.

Not paired with Fred, that is.
Or Gene. Or Glenn. Or Cary.
Their European background
Required a woman more Euro-hairy.

Blonds were best, with pale skin.
Brunettes were okay, too.
But a hint of maybe-Mexican
With white guy wouldn’t do.

I’m sad she couldn’t be herself
And also be successful.
Suppressing one’s identity
For others must be stressful.

So here’s to follicles that grow
In inconvenient places,
To eyebrows, thick and bushy,
That frame our splotchy faces.

Here’s to hair that’s black or gray,
And not turned blond instead.
And to Margarita Carmen Cansino,
And her beautiful forehead.  

Wartle befuzzle slud,
Fleetish kersquish.

Boddly formuzzle mud,
Gindle bo glish.

Murgin plee fergin plop
Havishmak poke.

Porstlepie plavinflish
Skervenish boak.

Ig flavender fizzyboo
Achmagaboy,

Eeg slibblin, bee blibblen,
Gor shneebeder shnie.

9/18/19

Glerbi shmozpo morken
A pleben hopso vie.

Heevy klopplish glorpal,
Meega megner fie.

Zep nopnish florbin highshick,
Setnek shnerfleeben zop?

Pen slorple zoob ib nopnish,
Ig bladle kleepnim nop!

9/18/19

The daisies, from a distance,
Are majestic, tall, and bright.
Their stems are green and sturdy,
Their stiff, splayed petals white.

Joy tickles me to see them,
Like static fountain spray,
Robustly flowing up from dirt
In cascading display.

However, when I wander up
To gaze in closer thanks,
My nose obstructs my gratitude,
Detecting something rank.

Could it be my cat has shat here?
Is something rotting in our midst?
Could a nearby human’s flatulence
Be what I have sniffed?

More likely it’s the flower,
So pure and proud and stinky,
That’s tricked me with its loveliness
And proved itself so hinky.

But what to me repugnates
Is to flies divine bouquet:
Fooled to think they’ve found poop,
They merrily pollinate.

And so is confirmed the wisdom
About judging books by covers,
Or flowers by their looks or smells,
Or discounting flies as lovers.