Category Archives: Sunday’s Whirligig

Can Poetry Happen?


Can poetry happen with words such these:
Impossible, pointer, jump, muscle, and please?
 
Or how about glancing and frantic and score?
Will you employ them, or show them the door?
 
And think about darker, hang, balance, and catch—
If you can’t use them, boy, you’ve met your match.
 
Skilled poets will use every word that they’re dealt;
They’re not fragile snowflakes that dog’s breath will melt.

 
  
Poem © 2019 by Magical Mystical Teacher

They Gave Me Words to Work With


They gave me words to work with,
I knew not what to do.
The words were fried and swirling,
Lips, chicken, certain, stew.
 
I looked at my reflection,
While writing couplets down;
I looked not like a poet,
But like some silly clown.
 
The more I wrote, I hungered
To write some lasting stuff;
Then I threw my pen away
And shouted, “That’s enough!”
 
This lull in fevered writing
Will give me time to think
Of how to spread my table—
Forget the pen and ink!
 
I’m grateful that my table
Holds something that tastes sweet,
For writing leaves me famished,
And now it’s time to eat!

 
  
Poem © 2019 by Magical Mystical Teacher

If You Dance


If you dance, you’ll need some salt.
Tumble down into the vault,
Where the salt is mixed with wind—
No, my dear, it’s not been tinned!
 
Best to take the salt at once,
Lest you turn into a dunce,
Crying with the living dead,
Who do not care what you’re fed.
 
Still, the best is yet to come:
See the dead man bind the drum
To his forehead with a string?
And you thought it was just bling!
 
Do not dread what is to come;
Though the dead man beats his drum
At least he’s not beating you!
All is well, and this is true.

 
  
Poem © 2019 by Magical Mystical Teacher
 
 
More Sunday’s Whirligig #216

The Darksome Poet


What rhymes with blue erasers? Nothing that I know.
Ask the thirty thirsty pencils that live down below.
 
Perhaps the smallest pencil is longer than you think,
And knows the word you’re looking for, written in red ink.
 
I believe that snips and scraps, at least not more than three,
Can be used to slit your throat, or make poetry.
 
I know my tale has ended in a dark and somber way,
But I am a darksome poet, so what more can I say?

 
  
Poem © 2019 by Magical Mystical Teacher
 
 
More Sunday’s Whirligig #215
 
More Poetry Pantry #481 at Poets United

A Pilgrim’s Consolation


Warfare, pilgrim, is good reason to betake yourself from here.
Seek the roads that no one else takes; from the crowd now disappear.
 
Do not disdain the pebble that now lodges in your shoe.
Hail those you meet along the way; give praise where praise is due.
 
Shield yourself from falsehood by recalling holy tales;
Strengthen soul and body as you drink the sacred ales.
 
At the crest of yonder mountain, where clouds obscure the view,
Fear not, O weary pilgrim: Someone watches over you.

 
  
Poem © 2019 by Magical Mystical Teacher
 
 
More Sunday’s Whirligig #214
 
More Poetry Pantry #480 at Poets United

Three Utterly Weird Poems


I.
Before the mountains were born,
Or there were stains in the sea,
God put his mouth to a horn
And blasted out notes with glee!
 
II.
I’m tired of drinking coffee, tired of drinking tea;
Give me chicken breasts and thighs for eternity!
 
III.
I heard three tigers breathing, I thought my time had come,
But then the fiercest tiger was turned into a plum
By the surging murmur of a wizened wizard’s breath,
And now I can’t help singing how I escaped from death!

 
  
Poems © 2019 by Magical Mystical Teacher
 
 
More Sunday’s Whirligig #213
 
More Poetry Pantry #479 at Poets United

Three Aphorisms


I.
Watch the dog leaping and learn from the monk;
Not all meditation needs to be junk.
 
II.
Cowardice protects you when the tigers come:
Jump the paddock wall, my friend, and run like hell, just run!
 
III.
Those who sit together and those who sit apart,
Know that sitting shiva is a quiet art.

 
  
Poems © by Magical Mystical Teacher
 
 
More Sunday’s Whirligig #211
 
More Poetry Pantry #478 at Poets United

Three Couplets


I.
Daylight, and the drunk man falls forward on his face;
He lacks a map to guide him to a better place.
 
II.
Sometimes a hearth that’s spacious holds only hints of fire—
Little coals that soon grow cold like everyone’s desire.
 
III.
Anywhere is nowhere when money creeps inside;
Beware when words become a place for your lies to hide.

 
  
Poems © by Magical Mystical Teacher
 
 
More Sunday’s Whirligig #210
 
More Poetry Pantry #448 at Poets United

Women in the Photograph


I.
Women in the photograph
Do not smile and do not laugh.
“Bones,” they croak, “are fine when brown.
Can we buy some in your town?”
 
II.
Skin of language, weight of air,
Ravens weaving patterns there
In the presence of your friends—
See the way the sunlight bends?

 
  
Poem © by Magical Mystical Teacher
 
 
More Sunday’s Whirligig #207
 
More Poetry Pantry #445 at Poets United

Mother Left Six Weeks Ago

NOTE: This poem is NOT autobiographical. It is strictly a work of FICTION.
 
  

Mother left six weeks ago, said nothing, no goodbyes.
Wearily she climbed in bed, and then she closed her eyes.
 
Next morning when we found her in the light of day,
Like a stream in summer’s drought, she had passed away.
 
Now it’s time to sort her trash, sort her treasures too—
When your mother leaves this life, that’s what you must do.
 
By the attic window purses lined up in a row,
Bags of shoes, and dusty dresses—everything must go.
 
Pass me mother’s rosary, and some tissues too.
Say a little prayer for me; I’ll say one for you.

 
  
Poem © 2019 by Magical Mystical Teacher