Blog Archives

Flee From the Kitchen


Flee from the kitchen, live on the porch;
August is glowing hot as a torch.
Cover yourself with rags or with strips,
Drink from a bucket, smacking your lips.
Dream of crisp apples, cinnamon toast,
A knife too dull to carve Sunday’s roast.
As the Earth turns and takes you along,
Make up a ditty, sing a new song!

 
 
Poem © 2020 by Magical Mystical Teacher
 
 
More The Whirligig #280
 
More Writers’ Pantry #34 at Poets and Storytellers United

 

The Pimple Ripens Slowly


 
~~ ~~ 1 ~~ ~~
 
The pimple ripens slowly, so everyone can see
That this unsightly blemish is clearly part of me.
 
~~ ~~ 2 ~~ ~~
 
Cancer turns a man to dust.
What is this, if not unjust?
 
~~ ~~ 3 ~~ ~~
 
Empty your closet, toss out your belts—
With global warming everything melts.
 
~~ ~~ 4 ~~ ~~
 
Is anyone clever enough to measure
The actual weight of the thing called Pleasure?
 
~~ ~~ 5 ~~ ~~
 
My horse will wear silver, my horse will wear gold,
He’ll walk where he wants to, and not where he’s told.
 
~~ ~~ 6 ~~ ~~
 
Your spine belongs behind you, not in front, my dear,
For if your spine were frontal, where would be your rear?

 
Poems © 2018 by Magical Mystical Teacher
 
 
More Sunday’s Whirligig #175
 
More Poetry Pantry #416 at Poets United

Convoluted Whirl

 photo 156_zps11a26a93.jpg
 


 
~~ 1 ~~
Three redwing blackbirds
swear an oath to the north wind:
We will outlast you.
 
~~ 2 ~~
 
To be in fifth grade
is to sip from a dry brook—
your tongue turns to wood.
 
~~ 3 ~~
 
Through an April fog
three strange women are stumbling—
one begins to chant.
 
~~ 4 ~~
 
a porcelain doll
without a stitch of clothing—
enigmatic smile
 
~~ 5 ~~
 
singed with fires of hope
a dozen souls in limbo
crying out to God
 
~~ 6 ~~
 
on her wrists and palms
a dozen faces held fast
by tattooer’s ink
 
~~ 7 ~~
 
tumbleweed heaven—
ten thousand miles of fences
on the Kansas plains
 
~~ 8 ~~
 
three crickets chirping
papers littering hallways
my house is too small
 
~~ 9 ~~
 
gaudy little gifts
clutched by desperate tourists
for the folks back home
 
~~ 10 ~~
 
Park bench at midday—
the bag lady rests briefly
before shuffling on.
 
~~ 11 ~~
 
listening deeply
hearing a cry of distress—
from her eyes falls frost
 
~~ 12 ~~
 
moonlit this evening—
Jaffa, the port where Jonah
runs away from God
 

 
© 2014 by Magical Mystical Teacher
 
 
More The Sunday Whirl #156