A little squirrel
chews a chinaberry twig
chinaberry in snow
and you’d make fun of my spelling
but I’m proud to have gotten it right this time
the chinaberry shakes and bobs
the twig is dropped and squirrel
finds another, and oh that’s funny
you’ll read all kinds
of things into this
when the truth is
it’s a squirrel in the snow
and chinaberries everywhere
Tag: set42815
Tour Guide
Once upon a time in a desolate land
In the middle of a
Familiar worldsystem
You’d recognize it
It’s right over there
Stood a tree.
Under the tree sat a poet.
It was the last tree and the last poet.
Fitting they should die together
Thought the poet.
Fitting, thought the tree,
But useless.
No more useless than
Love thought the poet.
And the tree dropped a leaf.
We shall die,
We shall die together
We shall die,
We shall die together
And they did.
The tree lost its branches
and the poet decomposed.
LAUGH
They’re still there
A dead testament to waste
And desolation
For whoever should wander by
The commentator shakes
Its head and says
What I mean to say
Once upon a time
In a desolate land
The last poet
And the last tree
Sacrificed themselves
So that you may
Stare in despair and regret
What you have done
HORROR HORROR
Look at what you have wrought
Look at what you wrought.
CRY
LAUGH
It’s a Hoot
Introduction
My twenty-fifth podcast is a poem.
(It's much less repetitive than the last one.)
Main Content
Hello
Good evening
and welcome
I’m Franklyn Monk
I hold deep-seated and derisive political ideologies
It’s true!
I’m an ally
But I see no sense in preaching to the choir
I see no sense in preaching to the choir
So I’m gonna talk on somethin’
Mundane
Or prosaic
Like sunsets
The moon
An owl
Oh, the Moon isn’t her real name
Her real name to too beautiful
Too beautiful too beautiful
Her real name would burn your ears
Or my tongue
Turn you into a zombie
Albeit a good one
That doesn’t eat people
So it continually eats itself
Sunrise to sunset
Sunset to sunset
There’s an owl there
Somewhere
Oh, I have a first conscience memory of an owl
But it’s too painful to revisit
So it’s left as an exercise
For the audience
What is the poet’s owl?
Onrush
You came to being
In a burst of white noise
But it’ll be forty years
Before you have the words
To remember how
Form solidified from formless
In a cascade of nervous impulses
Learning to integrate in an instant
And in the next there were things
And a before
The world formed
Around you
Instantly and whole
With past and sudden future
Because Fuck It
I spit something out
Wonder what it is
And get back to writing
It could be my crumbling teeth,
Or ants, another bee,
Spiders perhaps.
Dirt, could be dirt,
or grounds or leaves.
My mouth feels brown and murky
No telling what’s coming next
What will slither or ooze out
Slip or spit out
But it’ll be dark
And pungent
And hidden.
