30 Edits in 30 Days

Like the 30 poems in 30 days thread this thread is also a challenge, but here instead of writing 30 new poems, you will edit old poems 30 times in 30 days. Notice I did not say you must turn 30 old poems into 30 new poems, but you must commit to editing a poem every day for 30 days. You might do less than 30 poems in the given time, depending on your editing style. You can work on a different poem every day if you like, but only the number of edits is mandatory, not the number of poems.

How would that work? Let's say you accept the challenge. On Day 1 you edit Poem X. On Day 2 you edit Poem Y and on Day 3 Poem Z. Now Day 4 comes along and you look back at Poem X and decide it needs more work, so you make it your poem for that day. And then maybe Day 9 rolls around and you decide to do more to Poem X. You get the idea. Maybe it won't work that way for you and you will edit 30 different poems in 30 days, but you don't have to. Choose a method that works for you.

What you must do is post the before and after version of your poem for each day. Therefore even if you are going back to a poem edited earlier in the challenge, your work for that edit day will still include posting an "old" and "new" version of your poem. It should be interesting to see how our individual editing processes work over time. Maybe we'll learn from each other.

To recap, here are the rules:

• The challenge is to edit a poem every day for 30 days.

• All poems edited in the challenge must be posted here in this thread, but you can submit (or resubmit) them too. Your post for each of the 30 days must include both the "before" and the "after" version of your poem.

• If you take the challenge, start the title (subject line) of each entry with "(x-y)" replace the "x" for the number of attempt of the challenge (including those that were unsuccessful) and "y" is the number of poem in that attempt. You may also add a title to your poem as long as you have the attempt and poem number too.

• You may stop and restart the challenge at any time. For example, if you forget on the 17th day to edit a poem you can restart at "1" on day 18, which would make it a second attempt of the challenge, being: 2-1. Obviously you want to avoid that but sometimes life gets in the way of poetry!

• The most important rule is to have fun!

GOOD LUCK!


*Please direct any questions, comments or feedback about this thread to the companion thread to 30 in 30. Yes, we can use it as a companion to both challenges. That will keep this thread all about the poems. Thank you.

**AMENDED 5/4**
You can also write a new poem and then edit it. You still have to show the "before" and "after" versions. You can do this for as many of the 30 days as you want. You just have to edit every day.

1-1

Comments on the edit


Original version:

#60
When you leave
Left to my own devices
I'm left wondering

#63
Things have the meaning
we give them.
Yet only when you give
me meaning,
Do my meanings matter
to myself.

#119
wish I had
a mental detector
to avoid minefields
of words I don't hear


Edited version:

Things have the meaning we give them —
yet only when you give me meaning
do my meanings matter to myself.
When you leave, left to my own devices,
I'm left wondering.
Wish I had a mental detector, to avoid
minefields of words I don't hear.

1-1

Edited Version

Gun Show Atlantic City

You'll be smilin’ all night long
before you check out, Johnny Boy,
with my CZ TT.

Treat you right,
give you everything you need
for a fair and friendly price.

You mind I call you Johnny Boy?
Most my Johnnies have a need
For AH - no - NYM - ity.

I play along,
no need for forms
to read and write your name on
for a friendly price.

What room you’re in is all I need.
I'll bring it with me when it’s right
after midnight, Johnny Boy.

Hairpin trigger I just know
you want to finger;
one fine piece; one fine price.

Johnny Boy’s a working man. Am I right?
Work your ass off all day long
and your family what they need
put up with shit from dim-wit boys
you have to work with.

What a price you pay.
And suburban life, the prize
you once thought it was?

This lady longs
to have her chamber
cocked just right.

CZ TT’s what you need.
What’s your number, Johnny Boy?

Original Version

Gun Show, Last Night in Vegas

You'll be smilin’ all night long
Before you check out, Johnny Boy,
With my CZ TT. Treat you right
And give you everything you need
For a fair and friendly price.

You mind I call you Johnny Boy?
Most my Johnnies have a need
For AH - no - nym - ity. I play along,
No need for forms to read and write
Your name on for a friendly price.

What room you’re in is all I need.
'bring it with me when it’s right
After midnight, Johnny Boy.
Hairpin trigger I just know you long
To finger; one fine piece; one fine price.

Johnny Boy’s a working stiff. Am I right?
Work your ass off all day long
Get your family what they need
Put up with shit from dim-wit boys
You have to be with. What a price

You pay. And suburban life, the prize
You once thought it was? This lady longs
To have her chamber cocked just right.
CZ TT’s what you need.
What’s your number, Johnny Boy?

1-2

Comments on the edit


Original version:

You and me,
we are like a bonsai tree.
A pretty seed meant for great things
planted in a pot too small.
A young trunk made gnarled by force,
sustained by roots grown too big,
too starved, pushing the envelope,
sustaining thin, atrophied limbs,
cut again and again,
never meant to bear fruit.
An experiment,
perfect in its execution,
perhaps good for exposition.


Edited version:

You and me

We are like a bonsai tree.

A pretty seed meant for great things
planted in a pot too small. Gnarled
by force, fed by roots too starved,
sustaining atrophied limbs, cut again
and again, never meant to bear fruit.

.................An experiment, perfect in its execution,
............................good only for exposition.

1-1

Before

And now
lets face the music and dance
having swung past a war
blowed and gone like a leaf
in a breeze progression erosion
eternal returning the breath
the wind the voice these
the giant steps where now
former giants recede and the wind
blows and changes. Prez and Bean
recede and the wind blows
steady on.

~

Ella calls Rebop
and then comes Bepop a hard
joy refigured a scrapple
from the apple born at Minton's
the small paradise of Bird
and Bud Diz and Max
Monk's triangulated swing
to flatted fifths the music
reimagined

~

Marquee at Birdland

Charlie Parker, Dizzy Gillespie, Bud Powell
All Three for $1.50
Only at Birdland
How can you go wrong?

After

Let's face the music.
Let's swing past a war
blowed and gone--
erosion Jack, dust and the eternal
return

breath and beat wind and voice
these giant steps
recede. The wind blows
changes, blows steady on.

~

!! Charlie Parker Dizzy Gillespie Bud Powell !!
_________All Three for $1.50
__________Only at Birdland

(How can you go wrong?)

~

Bepop is hard joy--
Scrapple from the Apple
Minton's, Smalls Paradise
52nd Street honks

bursts like steam blasted
streams and pops triangulated
swing flatted fifths
the music
reimagined.



Comment

1-2

AFTER

A Night in the Life of St. Lizzie

Lizzie wakes up when Miami Beach
sunset disturbs her dopamine receptors.
"For criminy sakes," says Lizzie,
"Forgot my syrup at Dade County clinic"
which could have helped her negotiate
roses she sells at red light crossroads
and districts to men whose wives pretend
their Tom, Dick, or Harry never would lie
whatever they say or smell like in bed.

At midnight she takes a tenth of her profits
to buy a last soda for Joey
who will hitch from Memphis to Chicago
after he gets off the Greyhound,
persona non-grata at the depot
until she bought him a Salvation Army
shirt she buttons up near the graffiti.

When Lizzie baby-wipes one of his hands
Joey selects Diet Coke over Pepsi
from a machine outside the men's room
where basketball shorts fall down to the knees
for slow gin fizz, sex on the beach,
and volleyball with girls in bikinis

after which Lizzie says bye-bye to Harry
and heads for a dumpster behind Raúl's
who hides a card table, candles, and matches,
and plastic wrap sandwiches for two
for whom she leaves what's left of her roses
before she dines with her new tramp in town
who told her last night he's Vincent Van Gogh
until Lizzie whispered love in his ear.

BEFORE

Blessed Are the Poor in Miami Beach

She sleeps all day under MacArthur Causeway
But shuffles at twilight with thorazine
Which is bad for business on Alton Road

Where Lizzie sells flowers to late night men
Whose wives pretend that a husband won’t lie
Whatever he smells like later in bed.

She buys a last meal for Luke who is sick
Of South Florida, agrees to say grace,
But otherwise won't let her wash his feet

Before Seven Up and cellophaned crackers
From vending machines not far from his Greyhound
And glorious busboys fresh in the men’s room.

She prays for him while she swallows her meds
As a new flock of snow birds leave the depot
For coke and rum on the rocks in bikinis

Like mythic Sirens that lure Lizzie strait
Back to the ramp with her new tramp in town
Who said he dreams of her queendom in heaven.

1-3

Comments on the edit


Original version:

#15
Time for breakfast.
Stretch your legs, your arms, your spine,
Your whole body.
Take care of things,
If there are things to be taken care of,
If not, go on,
Open the fridge, eat something, shove it in your mouth,
Like an animal,
Like the big, bad insect thing inside you
Giving you a kickstart
But stop, don't forget the crosswords,
They are important, they keep you capable
To spill words like an idiot.

#21
Wake up early
To swirling darkness
Like static in your eyes
A veil in your mind
A buzz in your ears
Before sound
Before the smell of coffee.
Sweet memories, oh lazy days
Fading away to nothing.
Put on your working boots
(Shine 'em up!)
Prepare to plod through
'Cause carpe diem, baby.
Seize the day
Live the moment
Waste away
Every moment. Dull.
Like a machine. Numb.
Results, results
Faster, faster
Off the curve
(You rebel!)
So reckless


Edited version:

Carpe diem

Dreams give way to swirling dark
noise before eyes, before sound
the smell of coffee.

Kickstart and stretch, take care
of things (if you need), then eat
shove it inside your mouth, feed
the big bad insect thing inside you.

Stop.
Don't forget,
the crosswords they keep you
able to spill words like an idiot.

Lazy days fade away to nothing
shine 'em up, working boots
'cause carpe diem, baby. Result's
off the curve, faster — you rebel!

So reckless.

1-4

Comment


Original version:

You and me

We are like a bonsai tree.

A pretty seed meant for great things
planted in a pot too small. Gnarled
by force, fed by roots too starved,
sustaining atrophied limbs, cut again
and again, never meant to bear fruit.

...........An experiment, perfect in its execution,
.......................good only for exposition.

Edited version:

You and me

We are like a bonsai tree.


............A pretty seed meant
...for great things planted in a pot
too small. Gnarled by force, fed by roots too starved,
....sustaining.......atrophied limbs, cut again
...............................and again, never meant
.....................................to
.......................................bear
.........................................fruit.
.................An experiment, perfect in its execution,
............................good only for exposition.

1-3

After

The Trogloraptors

After Manhattan showed no interest,
a scholar from San Francisco came
to study one of our samples.

Impressed with its lines,
even with its eight jagged feet,
he designated what he found as
Trogloraptor Juvenilia
inasmuch as it needed
a little more growth and development.

Ours were alike but different from
Gradungulidae, sounding like
grand dung diddly Dadaism, we chortled.

"Don't worry," San Francisco said,
"those are gauche, from Australia,
and wouldn't make it in America,
except perhaps in Little Rock."

Indeed, not to worry, he repeated
that dark and stormy night,
"Soon les acadèmes will note
the deep and darkest environs
of the Trogloraptors,

and mark my words," our scholar said
"theses will fill up campuses;
fellowships and assistantships,
and worships will be formed,

excuse me, I meant to say workshops,

to master the fine art of
the dark world of
the Trogloraptors."

Before

The Trogloraptors

After Manhattan showed no interest,
a scholar from San Francisco came,
dissected one of our samples,
noting it had eight menacing feet,
and designated what he found as
Trogloraptor Juvenilia
inasmuch as it needed
a lot more growth and development.

Ours were alike but different from
Gradungulidae, sounding like
"Grand Dung Diddly Dada," we chortled;
don't worry San Francisco said,
they're native to Australia
and will probably stay there.

Manhattan would fall in line,
careers would blossom over it,
and inevitably there would be
fellowships and assistantships for
mastering the fine art of
Post Neo-Formal Trogloraptor.

1-4

AFTER

The Word for Hunger Sounds Like Femme

To others she appeared each dawn
when last I played her like a song
I sang anew with harbor whores
and rum in St. Lucia ports,
but Genevieve, since I was gone,
on widow's watch above the sea
trod on for Boisvert from the fleet
who went to war for emperor
and promised to return to her
who casts her gaze along the beach,
but not for jagged me who pleads
that God to whom I never prayed
might change the heart I once betrayed.

She will not search the tide for me
nor look beyond, nor will she grieve
the while I bemoan the splinters of
a shipwreck with its treasure trove
less than the loss of Genevieve.


BEFORE

The Word for Hunger Sounds Like Femme


"To others she appeared anew each dawn,
trod her widow's watch above the sea
and cast her gaze along the jagged beach.
She did not look beyond the tide for me"
~ from "Winter Harbor" by Angeline

To others she appeared each dawn
when last I played her like a song
I sang anew with harbor whores
and rum in St. Lucia ports,
but Genevieve, since I was gone,

on widow's watch above the sea
trod for an ensign from the fleet
who went to war for emperor
and promised to return to her
for whom she prayed the rosary

and cast her gaze along the beach,
but not for jagged me who pleads
that God to whom I never prayed
might change the heart I once betrayed
to homing beacon I might reach.

She did not search the tide for me
nor look beyond, nor did she grieve
while I bemoan the splinters of
a shipwreck with its treasure trove
less than the loss of Genevieve.


Edit Comments

1-5

AFTER

World War II Soldier Found (Reuters)

Deathless joining of the ultimate
was the warrior's prize they said
just before the landing craft
opened wide its great white teeth
and he vanished in the jungle,
cursing Nakamura's world
that screamed his name in Japanese
on the beach at Morotai.

Attun foraged thirty years,
stabbing snakes in strangler trees
he roasted on a bamboo spit
the while he prayed they weren't diseased,
and while he ate he thought about
the shrines he made for men he knew,
whose combat bootlace camouflaged
looked like snakes in strangler trees.

Sometimes there were carcasses
whose tags were those of dogs they said
he dragged to where the GI's slept,
the rulers of the island now,
and if the night was full moon bright
he prayed for ocean pea soup mist
to leave a mangled body there
before he etched a cross in sand.

They'll take him to the capital
for pictures with Suharto San
on carpets that will chafe his feet,
but Attun can not sleep tonight
while newsmen do inside their tents
because he sees so many snakes
on their helicopter blades
that look like ghosts in strangler trees.

BEFORE

Indonesia (AP) — Soldier Found

Deathless joining of the ultimate
Was the warrior's prize they said
Just before the landing craft
Opened wide its great white teeth,
And he vanished in the jungle,
Cursing Nakamura's world
That screamed his name in Japanese
On the beach at Morotai.

Conscripted aborigine,
Attun foraged thirty years,
Stabbing snakes in strangler trees
That tasted better boiled than fried,
And while his snake was boiling hot,
He thought about the shrines he made
Of combat bootlace camouflaged
After every funeral pyre.

Sometimes there were carcasses
Whose tags were those of dogs they said
He dragged to where the GI's slept,
Two days through five kilometers,
And when the night was full moon bright
He prayed for ocean pea soup mist
To leave the mangled body there
And etch a cross in sand nearby.

They'll take him to Jakarta
After morning photographs,
Although he wanted Kao-hsiung
To hear again its poetry,
But as the newsmen sleep tonight
He sees the ghost of Nakamura
Hover in the whirlybird
Who flies with him tomorrow.

1-6

AFTER (2nd edit)

A Night in the Life of St. Lizzie

Lizzie wakes up when Miami Beach
sunset creeps to the bistros and bars
and boarded up box stores in Hialeah.
"For criminy sakes," says Lizzie,
"Too late for my syrup at Dade County clinic"
which could have helped her negotiate
roses she sells to late night men
whose wives pretend husbands don't lie,
whatever they say or smell like in bed.

At midnight she takes a tenth of her profits
to buy a last supper for Luke
who says he is sick of South Florida,
about to take a bus to Detroit
but at the last minute's thinking LA,
persona non-grata at the depot
until she bought him a Salvation Army
shirt Lizzie buttons up near the graffiti.

As Lizzie baby-wipes both of his hands
she whispers the Lord's Prayer, good as grace,
after which Luke selects Diet Pepsi
and Frito Lays from a vending machine
not far from busboys, whose pockets are empty,
that work in the men's room ten until three
for coke and rum on the rocks and bikinis
she wore once herself, the modest kind,
until the ups and downs started to climb
and plummet and climb and plummet and climb.

Lizzie gives Luke a kiss on his cheek
before she heads for her favorite dumpster
where she gives Esteban one of her roses.
He gives her a customer's disappointment
or some other leftover bistro mistake
she slices in two for her new tramp in town,
known down at the box store as Big Daddy Bear,
who told her last week he's Vincent Van Gogh
until Lizzie whispered love in his ear.

BEFORE

1-7

AFTER

Trying to Say His Breviary

White is white, black is black;
God is good, sex is bad
but for most holy marriage

is what I am supposed to keen
behind my daresay sliding screen
or in my homily.

But, oh my Gosh, Deacon Joe
is older than an altar boy
who's reached the age of majority.

Dear God, Dear God, I did not want
this cross I bear from an embryo,

and I am not, no, I am not
a monk in a desert monastery.

BEFORE

Breviarium non Psalterii

White is white and black is black;
Love is good but sex is bad
Is what I seem to say
Behind the screen
On Saturday
Or Sunday from the pulpit.

But, my God, Angél is nice
( I won't say "hot.")
When he comes for tea
And older than an altar boy
I never wanted anyway,
And I am not, no I am not
In some monastery.

1-1 untitled Live write

All's gone silent as crows
perched limbs above the stag
blood flows from wounds, knees meet
the dust, they know
the cloud of exhalation last
a garnish for the feast
black leaves fall down
cover the forest floor

1-8

AFTER

Reading the Decree Nisi

I see the ghost of Nonno Frankie
reflected in my Sangiovese
who in the eye of my mind
is pouring a glass for Nonna Sophia
out on the settee in the garden
behind their duplex on Roosevelt Street.

"We see what we want to see," Papa once said
who often noted that Frankie and Nonna
after the sun set on dog days of August
sipped Sangiovese into midnight
after which Papa always would say
how lovely Mama was under the moonlight.

I, the party of the second part,
wonder when happiness turned into "I
insist on the Ford with four wheel drive.
You can take the stereo,"
the one with the worn out diamond needle
that scratches tonight the ending of
the heartstrings in Pachelbel's Canon.

BEFORE

Two Cups of Dandelion Wine

I wish it were only the pinot grigio
effect in the make-believe Waterford,
reflecting the ghost of my Nonno Frankie
in the eye of my mind pouring a cup
for Nonna Sophia out on the settee
behind their duplex on Roosevelt Street.

"We see what we want to see," Papa said
who often noted that Frankie and Sophie
on dog days of August into the night
drank dandelion wine in their garden
with cheese, focaccia, the birds and the bees
after which Papa always would say
how lovely Mama was under the moonlight.

I, the party of the second part,
having just read the decree nisi,
wonder when happiness turned into two
of these for one point five of that,
a Ford for a Chevy, whatever's satin,
and turntable with a diamond needle
about to terminate Pachelbel's Canon.

1-9

AFTER

The Word for Hunger Sounds Like Femme

To others she appeared each dawn
when last I played her like a song
I sang anew with harbor whores
and rum in St. Lucia ports,

but Genevieve, since I was gone,
on widow's watch above the sea
I know trods there for Romilly
who went to war for emperor.

When he returns they'll walk the beach,
where once walked she and I who pleads
that God to whom I never prayed
might change the heart I once betrayed

who does not search the tide for me
nor look beyond, nor does she grieve
while I bemoan the splinters of
a shipwreck with its treasure trove
less than the loss of Genevieve.


BEFORE

The Word for Hunger Sounds Like Femme


"To others she appeared anew each dawn,
trod her widow's watch above the sea
and cast her gaze along the jagged beach.
She did not look beyond the tide for me"
~ from "Winter Harbor" by Angeline

To others she appeared each dawn
when last I played her like a song
I sang anew with harbor whores
and rum in St. Lucia ports,
but Genevieve, since I was gone,

on widow's watch above the sea
trod for an ensign from the fleet
who went to war for emperor
and promised to return to her
for whom she prayed the rosary

and cast her gaze along the beach,
but not for jagged me who pleads
that God to whom I never prayed
might change the heart I once betrayed
to homing beacon I might reach.

She did not search the tide for me
nor look beyond, nor did she grieve
while I bemoan the splinters of
a shipwreck with its treasure trove
less than the loss of Genevieve.

1-2 1-1...
..
All's gone silent as crows
perched limbs above the stag
patient morticians, somber means,
blood flows from wounds in ropey skiens
only a matter of time, they know
knees will meet the dust, and nose
blows that last loud of exhalation
a final garnish for the feast
black leaves fall down
cover the forest floor

1-10

AFTER

Genevieve

When last I played her like a song
I sang anew with harbor whores
and rum in St. Lucia ports,
stood Genevieve, I had been told,
on widow's watch above the sea,
now likely there for some good soul
with sangfroid gone to Waterloo
for whom she says her rosary.

As once pled she, it's I who pleads
upon an atoll's slivered reef
that God to whom I never prayed
might change the heart I once betrayed
to pray me one small Kyrie
while I bemoan the splinters of
a shipwreck with its treasure trove
I'd give to Rome for Genevieve.

BEFORE

See 1-9 above.

1-11

AFTER

Waiting for God at the Port Authority

Toe Jam who doesn't wear shoes in summer
wears two black eyes and ankle chains
"and they broke my freakin' nose" he said
to the judge at Monday's arraignment.

He never quite knew how to curse
but tried freakin' hard Saturday night
just about a minute past midnight
for bad boys who didn't make bail.

"Schizophrenic" he forgot to say
to the cops who called him disodorly
in the belly of a Greyhound bay
at the Port Authority

where he likes to drink his wine
and pick at the street in his toenails
with Paco, Lucky, and Finnegan
as thin as a praying mantis

who loves his Wild Irish Rosie,
all dressed up in a brown paper skirt
for God who surely will visit today,
if not, then surely tomorrow.

BEFORE

Waiting for God at the Port Authority

Toe Jam who doesn't wear shoes in summer
has two black eyes and ankle chains
"and they broke my freakin' nose" he said
to the judge at Monday's arraignment.

He never quite knew how to curse
but tried freakin' hard Saturday night
just about a minute past midnight
for the bad boys who didn't make bail
but knew what they wanted after lights out.

"Schizophrenic" he forgot to say
to the cops who called him disodorly
in a Port Authority bus bay
where he liked to drink his wine
and pick at the street in his toenails
with Vladimir, Lucky, and Paco

who said there's no vino in Vera Tess,
although there is in his Wild Irish Rosie,
all dressed up in a brown paper skirt,
he should have drunk with some Wonder Bread
he said to the judge who will let him go,
but not to The Port Authority,
even though God is coming today.

If not, he surely will tomorrow.

1-12

AFTER

The Holy Land

As I wandered the Holy Land,
I toured an archaic art exhibit
and there I saw stick men images,
directing sticks at other stick men.

It was more than have or have not hate
and wasn't dependent upon
the tribe or empire where you were from.

And when I left for the Dome of the Rock,
the Wailing Wall, and Church of All Nations,
I toppled into the Slough of Despond,
which, strange though it was, flooded the desert.

BEFORE

Artifacts in New Babylonia

History and God, if you believe It,
know well all the spears, catapults, and bombs.
It was human, more citified this time,
and good or evil, depending upon
the name of the tribe or country you’re from,
reminding me of the Middles Ages
when lieutenants of lords and cardinals
were in for the night by their chamber pots
to plan the next generation’s crusade
before all the Moors could do unto them.

As I wandered the so-called Holy Lands,
I toured some hieroglyphic exhibit
and saw the spitting images of hate,
directing their sticks at other stick men,
but the story will always be the same,
Hebraic, Mohammedan, or Christian,
the day that we see new hydrogen cars
or the end of suicide martyrdom,
for sure as hell we will find more reasons
to drop our smart bombs or speed dial them in.

1-13

AFTER

L'Histoire du Parc des Buttes Chaumont

Mon Ami, this park, once filled with crossbows
that pointed at mad dogs from Normandy,
thereafter flaunted three tiers of gibbets
where nooses dangled for the king's justice
to show Parisians, Jews, and gypsies
crime only pays the hangman's wages.

Whenever the queen complained after dusk
she barely could see all of the hangings
his majesty pointedly ordered
criminals, lords, and even his bishops,
enter hell under one hundred lanterns.

Louie imagined annulment by then,
observing the fool fanning her face,
thinking it August for November,
but Avignon, merde, was no longer papal.

"I feel like mushrooms frying tonight.
Is Enguerrand dead yet, Mon Cheri?"
she said as Valois decanted her wine
after a c'est la vie nod and a wink.

In spite of all the flowers you see,
the lovers, and bébés with their mothers,
the City of Lights was once, Mon Ami,
a city of bones and trebuchets
whereupon God said "Let there be light"
who's now a moth forever in hell.


BEFORE

L'Histoire du Parc des Buttes Chaumont

Mon Gars, this hill, once filled with crossbows,
pointing at mad dogs from Normandy,
thereafter flaunted three tiers of gibbets
where nooses dangled or the king's justice
to show Parisians, Jews, and gypsies
crime only pays the hangman's wages.

When Queen Margaret complained after dusk
she barely could see all of the hangings
his majesty pointedly ordered
beggars, thieves, lords if he pleased
and bishops if need be, hang after vespers,
beaconed by lanterns for God and the queen.

Little did Louie know she was mad
although her lady in waiting did,
observing the fool fanning her face
each time her grace mentioned the weather,
thinking it August for December.
"I feel like mushrooms frying today.
Is Enguerrand dead yet, Mon Cheri?"
she said when Valois feigned tasting the wine.

Mon Gars, but for the flowers you see
that grow over bones and trebuchets
by which new mothers stare at lovers
whose tree trunk comfort hides secret kisses,
even the children up on the knoll
would know what kings then would not see,
that this was one of hell's seven rings
with more than said Valois on a king's string.

HarryHill said:

1-2 1-1...
..
All's gone silent as crows
perched limbs above the stag
patient morticians, somber means,
blood flows from wounds in ropey skiens
only a matter of time, they know
knees will meet the dust, and nose
blows that last loud of exhalation
a final garnish for the feast
black leaves fall down
cover the forest floor

Click to expand...

..
2-1
..
All's gone silent as crows
perched limbs above the stag
patient morticians, somber miens,
anticipating, quietly, scenes of,
red flows from wounds in ropey skeins

only a matter of time, they know
knees kiss the dust, and nose,
blows that last cloud of exhalation
a final garnish for the feast

black leaves fall down
cover the forest floor

1-14

AFTER

Rosie's a December Bride, Daddy

I whispered when To Sir with Love
started my dance with brother Bobby
as the spotlight fell on an empty seat
at The Spuyten Duyvil Ballroom East.

Later at midnight after the bliss
Micky said, "Glad we got hitched
up in the Bronx instead of Queens.
Tomorrow it's Vegas, Baby."

The digital fonts on the clock
shimmer like red votive candles
one of which is a sugar plum fairy
dancing in Bobby's hockey skates,
long ago down by the Duyvil
with you and two pair of Bobby's socks on.


BEFORE

Rosie's a December Bride, Daddy
I whispered when I heard To Sir with Love
during the second waltz with Bobby
as the spotlight fell on an empty seat
just like the lady said it would
at The Spuyten Duyvil Ballroom East.

Later at midnight after the bliss
Frankie said, "Glad we got hitched
up in the Bronx instead of Queens.
Tomorrow it's Vegas, Baby,"

who fell asleep 4 hours from
JFK airport coffee, no cream,
but I don't mind because the IKEA
end table smells like lemon perfume

and the digital fonts on the clock
shimmer like red votive candles
of happiness where we got hitched
one of which was a sugar plum fairy
dancing in Bobby's hockey skates
with you and three pair of Bobby's socks on.

1-15

AFTER

There Are Muchas Señoritas in Union City

She stuffed my face with a dinner plate
of huevos fritos, Hombre,
and then I tasted the tabasco
and, Jesús Cristo!, jalapeño!

I think she wanted to poison me
or put my head in an oven
and slam it on that part of my brain
that says to itself "No es mi falta."

"But Rosa, Querida, I was working late.
A snowstorm developed; the car broke down!"
I said to her as the sun came up

and then I remembered I said the same thing,
but for the snow a month ago
when her soul froze like freezing rain.

BEFORE

Hell Hath No Fury

She stuffed my face with dinner plates
from last night's tenderloin supper,
now filled with scrambled eggs
and "I Can't Believe It's Not Butter"
until I tasted the pepper,
tabasco or maybe jalapeño.

I think she wanted to poison me
to put my head in an oven or cupboard
and slam it with that part of my brain
that says "Well, Hell, I can't help it."

"But Madge my Darling, I was working late.
A snowstorm developed; the car broke down!"
I said to her at 5:00 am,
but shouldn't have said so then again
because I used it a month ago
when her soul froze like freezing rain.

1-16

AFTER

Riding the Bus in Riyadh

"The bus is full of black chadors
and chaperones," she hissed.

Her cousin poked her back
and whispered she
would rather joke
about the flimsy lingerie
that Fadl smuggled in
from Beirut Lebanon

for "what's her name,
you know, the second one."

But Mauna's lost in thought.
"My veil should fall,"
she says to Fatimah,
"they'll see my lips,
or if I have an itch,
I'll lift my hem
to rub a naked toe"

she failed last night
to put red polish on
when on her rug
she fell asleep
and dreamt that Father stole her feet.

BEFORE

Valentines in Riyadh

She looked away when Yousef left to say
an As-Salaam-Alaykum on the bus
to some distinguished mufti. "Bus is full
of black chadors and chaperones," she hissed.

Her cousin poked her back and whispered she
would rather joke about the lingerie
her uncle Ibrahim had smuggled in
for "what's her name, you know, the second one."

But Mauna's lost in thought. "When Yousef's done
my veil should fall," she says to Fatimah,
"he'll see my lips, or if I have an itch,
I'll lift my hem to scratch a polished toe"

she failed to acetone when after prayers
she fell asleep and dreamt she was no more.