greenmountaineer's thread

The Decameron


No Dante's they, Bocaccio's bawdy tales:
Filippa dares guffaw
Rinaldo, cuckold, seventh tale,

who wails Filippa epithets,
no joie de vivre, his dirge
composed in minor scales of woe.

The Plague, I know, was rife,
but awe inspires.
Why mock a wedlock's cruel demise?

Oh Dante, from that hellish life
of rat fleas, pox, and faithless wives,
pray take me to your paradise!
 
The Children's Poet

So why do I write mostly rhymes
for five or six year olds to hear?

Because they love the sound of lines
that never mind but please the ear

instead of caca fricative
fingernails scratching a blackboard.

Did you ever hear the sound
of schoolyard clapped erasers

whose particles, so very fine,
waft through the eye of a needle?
 
María whose Gray Hair is White

María whose gray hair is white
with flakes of Hackensack snow
will eat frijoles cold tonight
unless someone fixes her stove
while no one in Boca Ratón,
the big rats, fat cats, or landlord,
will pick up el teléfono
or has to come in from the cold
speaking Spanglish in el Welfare
Office rattling por favor
una pildora left in el bottle
for petty crimes from laid back times
when on her knees in Mayagüez
María teased Hola Muchacho
and never had to say please.
 
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Maria whose Gray Hair is White (by GM)

I'd suggest the lower case x2 in the title of GM's poem, as it is above in the title of my comment.
 
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Before Alchemy

It's as if the ignis fatuus
under a full moon in early November
gave us back Indian summer,

although it shrouds dead leaves
and shale by the creek like old bones,
each shard too brittle to hone

A+L
with Cupid's arrow through it
where the birch bark has peeled.

So I palm a palette of mud
to finger paint instead our love,
thereafter wash my cold cream fingers

to embrace bejeweled come hither jeans
I want to unzip before later you say.
 
Adoration of the Fourt Magus

That those who would make of your story
war in the name of convenient gods
not herald you, O Little One.

Darius, who called himself Great,
praised Zoroaster in his kingdom,
but defiled half the world in his reign.

Indeed, last week on the road at the well,
a Greek who said he studies the stars
argued with two Romans the Age,
whether it be Ares or Mars.

That you bring the Age of Aquarius,
that my Ziba’s belly swells with the meek,
that though the glitter recedes from the star,
you teach us we have what we seek.
 
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