just a short ebay-inspired poem

So, we tap on weird little things called computers

to buy stuff we’ve never seen from people we’ll most

likely not meet until at least year 1, 459, 397, 682.

Kinda like in the days of butter artisans when Hilda,

Dot and Mary Katherine with their silver silk bustles

a-swishing, didst order from les grands catalogs.

Gold hair clips often. And mirrors made from melted sand

and the dust of wind-whipped chariots of uncorseted desire.

And seeds, oh yes – seeds whose children keep on singing.

My Open Link Tuesday share for this week of dVerse.

whooohoooooooooooooooooooooooo.

xooxxo

Oh, and funny what you’ll find when you Google “Victorian Seed Packets…”

Poem Written After A Night Of Songwriting, Laughter & Sweet Leaf Tea

I’d like an old woman
to wrap my tired shoulders
in a shawl of sleepy seaweed.

I’d like the seaweed to wrap
all my Christmas presents this year
in yellow pansies and cedar shingles.

I’d like my shingles to hold fast
through days and nights of snow
and dusty misplaced bedroom slippers.

I’d like my bedroom slippers to be
made from Doc Marten leather that
has danced in Australia at least twice.

I’d like Australia to move a little closer
to Texas, and I suppose with tectonic shifts,
Australia soon will be at my front door knocking.

I want Milo to open my front door
and step robustly inside, leaving his
wet umbrella out on the bottom step.

I want my bottom step to welcome
all peoples from all lands and invite them
in for tea and poached eggs on toast tomorrow.

I want tomorrow to be as awesome as
this moment seems to be for me, here after
midnight still up with the aroma of earlier burgers.

I want my burgers to all be organic,
on softest nine-grain buns, with dashes
and lashes of relish from an old woman’s fridge.

I want an old woman’s fridge to be full
of apples, celery, carrots, and walnuts
and I want her to invite me to lunch daily.

And if she felt so inclined to pop in with Milo,
take up my broom and waltz around with it until all
the dust was in the old cast iron frying pan, I wouldn’t mind.

And if the frying pan should marry the vacuum
cleaner to the dishwasher I wouldn’t mind that either.
I’d only mind if I forgot to let Milo open the door to your heart.

~~ end of poem

When I was a teen I thought that Pete Townsend song went ”Let Milo Open The Door.”

Years later I realized the lyric was actually “Let My Love Open The Door.”

Sweet Leaf Tea — made right here in Austin, Texas, USA, whooooohoooooo!!

xoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxo

Inspectors

It’s all tea and crumpets

until inspectors in fedoras

and restless 3-piece suits

stand pointing at your

railway car and leaning

on your tiny caboose.

Other snoopers,

as you possibly know

from your own tangos

with clipboarded eyes,

are the popcorn police,

the chain-link fence patrol

and the nudity overseers.

There are even

government spies

ever on the watch  

that farmers’ spring

grass fires never burn

wider than a 2-square

meter patch per year,

farmers whose

great-great-great-

great-great-great-

grandfathers cleared

said land almost two

hundred years ago,

farmers who, by age 10

had already forgotten

most of what had been

handed down to them

about ash fertilization,

ladybug June cotillions

and the pull of the moon

over October stallions.

Did I mention a good

many stout farming

lads and lassies were

conceived those April

grass fire nights as the

last puffs of snowmelt

were seeping back into

the love that still is and

always will be recreating

itself from the lungs of

the universe breathing?

~~ end of poem inspired by above photo of a model railroad scene.

~~ and brought to mind the time a clip-boarded kid told Dad to put his burn pile out,

~~ Dad who still loves and lives! Great Typo — in the farm house he was born in 75 years ago.

My dVerse Poets Open Link Tuesday offering.

xxooxoxox

Thank you for your comment.

I look forward to getting over to your blog in the next day or so!

Write A Poem

Write a poem on a chocolate morning
when the parakeets are trading recipes
and the cat’s already into the beer.

Write a poem at noon when the bacon
leaps from the fridge and fries itself into
a frenzy of hip-shaking mardigras magic.

Write a poem in the mashed potatoes
stuffed into the hollows of old oaks and
clumped onto the thighs of the moon.

Sleep ten days. Wake and write a poem
on the rejuevenated skin of your cheeks
all plump with vikings in pink velvet.

And since fives are magical… write a
fifth poem on palmetto leaf at the dinosaur
disco your dreams will dance in tonight.

whooohooo, one for Tuesday Open Link Night at dVerse Poets.

xoxoxo

Ye olde traveling dinosaur show, Galveston, TX, August 2010.

A Purring Cat Reminds You

A purring cat who’s overtaken

the most comfy part of your chair

reminds you you’re loved completely.

A parakeet-curious cat reminds you

to be extra vigilant while those birdies

hang out and write with you during the day.

A dancing cat reminds you that

pansies are always blooming somewhere

and heaven ever giving birth to stars within you.

It’s Tuesday! Whooohoooo.

The dVerse Poets are alive and rockin’!

And worry not — no parakeets or cats were harmed in the creation of this post.

xoxoxoxoxo