Tag Archives: poetry

Occupy Your Local Appliance Repair Shop [Limericks]

Posted on October 11, 2011 by | 3 comments

It’s the only job left.

Being on top was such fun!
The products were cheap, and the gun
Assured they’d keep coming
Velocities numbing
Til ammo we’d spang out of run.

Those multi-national boys
Didn’t make you buy all of those toys.
You bought them not thinking
From China, though shrinking
Your dollars without so much noise.

It’s jobs that you want, and you’re right
But you’ve got to be part of the fight.
Throw out all your plastic
incumbents and spastic
Buying and crying and spite.

The CEOs bankers and pols
Helped you do it but aren’t Commie moles
It’s true they’re just like you
Their coppers will strike you
While your coppers strike at the doles.

Stopping a train just ain’t easy
The methods are bloody and sleazy
But changing direction
Requires a correction
More solid than whiney and breezy.

Old Jules

3 Comments

Posted in 2011, America, Communication, Human Behavior, Poetry, Politics, Uncategorized

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Tumescence and Tentpole Torque

Posted on October 11, 2011 by | 8 comments

3 am I wake
Find you atop me
Kneading
I savor
The soft purr
Of you
The gentle scratch
Of nail on flesh
Tiny pleasure pain
I hold
I hold
I hold
Until I can wait
No more
Lift you
Lovingly aside
And rise

You follow watching
My grimaced
Downward
Push
Muscle pressure
Pain
Release

Your tail
Lashes S and Z
In empty air
Green eyes fixed
I search absently
For  a synonym
For piss hard
And ponder how
Like the useless
Appendix
This serves no function.

No.  No.
It reminds
Remembers
Other uses
Other times.

Old Jules

Copyright 2011 NineLives Press

8 Comments

Posted in 2011, Poetry, Uncategorized

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Shadowcats and Sugar Pills

Posted on October 2, 2011 by | 10 comments

I glanced out the window and saw this:

Niaid was curled up on the bed, [I double-checked] so whatever else that critter was, it was an outsider.  The chickens were ranging free and I couldn’t hear any alarm from them, but this guy just looked too big to have roaming around without interruption.

As I came around the cabin where I could see him better:

It was obvious the feline was operating out of a different reality.  Which didn’t necessarily mean he didn’t need to be the focus of protective measures.  But how does a person protect his chickens from a shadow-cat?  I’ve done some websearching on the various news sites and checked out the methods incorporated by the US Government into programs to avoid having shadow-cats disrupting citizen-like critters such as these:

The consensus seems to be you have to get one of these:

No matter what the cost.

I’m not certain I want to have one of those running around here loose, even when I have dangerous shadowcats skulking around peeking at my holdings.

Once something of that sort gets a foothold there’s no predicting where it will end:

Sugar pills in toy jars
Candy counter cures
For the sensory deprived
For the spirit that yearns hardship
Facade struggle for the
Stagely frightened
Sedentary soul

Living a reality
Where gangster boss of fantasy
Celluloid deeds and words
Are worth repeating;
Gladiator wars in plastic armor
Oaken clubs and pigskin missiles
Pudding danger jello struggles
Hard and real inside the mind
Inside the molded plastic
Toy of the mind

Man who cleans the windshield
At the signal is an actor
In the show last night
On MTV or HBO
Sexy girls dancing
In the background
As he postures
Rag and bucket
On the glass

Toy hero pushes button
In the Kevlar coated dragon
Of the field
Sees the enemy extinguished
In a prophylactic
Box of evening news
Before and after
Old war movies
All the same

Any loss is accidental
Cost of war’s
In higher taxes
Salaries for heroes
Fuel bullets
Not in blood
Not in blood
Sterile sealed
In plastic baggies
Plastic baggies
Hold the artificial
Flavor
Of the life
When life was real

Yet the sickness
Needs a remedy and cure

Sugar pills in toy bottles;
New candy counter pudding
For the soul.

Old Jules
Copyright NineLives Press, 2004

10 Comments

Posted in America, Chickens, Country Life, Creative Writing, Poetry, Solitude, Survival, Wildlife, Writing

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Choose Something Like a Star

Posted on September 11, 2011 by | 4 comments

Choose Something Like a Star

by Robert Frost – 1947

O Star (the fairest one in sight),
We grant your loftiness the right
To some obscurity of cloud —
It will not do to say of night,
Since dark is what brings out your light.
Some mystery becomes the proud.
But to be wholly taciturn
In your reserve is not allowed.

Say something to us we can learn
By heart and when alone repeat.
Say something! And it says “I burn.”
But say with what degree of heat.
Talk Fahrenheit, talk Centigrade.
Use language we can comprehend.
Tell us what elements you blend.

It gives us strangely little aid,
But does tell something in the end.
And steadfast as Keats’ Eremite,
Not even stooping from its sphere,
It asks a little of us here.
It asks of us a certain height,
So when at times the mob is swayed
To carry praise or blame too far,
We may choose something like a star
To stay our minds on and be staid.

4 Comments

Posted in Adventure, Astronomy, Creative Writing, Music, Poetry

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Four Limericks on Life

Posted on August 21, 2011 by | 18 comments

He goes by the surname of Fauna;
From platypus to the iguana:
He hunts and he stalks
And he ceaselessly talks
Of death and the killing he want’ta.

She goes by the surname of Flora.
She’s plankton; she’s trees, a plethora,
But lives in a dread
Avoiding his tread;
He’s Sodom; he’s death; he’s Gomorrah!

He eats, he digests, he excretes her;
She’s worried each time that he meets her.
It’s not so dismaying
To find him decaying:
His syrup of nitrogen treats her.

Submerged in a hostile reality
Humanity flirts with finality.
He yearns to transcend
But his carnal self wins
And he wastes all his life in banality.

Old Jules

Copyright © NineLives Press, 2004

—————

Interesting aside:

“The midnight sun is a sore trial for amateur astronomers in the high North,” says Fredrik Broms of Kvaløya, Norway. “But now, after a long summer without stars (save one), darkness is falling again. Last night when I was watching the beautiful conjunction of Jupiter and the Moon, the first auroras of the season suddenly appeared!”

“I am looking forward to a great season with lots of activity on the sun!” says Broms

http://spaceweather.com/

———————

GEK, the friend who owns this place is going into high gear preparing for the Hatch Chili Festival coming up soon in Hatch, New Mexico.  Last night he sent me a pic of his latest creation involving Siberian wolf fangs:

—————————————

Upcoming White Trash Repairs Project – Soon to be a nesting box

Getting the guts out of there without destroying the aesthetics is the challenge A layer of dead leaves or horse bedding chips in there and the Great Speckled Bird explaining the operation, they'll be right at home.

“Life after death will take care of itself howsomeever it plays out.  Finding something useful to do with yourself when the future passes you up without volunteering yourself for the burn pile is a this-lifetime matter worthy of concern.”  Josephus Minimus

“I am a Long Tall Texan” – Bob Luman

http://youtu.be/Uo-LZDy_Oxs

18 Comments

Posted in Animals, Nature, Poetry

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Catatonic Doggerel

Posted on August 14, 2011 by | 5 comments

Explanatory note:  I used to spend a lot of time on the Zuni Rez with a lady-friend who was school librarian there for 20+ years.  The animals described and named here were all hers.  I post this as a hat-tipping to Ernie, Princess, Spot, Boy Toy and the rest.

A schoolmarmish lady in Zuni
had canines subversive and loony;
her communist felines
made neighborhood beelines
with doctrines both outworn and puny.

The KGB cat was a lean
and speckled-nosed beauty serene
appearance alone
for her countenance shown
multi-faceted plots as she preened.

Her Weathercat history was tops.
She’d sprayed on dozens of cops
with a Commie aroma
ere she joined  Sertoma
cavorting with phonies and fops.

The ringleader hound was a red
and curly haired rascal it’s said
whose Trotskyish leanings
and Maoish gleanings
were pondered curled up on the bed.

Princess Redfeather, they tells
of this curly red bitch of the cells,
forsook her fine lineage
to sip of the vintage
of Lenin, and Gulags and hells.

The worst of the felines, Bearboy:
striped and cross-eyed and coy;
Politically weak,
but claws that could tweak
bourgeoise carpet, and bedspread, with joy.

The Uncle-Tom dog of the hut
was Ernie, the gray-bearded mutt;
dog-tired, and dogmatic,
he thought, ”Problematic:
dog-eared dialectic and glut.”

A calico hound lying dormant,
most likely a police informant:
a capitalist clown
took his food lying down
resisting the commie allurement.

The Uncle-Tom dog she called Ernie
began as a dog-pound attorney
commuted from gassing
he pondered in passing
discretion’s demands for a journey.

The Stalinish kittenish spies
spread foment and torment and lies
to the Indian curs
and mutts that were hers
and war-gods high up on the rise.

Princess and Ernie and, Spot,
and Chester , the narc-dog; the lot:
for half a piaster
would bring the disaster
to Zuni, once called. Camelot.

Old Jules
Copyright 2004, NineLives Press

The Communist Internationale (Original, with English Lyrics)
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=suVB3YGIUk0
http://youtu.be/suVB3YGIUk0

Gloria Jean’s CATS – “You Better Come Home” – CAT SONG
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Lw475QLrqdk
http://youtu.be/Lw475QLrqdk

5 Comments

Posted in Animals, Poetry

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Old Man, Young Man, on a Mountain Top

Posted on August 11, 2011 by | 5 comments

I got an email from a young man who’d been reading my blog and was astute enough to notice I’ve made a lot of mistakes in my life and didn’t appear to have a corresponding level of grief and regret. He asked me a number of personal questions regarding all that. I answered most of his questions, but the email reminded me of the following, which I wrote a few years ago.
Old Man and Young Man
On a Mountain-top

Old man and young man
Sit, gaze at far reaches
Of valley and desert
Spanning to horizon

“How’d I get to be this old?”
Old man smiles, serene
“I wonder sometimes myself”

Young man: “I’m serious”
Old man sighs and leans
Against a rock.

“You’ve already
Heard the parts about
Cheating, lying, and
Stealing all your life.
Those can shorten things
Considerable.
Could have mine.

Those are things you need to
Keep in moderation.”

Young man frowns.
“You’re joking.”

“No. Just being
Completely honest
For once.
But those are more
Likely just to ruin
Your life than
To end it.”

Tosses a flat rock
Into the void
Eyes follow
The long descent
“I never killed myself
When I wanted to.
Never threw myself
On my sword over
Defeats I can’t recall now.
Never flang myself
Off a cliff over scores of women
I no longer remember.”

Old man digs his pocket
Pats his other pockets
Looking for his pipe.
“I never gloated sufficiently
On my amazing successes
Over the efforts of others
(Those escape my mind
These days)
To make anyone want
To kill me enough to
Actually do it.”

Tamps the pipe
Frets with a match

“I was astute enough
To recognize early
When you bed
Another man’s woman
She’ll eventually tell him.
She mightn’t say who,
But she’ll always say what
And if he’s smart
He’ll puzzle out who.
That’s a worthy thing
To keep in mind.”

Pipe bowl sparked
Glowed, smoke
Curled around him

“I’ve always lived hard
Pushed the envelope
Hung it out over the edge.
I’d rather have died early
Than not done that

“But I always kept good tires
On whatever mechanical
Critter I was depending on
To get me back
Always kept the brakes
In good shape.  And
I was damned lucky.”

They sit silent
Watch the shadows
Crawl into arroyos
Far below.

Simon & Garfunkel – The Sound of Silence 1966 live
http://youtu.be/FaSFzp6IDgw

5 Comments

Posted in Adventure, Creative Writing, Human Behavior, Poetry, Senior Citizens, Youth

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Brother Coyote

Posted on July 15, 2011 by | 5 comments

If it weren’t for the big cats, the spiders, the rattlers, the various predatory… and when I think about it, regular non-predatory birds… I’d be tempted to say the wild critter I love most is Brother Coyote.

But that’s when I don’t pause to think of those others individually.  Old Cuervo (Brother Raven)  is hard to beat if you let your mind wander to him.

Frustrating.  I began this blog post to talk about Brother Coyote and why I love him and somehow find myself having to tip my hat to ravens and rattlers and bob-cats and owls and blue birds and spiders.

How’s a man supposed to get anything said about one thing when his mind gets all clogged up with all those others dancing out of the wings wearing clown suits, somersaulting and tooting horns trying for some attention?

Dragging myself back to the issue at hand.  Brother Coyote’s maybe the critter out there that’s most like man.  Intelligent enough to have you shaking your head out of respect.  Loves himself, loves being a coyote.  Never wants to be something else, knows everything else was put here for his amusement, and frequently, for his destruction.

I suppose that’s the long and short of it.  Why,  I’ve studied Brother Coyote and often seen him studying me, seen his sign and his track behind a bush where he was sitting, tongue lolling, laughing as I stumbled noise-making through life.

But if I try to say more this will get too long for the attention spans of you readers.  I’ll save the stuff I planned to tell you about Brother Coyote for another entry or three sometime later.

Meanwhile, the moon’s full this pre-dawn.  Pause and have a look-see for a moment.  When you do, know it’s another thing you share with Brother Coyote.  He loves that moon same as you do.

And if he could get to it to destroy it, he’d do that, also.  Same as you.

Old Jules

You’ll enjoy this short video of a rising moon with a running coyote:
http://www.flickr.com/photos/ddsimages/5371270617/?reg=1&src=comment

Coyotes
by Bob McDill, sung by Don Edwards
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8kVdOxXB8fg

Cunning vs Habit

Coyotes soon learn
Becoming trap-wise in time
Never snare-wise
In time.

from Poems of the New Old West,  NineLives Press, copyright 2004

5 Comments

Posted in Adventure, America, Animals, Country Life, Creative Writing, Human Behavior, Outdoors, Photo of the Day, Poetry, Wildlife, Writing

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Vietcong Seductress, et al

Posted on July 15, 2011 by | 2 comments



Hi blogsters:
Sometimes trying to piece together our lives can be quite a chore.  Peaceful Warrior posted something on one of the groups about the way his name has been a problem to him, and it got me thinking about it.
I was given a name at birth that nobody since has been able to pronounce.  They followed that with another one nobody’d ever heard of.  So when I exited that burg at the age of 15 or so, I left those two names behind and became Jack for most purposes.
But as a struggling young writer in the late ’60s I found myself needing yet another handle…. I was writing for the hairy-chested men magazines… Men, For Men Only, a genre of magazines that vanished by the mid-1970s.
They usually had a picture on the cover of a Marine with a machete struggling with python wrapped around a half-naked woman in some jungle.  That sort of thing.
Well, fact was, in those days I thought there was half-a-chance I’d want to be president, or try to get a decent job sometime.  Didn’t want stories like, Viet-Cong Seductress, or The Half-Million Dollar Sex Salon The Texas Rangers Can’t Find following old Jack around the remainder of his life.
Adopted the pseudonym, Frank C. Riley, which worked well enough.
Then the market collapsed for hairy-chested men stories.  Best paying hack-writer market left was something called ‘Confession‘ mags, which must have been read by the mothers of Romance Novel readers of today.  I figured, what the hell.
Popped out  I Was An Outlaw Motorcycle Mama, sent it off, got a nice letter back telling me there was a middling amount of what they read they liked, but that I needed to work on my female perspective a bit.  Eventually they published it, but they never bought another, though I tried.  But unless I’m mistaken, Motorcycle Mama was the only time I ever succeeded in passing myself off as a woman.  Only time I really ever tried, during that confessions market thing.
Amazing the things a man will do for money.

Old Jules

Hack Writing

Editor:
“Give me a 750 word
Masterpiece
Describing
How crushed ice
Machines
Can be used
On construction sites
To slow the cooling

And surface cracking
Of freshly poured
Cement.
Make it lively
Make it dance

I want it yesterday
We’ll argue
Prices
Three months from now
When you see the check.”

“Give me 2000 words
To titillate
Give me that whorehouse
That famous Chicken Ranch
In La Grange, Texas.
I want pockets picked
I want gonorrhea
I want luscious hookers
And hints of corruption
Deep in Texas
Law enforcement

I want it yesterday
We’ll argue
Prices
Three months from now
When you see the check.”

“I want 2000 words
Fiction
Something about
Beautiful Vietcong seductresses
Luring innocent GIs
To bed and death
In some stinking thatched hut
With pigs squealing outside
I want to see her despair
Her soul searching
As she discovers she loves him

I want a hint of non-fiction.

We’ll argue
Prices
Three months from now
When you see the check.”

Workshop:
“I want a poem
About how you feel
When your lover
Jilts you
In favor of someone
Of his own sex
And begins
Taking hormones.

I want the word
Encyclopedia
Used in every
Third line.

No pay
You just have
The pleasure
And satisfaction
Of doing what I
Told you to.
To help you
Get used to the feel
Of being a writer”

From “Poems of the New Old West”, NineLives Press, Copyright 2003

The Beatles– Paperback Writer



2 Comments

Posted in 1970's, Adventure, America, Books, Communication, Creative Writing, Hack Writing, History, Human Behavior, Photo of the Day, Poetry, Texas, Writing

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