poem: rudolph gets lost

by Douglas Walter

12/95

 

author’s note:  he’s so lost, it’s memorial day weekend …

written back in the ’90′s, when i had no idea what particular day it was.

***************************************************************

The holiday has brought us a snow

This I continue with my look down below

Through the cold glass I glimpse something peculiar

An amoeba-like mass albeit familiar.

A shadow eschewed by a full moon-lit night

Unsettled he wavers this earth-detached sight.

The snow as if with blood leads me to chance

“What makes this shadow?” and

“Why the burnish flood?” in happenstance.

I open the window to crane my neck for a view

A chance to witness what has been seen by so few.

“That silhouette!” and I in my pause

“Alas, something is awry with Santa Claus!”

Breath the patchwork forest bereft of leaves

An occasional conifer their needles at ease

Rabbits and squirrels timid—chase!

Their paws on snow printed—haste!

Cold gusts howl in familiar strain

Their mystery a warm flurry upon my brain.

I relax from the wood with thoughts that please

While his glow returns above near the eaves.

The shadows have antlers in the snowbanks below

His searchlight traverses the treetops in slow mo’

On this night of all nights away in the manger

A familiar red light bulb beacons his savior.

Then, skid marks in the snow, a frosty breath or two

The nose glistens, this beast not found in a zoo.

Stomp stomp! with the hooves white tail a distracted flick

Rudolph then asks of me, “Have we seen our St. Nick?”

***************************************************************

 

poem: bob the horse

by Douglas Walter

3/4/05

 

(continued …)

 

page 3 …

 

Perhaps you’ve pondered the wherewithal why a horse gets such attention

Despite his attire—top hat, bow tie and cummerbund I’d forgot to mention

Left ear at lobe’s tip, diamond chip just a trace (clean-cut quarter carat)—

Who allowed Bob into the restaurant in the first place (a few faces a bit desperate)?

He was dressed better than most and for a horse

Dressed beyond a doubt—not ridiculous

I raised my wine glass and proposed a toast with the main course

He whinnied, glanced hat-way and exclaimed, “Let’s flout—just fabulous!”

Stallions have no need for the pomp (or circumstance)

To sit there and listen to mom on her phone romp (not happenstance)

Bob in his bow tie a reaction he wouldn’t dream of

This top-hat horse minded his business (hm, sort of)

One thing about Bob he’s not a boor from the stables

While cussin’ kids fell to the floor around the tables.

Let’s take a deep breath and I’ll wine and dine myself silly

Water’s fine for him and his apples, etc., please take no pity

It’s the Holidays; with my equestrian buddy out to dinner

Merry Christmas, Bob (and to my other good friends out there—all winners).

********************************************************************************************************

poem: bob the horse

by Douglas Walter

3/4/05

 

(continued …)

 

page 2 …

 

His hoof returned lap way; my finger lowered, no belly laughs (we disagreed)

“It’s my blood,” I quipped, “I’m thinning it;” all I really needed was weed

I’m with an unctuous and snooty horse named Bob (and why not)

Freedom to vice take no advice—from any smart-ass animal—thanks a lot.

*************************************************************************

We ordered and began dining and found no remorse

No one queried or asked about a Bob-named horse

You’d figure on some questions about health codes such

(With the exclusion of seeing-eye dogs—ruff*ruff)

Rich folk and their eclectic ways

Kitty cats in their laps probably just strays (for show)

It’s acceptable and viable that cell-phones ring

“Liberty Bell,” brassy notes; text me, touch her (hey, that’s a fling).

Children little out so late and too tired

This nice restaurant stop and behave (they’re wired)

Their food they toss at each other

Old ways:  a spoon-catapult for a pea shower.

Mom’s on her “hands-free,” a real-estate deal—goose bumps

Bob nibbles his apples and oats in a bowl (good for dumps).

Gesturing, mom is flustered, we need a transponder

She quivers with, “Son of a bitch,” a potty mouth (and needs the bathroom’s blender).

Beam her up, Scotty! and get her out of here; Bob turns and snorts

She glances lifts her nose her mission let’s abort

“Cool it, Bob—she’s a clown,” where’s my wine to drink

Maneuvering brats neglected, the situation stinks.

The waiter comes back pours my wine and Bob more water

Oats, cinnamon sticks, barley chips—a horse feast to gather

My crab cakes, smoked salmon; an 8-ounce filet I’d rather.

 

(to be continued …)

 

 

poem: bob the horse

by Douglas Walter

3/04/05

author notes:  i tried to find a picture of “bob” in a tuxedo.  i must have misplaced.  sorry.

also, the cat is not in this story.  (listens …) … no, i don’t know how long they’ve been together.

(listens …) … their relationship is a surprise to me, too.

 

Bob The Horse

We sat down Bob and I and put the menu to scrutiny

It was splendid the atmosphere venue and scenery

I opened my tailored soft napkin and sipped

My wine from the bottle I ordered, “None for me,” he quipped.

I knew he wouldn’t drink (the wuss) his compunction

To provoke and provide me a reason a predilection

For a night on the town horse and I awhile

He had new shoes (rehooved) washed and in style.

“Your teeth are clean, your coat brushed and shiny,”

You can sip the wine with me, “You big whiny.”

The Appaloosa or lollapaloosa  or lollipop said to me

“Wine though you must drink, whine I do not”

My comments for deaf ears too virtuous he, not a sot.

“Apples barley oats and sugar cubes,” he continued

“Tomatoes—not stuffed nor green but stewed.”

Our waiter nodded smirked and rode the chicanery

Scribbled did he and ascertained no skulduggery.

His notepad specific his handwriting ineligible

Bob gestured with his right hoof to the pad

“You realize,” I tipped with my right pointer in the air

“I realize,” he snipped; I came back with, “You’re incorrigible”

“I’m a horse,” he countered; so I replied, “Yeah, you’re up on things, you’re so rad”

“I suppose,” he grinned (clean teeth); I glanced the desserts eclair.

He tossed his mane, snorted and glared into me

“Be careful the amount of wine you quaff

‘Tis not coutre stay sober good pedigree (and all that stupid stuff).”

(to be continued …)

buck stares here … sings here … singed … stung?!

“i’ve got alllll my friends … ‘sommmmmewhhherrrrrrre … sommmmmmewhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhherrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrre … !!’

(sigh) … barbra streisand’s got nothin’ on this buck—nope … they were here a bit ago.  hey!!  guys!!!!  if you don’t come back

i’m gonna’ sing all over again!!!  (listens for voices, hears crickets … )  … (under his breath …)  … ff-ff-ffuckkk!! … (looks down at

ground, sees a crayfish … wet ground, his element …)  … whaddaya’ want, ya’ little bastard?? … ouch!!!  shit!!!  i’ve been burned!!!!

… okay, wrong!!!  i’ve been bitten!!!—feeeeeeeels like got burned!!—who’s gonna’ argue with me, anyway??  ya’ beast!!  get away

from me ‘fore i step on you—i will step on you, ya’ little fucking burn-bite-sting … shit-head!!! … get over here, where’d you go,

i’ll get you, come back here, ya’ little fucker!! … (deep breath …) … (quiet …)  … okay … ‘do you feeeeeeeel like i …

dooo-hooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo … !!!’ … ‘do ya’ do ya’ want my love … woh-mannnnn!!!!’ … damn, that burned!!”

playpen: the book

81

 

her mother who still wants to be, the grandmother who can’t get enough … yet—and the great-great-grandfather felt duty bound to haggle over and purchase that damn manure hole in the first place.  Look at what he started.

Next to the tome of nuptial goodness sat Jimmy’s mom’s own I-phone, in purple as opposed to her spoiled-rotten granddaughter’s trimmed and glossy in bubblegum pink, kinda’ like her pussy.  His mom glanced to the phone on occasion, perhaps watching a football game.  She loved her football, thought Jimmy.  She was a big-time booster with the University of Iowa, donating hundreds of thousands to her alma mater every year, chump change to a Chesterfield family fortune worth hundreds of millions.

Great-great-grandmother Chesterfield, who made Rose Kennedy seem dull, or at least sane in comparison, stood up from her couch position on left-hand side or bookend to the five generations of women, the right-side bookend the spoiled-rotten dodo-girl always in heat who finally got humped the wrong way … or right way.  Take your pick.  Have a baby.  Her mom already agreed she’d help take care of the sixth generation girl or boy to be.  Perhaps, this new generation will be spoiled rotten, too.

Great-great-grandmother was standing up from her seat, furthermost left, as Jimmy Chesterfield walked up and into view of five generations, one of them in constant heat.

“Uncle!”  smiled the salacious 19-year-old knocked-up vixen, little miss constant-heat,  as she tossed her hair and her nipples thought for a moment they were escaping.  Not!  Jimmy counted to ten, then 10 more, and smiled back at his niece on the way through the count.  Seventeen, eighteen, nineteen, twenty, … keep going.

“Hi, Jimmy,” as great-great glanced at the general manager with a thin smile and nodded, then turned her attention back to her charges.  “I want y’all to turn your damn cell-phone smart-phone crap off for the duration of this business at hand—ya’ hear??”

Mouths were agape and jaws went to the floor … clunk! … Belinda Jeffries, Donna Fortunate, and Denise Fingerlakes had that OMG expression.  Jimmy could barely hold back a smirk.  No OMG for him.

Chesterfield sounds so Virginian, you know?  Guess what?  They are, from Virginia, that is, the South, money from tobacco and the slave trade, the latter long ago reinvested in corn, soy, wheat, and late in the last century—wineries.

from: tandem: panther and butts … cameo: bloggist …

 

 

(blogger’s note:  butts has no kids.  he likes the picture.  it makes the squirrel appear more … mature.)

sunrise:  the beach-head …

butts:  (worrying an acorn bit in his cheeks) “just tell me how long you’re gonna’ stare out over

the water today, and i’ll go get a TV and watch soap operas.”

panther:  (glances at the squirrel, his facial muscles twitch … a bit … whiskers shift)

butts:  ”ohh-ohhhhh!   i get it.  you’re back in a cat-like trance.  okay, i can dig that.  no problem.”

panther:  (closes his eyes … trance hidden)

butts:  ”(sighs) ‘noooooo problem … ‘  yeah, i can dig it.  maybe i’ll just did my paws in the sand, do like

the humans do, or lay down and catch some rays, or … get a pair of binoculars and scope chicks in their

bikinis or … “

panther:  ”where’re eimaj’s kids?”

seagulls cry overhead looking for morsels of food, not much different from their scrounging cousin, the squirrel—

oops—the pigeon.  they scream and screech and whine and their caterwauling carries over the small waves of the

inlet and out to the florida bay and not quite heard in the gulf of mexico—except communication, as it is in bird

and jungle life in general, lives through the voice of other seagulls, other beasts with or without wing, and then

there’s humankind:  screwing it all up—nay, fucking it up—via microwave communication and fiber-optic get-on-

my-nerves wireless devices that manage even more to take the “post-office”  third- and fourth-party hand-me-down

shout-outs and instructions … it’s all screwy by the time the crowd of tweeter-idiots is done trying to spell it right,

fillibustering, opinionating, and attempting to navigate a car … and panther doesn’t give a fuck about any of this shit.

he simply wants to pluck down the amazon in the middle of florida.  in a way, it already is.  this has been discussed.

i’m not repeating it.  this bloggist is really wordy today.  imagine that …

butts:  (scanning the beach and finding the pups rolling in a pile on the sand, happy happy happy … happy … there’s

four of them, you know.  the squirrel nods)  ”they’re over there with their brothers and sisters … hey, i used ‘there’, ‘their’,

and ‘they’re’ in the same sentence.  i’m so proud of myself i could poop.”

panther:  (thinking out loud)  ”TMI.”

butts:  ”get back in your trance, buddha-cat.”

the bloggist is so proud of himself, too, for not going on and on and on and on and on and on and on … and on … (belch) …

i think i’ll go poop.