Too tired
The hardwired highway twisting, rushing
A few trees from the reflected light
of beams on the road
Tall Order. drinking 9.5% beer do you
hear the Christmas bells
The peacocks wish to show their wings, amid silver ornaments
The chrome of an old car coming in the rear view mirror
like a fountain pen no one would ever
touch
The elevator is taking us up – its rich
walnut stain handrail – a comfort
to the blonde panelling with dark hearts
I wear a black shirt and underneath the hurt
I suck the straw of festive music
Like i was sitting on a throne in technicolor
Walt dizzily would listen to jazz
on Tall Order Wednesdays
at his favorite dive
percolating rhythms and aromatic espresso
into the blue stage with its golden horns
‘twas a hive of bees and birds
and thin rectangles of red stage lights
on the floor
like a fountain that never knew it was shut off
and hazelnuts never to be harvested, he hooked
his eyes into her lightly tanned face with its
green irises and blonde straightened
shined hair
Tall order. drinking with peacocks in the warm
sultry air by the salt sea
and silver and green iridescent wings
© 2013 Rudolf Kurt Penner
parent(heses)
As we were walking
and in a group, she said
I’ll put that on when we get to my place:
it was Fernando, by ABBA
and that was the artist, Inge
but she never did
But some forlorn loudspeaker
that was rather quiet,
was playing it on the street
I said I could play in on the guitar:
no comment, so I said it again
no comment plus – I’ll put that on
when we get back home
I have that one
The sun was shining for once; and we’d met
on the wall that goes around the sea
There I was taking photos of my friend Sylvia
practicing kung fu
born of a forlorn preacher
The Russians stept in,
and everybody left; everybody who could, that is,
they soldiered on thru
to other continents,
miserable oceans by boat
I caught a glimpse of my mum’s Chinese,
but she would say she forgot
she would lay in bed for days
after she got cancer
and stink up the house with
her rotting peaches
What a drag it must be, to be like that
mentally ill people don’t get cancer
at least I’ve never met one
miserable oceans apart
what it must be like, living on
a dog’s leash
a gift of the horse in the mouth
a grave on either side
some artist wrote a book
some author plays the game of brandy + cigars
talks with the gen’lmen-scholars
and they go back to their boots and hunting
and triggers and hairpins
and planning the annihilation of the enemy
Tigers walk slowly, eyeing up their prey
the tips of crows’ wings setting off the sky
What if the grass is greener on the other side
And parents off the tan their offspring’s hide
I don’t know what i feel inside
with all the oil paint sitting there unused
the tiggers hoped I’d create a portrait
of them stealing through the brush
the way I figger I can’t get caught
doing something bad
It’s the best linen canvas you ever had
I would lay back for days
coaxing my back back into shape
It hurts after working
and the frog outside keeps croaking
Crow may leave a versatile feather
for me to pick
from the ashes
in the sand
And I will go play in the band
with all my wet music
stained and haunted by
a silent sadness
©2014 by Rudolf Kurt Penner
Nelson the Seagull
Sitting at Nelson the Seagull
reviewing my tablet
setting and re-setting
and all beginning to seem like wasting time
snipping protocol at this/that website
slow-loading functionality
brain – much faster
surfers, surfing in
connections getting even slower –
got-to-get-me-one-of-those signal boosters,
rumour has it, some people engage
Coffee being handed from customer
to staff cook – why
smell of human fog, getting thick
Cards or canvas flags – strung across
the divide several times
one inch tile holding down the
warped illusion floor
and a creeping leaf-strewn carpet
matting the entrance
The sidewalk floor-washers are
outside: my colleague gives me
a glint-and-a-wave
in his yellow rain costume
The man’s brown shoes
at the table next-to-me
go well with seemingly bleach-blonde
short hair – standing straight up
Across from me – the woman
with the long hair
shuffles-and-clacks the ends of the sheaf
to the long wooden table
this is a good coffeeshop
Vocabulary Link: * clacks
© 2014 Rudolf Kurt Penner
Caring for the Coffeeshop
caring for the coffeeshop
where the owner is always present
or is presenting one of the employees he chose
working the internet
from his own free Wi-Fi
that is – it’s free for us,
the Cute customers
but he’ll always gather himself
up to serve a coffee
or arrange the pastries,
never getting lost on the net
like us Average Joe’s
The rough-worn bar whose sides just look old
and may indeed be old –
but brought in to enhance
the modern feel interior
decorator did a fine job, maybe himself
so fine even I am caring for the coffeeshop
in turquoise clay the mud is poured
dining in traditional Chinatown, now
leased to Whites and Browns
who’ll pay any price to open up;
unafraid of losing a couple hundred grand
how can people be unafraid of losing
a couple of hundred grand
and be so nice about it
at the same time
I gave myself an extra dime
to make a call from an extinct phone booth;
40¢ just wasn’t enough
to call the beach
where the Persian lackadaisical man informed the ocean
of his being
here
some girl tore to shreds
the remnants of his life
a wild ride
with real estate
he’s leaving he’s leaving
after weaving his tale
how can people be so cool
to work around the purer rule
of certainty and law
leaving their non-existent baggage
at the door
of science and nature
© 2015 Rudolf Kurt Penner
One Mountain Lion, One Police Car and One Deer
One Mountain
and One Police car
and one deer
And three trees,
and 2 deserts
One mountain Lion
one woman with long hair
spinning her web
one dried up sea
stretching from see to see point
a rattlesnake wriggling thru
shorten my sentences
with a hangman’s rope
cut with a razorsharp
here we are
bring me a rabbit and a blade of grass
tomorrow’s the nightday
Northern California, close to Reno
one mountain lion
one police car
and one deer
the tracks were laid down long ago
by a featherlight pen
now the pigeons sit on trains
even in boxcars
satisfied by a seed
by a fountain pen
and they were all here
drinking from the well
of the golden snake nearby
asking the camera for a projection
© 2014 Rudolf Kurt Penner
lo-fi protocols
It’s so boring when you’re drunk
to hear ordinary announcements
You take a hard rock candy Black Russian along on your bike
riding in the Sun-day
thru the throngs of Sun-Run
roadies all spooked in white
with printing, black in nature
The cloud rolls in, but it is not sick,
there’s an eerie clamour towards
the sky; red pens won’t
record the district atmosphere
sentimentality is on record as being obscene, but would
you and I agree
When boredom drives you to the
movies – any movie will do
while the organs play in a small town –
you’d be hard-pressed to hear two together in this day and age; maybe
congruously in several towns
via satellite or VOIP
but no SOUND QUALITY CAN endure
the lo-fi protocols
of quick snappy access to sound
dream of a fat pig flying thru the sky
with motorized jet stream coming out of its arse
The bike is orange
the racing flag decals
black and chequered white
The drink is brown
with massive cubes of God’s ice
The peacock struts its stuff
some claim a narcissistic pattern
but not so – the St. Nick of your soul must rest in Narcissus
taking + picking gold rings from
the fir & gold tree
They have beed wrested well from strangers
who had them made, carved + poured in molds
the wax ran out
the pig was rescued from the sky
which was yellow and silver today
caring for the debut princess
in the school play
the theater of the mind;
a boy reading in his Boy Scouts outfit
clear as a bell that rang from hell
The Theatrical Director will sing
the oranges will fall from a crate and barely bounce
for fear of brown
warehouse darkness
like the Orange
the mind can be full of zesty honours
just fit for flashy birds to take
on their journey
missive cues of god’s mind
a translucent cold
fear of racing wheels
* vocabulary: missive
© 2015 Rudolf Kurt Penner
MORNING ANGEL
The one who stays the dawn
to slay a few less dragons
here begins the morn
as a silver Stingray rolls by
and Jerry-the-madman is getting high…
… The MORNING ANGEL is busy placing
cigarette butts for the downward-looking dogs
A piano starts up in a big old house…
… The MORNING ANGEL speaks a
word or 2 to the CHOSEN FEW…
(for full poem please contact me – one X-rated line)
© 2014 Rudolf Kurt Penner
the Celine Dion pen
Celine Dion was walking down the street 
where I found her pen
lying on the ground
with her signature on it
I picked it up
and drew a pretty picture
when she went back to French
I sold turpentine in the dime store
in a small city in Canada
and took pity on all the starving artists
lining up before my door every morning
I would see them from behind the curtains
I wear sunglasses when I work,
so as you can imagine
things are pretty mellow
on rusty mornings
trying to look preoccupied
for the few customers
on a Wednesday morning
© 2012 Rudolf Penner
Let Me Go (Revisited)
Let me go on the Rocks
– on the rocks by the riverside
too old, too old
too steep a hill to comb
no clout, no references
Stuck in the Valley
– the valley below
roaming around scattered icons
of trash by trash-west
no snout, for truffle picking
the thin birch
– standing tall amid the giants
cold and chipped
flat area brush mixing with marmots
get out, evil spirit
Let me go on the rocks
– on the rocks beside the shore
fold me up, throw me away
a blue paper napkin
flips about in the wind
…and sinks in the water
and is carried away downstream
© 2012 Rudolf Kurt Penner
this is a second version of a previous poem from long ago, at first, attempted to write from memory: failed. This is the revisitation.
Trust Only Employers, It’s Only A Crow
Trust only employers
those who hire you
they can tell all the truths they wish
if they ask you to lie for the cause
please be patient with them
There is only one rule that matters:
and that is: make money
if it doesn’t gravitate greenbacks
it ain’t honest work
trust me on this
I asked you for a glass of wine:
and you were only serving beer
I asked for a cup of water:
and it was only for the customers
it was only caffeine for the workers; they want you buzzing
There is only on radical around here:
and he is out of a job, just now
you can only hold your own so long
some hold it forever
They don’t bitch and complain and tell you what’s wrong
If grass don’t grow here, ‘s something wrong:
for it is the season
somebody put something there
and now it won’t grow
gasoline, or radiation, or concrete
That bird is sick:
it can’t fly away
it’s here to stay
that bird over there” it’s sick too
but I know, it’s only a crow, and that is how it goes
© 2012 Rudolf Kurt Penner
hork
We spit out, over and over again,
what we’ve been told
I’m better at hiding it, because I
read more varied sources, and
you might be hard pressed to name them
Our own thots are rare, and really only a
reflection of those in orbit
Like parrots we go gabbing all day long
pronouncing the fate of millions,
America, Afghanistan, Iraq
horses, hidden in the barn
at the back of the farm
the future of sad billions, not really
ours to dwell upon. Altho a
kind word in the right direction, might help
a kite, in the brite sky, flying so gaily
the mail still arrives daily
mostly junk mail, invitations for a credit line,
tempting your already unhealthy brain.
Somebody spent a lot of money on those little ads
here or there a duck, listening to Styx music
a quick nickel from the sidewalk
and a bit of bark for tea
ne’ry a dog that doesn’t pee all over
a black dressed man horks in
front of him, far too close to you.
©2011 Rudolf Kurt Penner
the man with the black guitar
no the black man with the guitar and rollerskates
the busking skinny man in Gastown
with the voice – what a voice
– what a memory –
– someone who created ‘the scene’ –
and will never be famous
in the dark fall evenings
you could hear him
1/2 a block away
and my face would light up long before
ever getting to him
perched on the ass-freezing concrete
sometimes, oodles of months later
with no guitar: just that voice
the voice that can cut the dark blackness anyday
©2010 Rudolf Kurt Penner
My Batteries Have Run Dry
My batteries have run dry
altho I feel like doing something
I can’t ––
–– there is no energy whatsoever
Life has left me
Tired of all the bullshit
especially other people domineering
They get on top ––
I stay on the bottom
Life living in a pup tent
on the back of someone’s property
with a big house in the foreground
By my watch it is a quarter past 10
way past some people’s bedtime
and here we are ––
swinging from some suspension bridge
with a Daytimer in my hand
© 2012 Rudolf Kurt Penner
unpretentious observer…
…I hope your postcards ’ coming in
will show you all where I have bin
at the seaside rendezvouses and Inns
where lemonade is served
and sad but smiling faces
let your minute-taker catch the facts
and satin truths and hear them ply their pecking
order in the dew of morning’s pale envelopes
of siding with this or that stew…
(excerpt from unpretentious observer © 2009 Rudolf Penner
contact me to get the entire poem)
Calling All Angels
Calling all Angels
All Old Angels aboard;
the Vessel is sinking
the pirates are drinking
the cook has arthritis
the nightwatchman and his stars – are one
the mast is high
in night sea air
the crow’s nest – a perfect example
fish dart furtively
under the backwash
below deck the Angel of Awe
has it out with one of the Captains –
– of Industry
the nightwatchman-watches his stars
© 2012 Rudolf Kurt Penner
BROKEN COMPANIONSHIPS BLEEDING DOWN THE TRAINTRACKS
BROKEN COMPANIONSHIPS BLEEDING DOWN THE TRAINTRACKS
Cutting ribbons on ceremony
steeplechase
snoring routine
walking, walking, and never running
the slack is never taken up
that’s why the yo-yos
unbound but perfect
wading in water
never going for a swim
act like simpleminded motions will save the day and carry on
tap dancing before fires roaring in camp lodge fireplaces
huge and daring
accosting the sweat glands
tearing up the eyes
swatting off the flies
gasoline and smell of campfire coffee going home
to the nose
making every grass to use
drawing up branches
broken and ashen
standing there leaning in
© 2012 Rudolf Kurt Penner
beach capsule
Tap tap I hear all your crap
they tell me you got problems
I’m dying to see
like all the water fludding down the plain
I see your face again, the same;
It’s not much to ask you pack your bags
what’s it worth to you to do some chores
put a sandbag in the gap
where they can see the yellow-smelling flowers
Take me there
too far to take a wagon
down the sodden track
I see your face again, I blame myself
I saw your work going down the sink
Snap snap I’m gonna snore
like all old men upon the shore
with their babes hanging onto their
plastic-strap aluminum lawnchairs
It wasn’t much to ask
and I was in a jam
© 2012 Rudolf Kurt Penner
(this poem contains a link to one of my favorite childhood songs)
The Wheel Keeps On Turning
(excerpts from The Wheel Keeps on Turning)
…Makin’ a whole lotta Cash
Sinbad now plays the geetar…
…I hope he learns to sing
…leaning on the rail
and the Wheel keeps on turning…
…two losers in bed
neither human
nor ashamed…
…I bought my souvenir
of a better time…
…Back-to-back hits charging out radio speakers
always the same, always lame…
…Magpies and scorpions overhead…
…Choking on dying plants
and cosmic rants…
…The leaves are brown for sure…
…and the Wheel keeps on turning…
(to get the poem in its entirety please contact me)
© 2012 Rudolf Kurt Penner
XYZANDABC
P IMPLYRAI
NPEARLING
EVERYONEI
NTHEL I NE-
UPQUEUEW
AI T I NGFO
RFR ES HFL
OWERSIME
ANFOOD
© 2012 Rudolf Kurt Penner
Becoming
(excerpt from Becoming)
…healing all the bees
that are flying through the trees…
…where is the broken vase that caused so much trouble
now, becoming rich in small things
It is becoming…
(to get the whole 42 line poem contact me)
© 2012 Rudolf Kurt Penner
The Mother of the barista has promised to do the job
if only she can get 100,000 bob
what would the mythological giants say to this
if they could plant upon her face a kiss,
it rings true, it
rings true; don’t it?
She brings them here
she brings them there
and ne’er a hair is singed.
Except the Unbearable Likeness of Being
which Sees all the Underhanded Things
miniscule Ones would say
there is not a microscopic chance
it could be be seen
except InBetween
Buttons, charlattans,
coffins, pink beryls
on fine rings of poets
pass around the ring the pot of poetry inspiration
a clay cup of word coining
panamatopeia
her face a kiss
a branch she nearly missed
is flat down on the ground
lying beneath a 85-year-old tree
born the day her father was
born again after they all
came from different countries
bath will bring true colours
back after aromatherapeutic oils
these could be seen floating oily on the water
© 2012
The Girl That Looked Like Julia Roberts
There was a girl that looked like
Julia Roberts, in the line-up
at the Hindoo temple, waiting
with her friends, same ski slope
nose, with a jump
end this note
and bother with tying up loose ends
in your sewing
creme-coloured stripes in your
fingernails aglow
with song and with summer-
sweet nectar dripping
down your cheek
a side of the pink (…to get the full poem contact me)
© 2012
To The Islands
A coffee a beer and a bag of chips
that’s all I bought on my holiday
Call me cheap, but the boiled
beets I brought along
were terrific. A few drips
stained my shoes.
The hummous was great
because I made it
And the cabbage was sweet
because it came from the Comox Valley
To the islands
away we go: Skipping the waves
like a winging stone
Across cultures to the shore
watching the kayakers boat
and seeing the sun gradually
drive its stake thru the clouds
I wonder where my prayers went;
probably into some cafe
I fly a kite
I rib my joint
I see the islanders wonder who I am
roads and trees and breezy
winds, taking the early exit
back over the waves
Catching a tune on a half-hearted
radio I measure my steps
© 2011
A nook in Rome
Pickled eggs and pickled herring
pimento peppers from Greece
cheese from Rome and I’ll have a slice and a piece
Reading a book in a nook in Spain
getting choice and chic ideas
in case of a brain
small shovels, spades for digging holes for dropping poo
a feather pen and blood for taking notes
I almost know my life by rote
wear thin coat in the summer
of my love, din drizzle
pattering on its green
Before the Flood and After the Flood
© 2011
Carnivals
Sleep then children
let your tears wash you dry
Let the organ music drown your sorrow
and stop thinking, for God’s sake,
stop thinking 
Eat your oatmeal in the morning when it can do you no good,
your eggs at night when they congest your sinuses
drink your milk and eat your bananas late to get bad dreams
Sleep with the light on
and plenty of noise from the street
so you will miss the birds that tweet in the morning dew
Never talk to yourself or to each other
for the State is your Mother and your brother
The rains will come no matter what
Trees will grow to hide your pain
and all will be done in the name of your good
Be kind to carnivals
and music festivals of all kinds,
let them sway you into a lull
and cause your insides to burst in your 50s
© 2011
jazz blue audio and washline
Black and white next to the door
It doesn’t matter anymore
The Night is Blue
And me and You
have seen so many things
that oranges could conceivably be compared to oranges
And the knitted hammock hanging in the wind
is compared, but not often, to a firmer bed
Things have gone wrong
– in my head
Black is white and white is black
and jazz-blue audio
is concentrating near the stereo
Tight and dry the washing holds
to the line across the yard
the Dark is Day
and she and he they will participate
and getting acquainted in the air
What’s fair and square
the melon never will trapeze
what collected carpet in the hallway floor
– rolled and set and full of dirt
like a jacuzzi after the stream
and greying rooms let their shadows in on all the secrets
away, away with you
–from carnival to carnival
© 2011
You’re invited! Poetry Feast now!
photo by Jim Blair
Welcome to my poetry site. Here is a selection
from my writings. Please contact me
about the Rest. Check out my
Category: Explanations: Philosophies of Poetry
to find out how and why I write.
We are the Parents of the poor
we give them food
and offer them free lessons in humility
if there were a chance
we could say “Jump”
and the thrill of responsive action
would lurk there
as our reward. Maybe if it rains.
On snowy days
Act like you’re giving alot
when you’re actually giving hardly anything at all
But the purple haze commands
And 13,000 more people without jobs
The doors of Eatons close forever
And the blanket of white powdery covers everything over.
A nice sunny sometime
with a rainbow and a pot of gold
and a tussle here brings us to the realization
in a New Day of Creation
Where the makers are they themselves
and the Cowboys all have earrings
riding over sagebrush widely in the country
That the sting of the thing is it don’t help.
© 1999 Rudolf Penner
About — Poetry Spoken Here
interesting poetry blog with audio poetry http://www.poetryspokenhere.com/info
Muriel Marjorie is Dying
Muriel Marjorie is dying
She was the poet
who first started saying Meg-witch*
at the beginning or end of her poetry presentations
and interrupting people’s polite way of thinking
Muriel is dying?
Whey don’t X, Y and other jerks I know
– start dying –
but Muriel?
When a friend of mine
started emailing me this message
I ignored it
because I thot it must be a mistake – fake news
a prank, some bad humour
Or even a dark poem
written by the poet her self
that would make us think of death
She is not the sort of poet you think will ever die
And now, drinking out of the first
of my two white cup and saucers
for the second time,
I see the point – she is not meant to be believed
when she says she is dying
She was a light here in the Downtown Eastside,
but we later found out:
that is not the only place she lived:
She went up north to see her people there
She went east, to see and live with people there
She lived in the forest
She came back
You never knew where she was
And now, drinking my second cup of tea this evening,
out of the second cup of Chinese china
I wonder what the world will come to
without the suggestion
of the wandering soul
the window of her realization
the commotion of symptoms and “truths” not my own
*megwitch: an Ojibwe/Algonquin First Nations word meaning “thank-you”
©2019 Rudolf Penner
Writing as Milan Gibran
writing as a sinner
or a third world binner
wagering his hand across the hot coals
the walking parrot had foretold
that many sheep would leave the fold
the barber shut his gate at 8
to smoke his pipe among the tides
before the evening light
had been squelched by veils and the haze of smouldering fires
Getting to his family for the evening meal
had been the measured step that took him home
He thought aplenty, and meditating, made a mental note
of showpieces he would show his kin
in the village plaza
Where actors roamed all day
and goats and chicken cordially lay
and seeds aplenty
begged the cause of fowl pigeons
Maps of serious places on far-away lands
hunted his memory
Where would the Pearls of Yesterday
bringing their shells , lay them, for homes
on foreign shores
collected the eggs of partridges
and sold them on the cobblestones
©2016-2020 Rudolf Penner
it’s snowing on Canadians
In Feb’uary it snowed
everybody I knew was dying
The flakes kept coming down
How did Canadians become so flakey
No one wanted to pay money to dreamers
no effort was rewarded
but Volunteerism was promoted as the road
to our Dreams
If we couldn’t earn money we spent money
we didn’t have
If you believe in God you will die
in most cases
If you scratch in the earth
you may get a harvest or you may not
Getting is the result of giving, they say
yet I never found what I was looking for
In Feb’uary it snowed
and the geese had flown to America those traitors
Every snowflake is different –– ain’t that the truth
it’s sick to see Canadians getting bossy
when they can’t push back very hard
I have a job and it’s my own
Only I tell me what to do
and will I listen
An old man pissin in the box
carry it to the toilet
no effort goes unrewarded, isnt it that what they say
but I find none of my efforts rewarded
It’s the Snow; it prevents people from driving
very good. And it could be an excuse
for not bringing me my money
We’ve heard of golden platters; and silver
upon which elegant Eagles can be brought
Standing on one leg
being plucked of their feathers
Let it snow
the shadows on the wall are harmless
I fear they’ll not be there next time I crawl by
an old man trying to catch a fly
why not catchem with fly agaric, I say
o, o, never heard of it
see what’s so great about walking in herds
you’ve heard of the Eagle, you’ve heard of sin
you’ve heard of letters written in the sand
the shadows are homeless
The wolf is at the park
Where’s granny –– she’s standing on one leg
In March the Winds came
and people began flying kites again
with a backdrop of steamy chemtrails
©2019 Rudolf Penner
Church Fondler
There he am, planning his attack;
the subtlist attack ever known to man,
the piano ––
will play a part
the fanatic molester will go down,
in a heap of flames
in front of everyone he touched the girl
I looked up sexual fondling on the net
this position was not found
there is no mention of it:
touching a 14-year old girl’s waist
and moving both hands up and down
while comforting her about an issue
I watch and while I’m watching,
I can’t believe this is happening
I think: you think you’re getting away with this, but you’re not.
Was she his granddaughter, niece, or church member’s daughter
so clever, not to touch her breasts
but sliding ever so close
same latitude
and smugly suppressing his smile
how long have you been doing this, buddy
not touching breasts or bums or cunts
this poem is owned and operated by Rudolf Penner
©2019 Rudolf Penner
Ghost Sickness
A thick, tangible heaviness,
now gone; has haunted
me all summer
It must have been real,
so slick and oily; like
Rules, created in darkness
So Tiredness drew me
into its Lairs, so creepy
so many months
Now not there
It has died with a Form
a swearable body
So It can disappear
to make Itself known
So Real
©2018 Rudolf Kurt Penner
Christmas in July
If you have the Presence of mind
I recommend – Christmas in July
coming to you from Down Under
the rabbits bring the thunder
Have you ever met a Richmond rabbit
You should get in the habit
they eat the little blades of grass
on Minoru Boulevard
it’s a present that doesn’t need wrapping
They’ll also pose for photographs
no matter how good your camera is
I used a phone
and no one said hello
Take out three semi-precious stones
any weekend in July
and the magic will happen
take your alligator shoes
and hide inside: a bottle a’ booze
‘could be Absinthe – ‘could be Chartreuse
Let the Celebration begin
Perhaps Three Dog Night could sing
“Jeremiah was a bullfrog…”
and all your long-lost stable friends
could have a picnic on the grass
If you borrow all those unused dog baggies
– they’re green you know
You could make a plastic Christmas tree
for all we know: Love is All You Need
if you start before Santa gets there
you’ll get no pudding
The Christmas whistles will blow
throw down the odd “ho ho”
and watch a movie: like: Rudolph and Frosty’s Christmas in July (1940)
join your neighbours in a dance
see the two-horned reindeer prance
It’s all up to one-and all
Chomp out some dandy yule log
with the roaring digital fireplace on the screen
hell, take the rollercoaster if you can
bring some pots and pans
and plink and bang upon them like some Tinkerbell
wear you favourite Mrs. Santa suit
or bring your horn and give a toot
Soon you’ll fill with Christmas Cheer
‘cause soon Old Santa will be here
he’ll dance around and spring
and join the picnic like some Roaring Rasputin
And fill his pipe with solar flare
and go raring through the sky at 9 pm
Look at the old photo albums
when you were 2 or 22
and remember your long-lost compatriots
Dream the Dream of Santas past
and hope the sunny skies will last
Call London, call Rome
shovel up after the reindeer and call home
Sweeten up with some Turkish Delight
and set up some candles for the night
they’ll twinkle like a million stars
when seen by strangers from afar
© 2018 Rudolf Penner
references:
PoemTree6 
Singer
Hasn’t the jazz singer
— sung enough
her rose coloured glasses
deflect distorted rectangles of light
from “the spot” —
the soft cheeks perspire
the forehead resonates and rises
the dark hair affords reason
fixed and “permanent”
sparkling with joy
the deep skin
talks kin language
reports the simple shades of meaning
meandering the stage
reporting to the tree of knowledge
without going to college
in dugout canoes
the wood’s aroma essential
to the edge of human consciousness
defer the payments of life
slugging it out on the razor’s edge
the meraphor of collapse
the Seagram’s logo
in position
the 300 Dior ties come to see
C Rudolf Penner 2023
January 11, 2023 Posted by poemtree6 | about artists/poets, esoteric/unintelligible, Not Fade Away, social commentary | Jazz singer | Leave a comment