Too tired
The hardwired highway twisting, rushing
A few trees from the reflected light
of beams on the road
lost among the ruins
lost among the ruins Old Gordon Lightfoot plays the fools
and fools are in the show and shoes are in the school
fouling up the lockers, scaring all the schoolgirls
webfeet wetness and street sense smartness
calling coo-cooing through the fields
with trees on their side
and old wagon wheels rotting between
the long grasses
I grew my cherry on a tree that grew and grew
beside a children’s playground. And hardly
any one knew it was there, just my pet detective
west among the flowers I dot my q’s and p’s
and fools are lost among sloughs and snowmobiles in the great outdoors
messing up the scenery, ticking off the animals
snoeshoe webness and backpacking hardware
tempting Natures’s own strict laws
4000 ft above the ground
timber lying across
the boy’s skinny legs
I grew up but never compare my growing
to the maturity of others my age and older
we were not fond of each other. they all knew
it and we knew and slandered each other
© 2017 Rudolf Penner
from catch yourself falling listening to Elvis
make the most, they say, of your friends
and Bobby Zimmy will reward you in the End
even though he got SAVED some time ago
and some don’t trust him anymore
© 2013 Rudolf Kurt Penner
from the poem: catch yourself falling listening to Elvis
(ask for the rest)
Ode by Lewis Carroll = me
the chocolate eight
of a cake of chocolate cherry
the magic buttons on the silver coat
turned twice
and presst against the breast of society
the cake was great – as a matter of fact
it was all we ate
the cherry turned full-round on its heel
and rolled into the cup of orange peel
and then a cup of tea
Something cannot take away the joy
of cake of chocolate; not a hater or a debater
not a Wilmhing winer of a dine
the hourglasss and the end of the old oak table
stained brown
the cake remains a perfect harmony
unto itself
©2016 Rudolf Kurt Penner
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
Jamie Reid
Jamie Reid asked the question,
lost in Gastown – which
way do I turn
– to get home
Way over on Main Street,
he starts some PRIMAL Shit
dishing out the art
– with the mentally challenged
and brain-damaged
I saw him in a university once,
that used to be a college
on Purcell Way
– tryin’ to teach some tish
Jamie Reid indeed!
The moment was lost on them,
no primer
they sat wide-eyed
– listening to an old man
A lot of people remember
Jamie Reid in December
by my watch
it’s time to glow
reading, retired
to the in-crowd
of Canada’s poets
Time’s up!
Jamie Reid indeed!
I wonder what would have happened
if Jamie Reid’d been born a rapper
listening to the youth of yesterday –
the giraffe came out and ate up
the long grasses
but he met 4 men
and they kept going
the basement of Woodwards
came with jazz &
island poet Kim Goldberg
black walls and dreaming guests
listen to the wisdoms speak
Read and learn, young poets
by my watch, its time to glow
Jamie Reid indeed!
You meet him – then you
don’t meet him
and you hear all kinda
political shit about him
black walls, social conditions
other semi-famous poets
dying around him
Al Purdy, Milton Acorn, Malcolm Lowry
don’t take it with you
when you’re at a loss for words –
a stone drops
and you are born
Jamie Reid
©2015 Rudolf Kurt Penner
(written Aug. 9, 2015 12:15 a.m.)
notes to references in the poem:
PRIMAL was an art gallery on Main St., perhaps in the early 1990s, in Vancouver, serving persons with brain injuries and others. There were open mics and shows to which anyone could come
tish was a literary movement Reid started with several other literary figures in Vancouver. tish at Google books
tish is shit backwards as Jamie Reid often explained…
Gastown – in the summer of 2014 Jamie attended a show at Vancouver’s International Jazz Festival. After the experimental session at Ironworks Studio he got lost. I had heard he’d had some health problems at the time and realized it had probably affected his memory. I directed him to Hastings St. but he turned and went back into Ironworks. I was a bit worried about him getting home, but he was in good hands, as he met acquaintances of his at the studio.
Kim Goldberg, Nanaimo, BC is a fascinating poet
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
it’s Athabascan weather
so get out your furs
the wood heat curls around you like a warm cat
November 16, 2017 Posted by poemtree6 | All Poems, nature, plain & simple, social commentary | cat, fur, weather | Leave a comment