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 gat 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

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:

Rudolph and Frosty’s Christmas in July Trailer

How to make a yule log

 

Without Their Consent

Telling people what to do without their consent

Drives ‘em all around the bend

2 grand won’t pay for the way a person feels

4 grand won’t pay for ‘em to ‘eal (heal)

Tight-lipped with no Voice and no Freedom

You may as well have left them bleeding

8 miles down there’s a horse and carriage riding

in the Underworld, that’s why it smells like shit   on  the way to freedom

There is a river and a man with bow and quiver

       taking aim, yet no arrow

nodding for justice and not begging pardon

16 miles along the road to higher learning

there’s a dip , and a ruby mist

waiting to be born on the wings

of a red-breasted meadowlark: soldier bird*

There is unharvested land where nothing is canned

and serpents await the plowing  whereupon

they go out into the fields

older than the leaves of the gingko biloba*

I sit and dream of all the four-leaf clover

it may not pay for all my pain

but sun may smile, and then again

tight-lipped freedom is no freedom at all

on the hind legs of Tatu’s* ball

© 2000 Rudolf Kurt Penner (name of blackbird, and research added April 16, 2018)

lyrics for potential song

*(Leistes militaris) Trinidadian: “soldier bird”: a black bird with a red breast. Also seen in Costa Rica, Peru, Brazil and Nicaragua (Formerly called red-breasted blackbird, but it is not a member of the red-winged blackbird family)

*gingko biloba: a type of leaf from which is made a supplement that helps clear thinking and blood circulation

*Tatu virando bola: a type of armadillo that can roll itself into an armoured ball when in danger. Native to Brazil   https://youtu.be/-x71UlnYVEU name of video:

“Tatu virando bola, Armadillo rolls into a ball – In the wild Brazil”

the pussywillows

in the window, dying to get out

I left the door open

Too tired

The hardwired highway twisting, rushing

A few trees from the reflected light

of beams on the road

it’s Athabascan weather

so get out your furs

the wood heat curls around you like a warm cat

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