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)

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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

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

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