Cantankerous

 

—Poetry by Stephen Kingsnorth, Joe Nolan,

Nolcha Fox, Michael Ceraolo, 

Sayani Mukherjee, Caschwa (Carl Schwartz)

and Rus Khomutoff

—Public Domain Photos Courtesy of

Joe Nolan and Nolcha Fox

 

CANTANKEROUS
—Stephen Kingsnorth, Coedpoeth,
Wrexham, Wales

So truculent when life runs smooth,
sure surly, rough, gruff in response,
and grouchy, no laughs, after Marx,
too grumpy with bumps in the road;
his Cockney wife, trouble and strife,
smooth music’s playing, crotchety,
with discord spoiling harmony,
what caused this misfit in the mix?

The word itself cantankerous,
a troublemaker in the line,
a grumpy, grouchy, surly find,
both truculent and crotchety,
brings strife and discord all the time,
so how, like wise, respond in kind—
though give as get, usual advice—
but undermine by pleasantries?

Few other kerous, lexicon—
unique save when canker about,
whose bite as bad as bark without—
for ‘cankerous’, that crabby sound
so suits the griping, bitter tone.
What lies beneath symptoms described,
and why should I assume a man?
Is it the fear, what I’ll become?
Is it the fear, already am?

 

 

 

 

TRENCH ART
—Stephen Kingsnorth

Over the top, crȇpe poppies, red,
shimmy shimmer, stink from mud,
tissue, scarlet, issued flesh,
Western Front, breeze laid-by breath.
Trench art of departed soles,
balls of feet sunk into boots,
brute force launch, earthwork rat-run,
imprinted where tree boles once grew.
Curdle yells, blood, thoughts of home,
dead recalled, repeated years. 

 

 

(prev. pub. in Spillwords)

 

 

 

 

 

VAMPIRES
—Joe Nolan, Stockton, CA
 
Vampires
Always come back for more,
Floating in the darkness,
Peering through your windows,
Just outside your door. 
 
They cannot help themselves.
They cannot blunt their need.
The way they love you best
Is when you bleed. 
 
Beckoning and summoning
Your corpse
That walks the floor,
Net yet dead,
Not fully bled,
Still bound with its soul,
They hope to suck away.
 
Lifetime after lifetime
Royals suck the living
Until dead
Because of how they’re bred—
To feed upon the serfs and working-class,
Because of their bloodlines,
Our blood, they drink, like wine.  

 

 

 

 

 

 

LET’S TALK OF LOSS
—Joe Nolan

I’d like to signify
A sad expression
With both edges
Of a mouth
Turned down—

Something to show
How hard it is to let go
Whatever we had,
We loved
And wanted with us
Forever.

I’d like to speak of passing dogs,
Of cats that purred and rubbed our legs.
We saw them smile.
We knew they loved us,
Truly loved us,
But they passed away,
Taking with them
Some little piece of life.

Let’s talk of loss!
Deliberate, inscrutable—
The dropping of a load
From off a truck.

The looting in the dark
That follows soon thereafter,
The penury,
The pain,
Wistful in the rain,
The knocking-off—
The way indifferent people
Can’t relate
And how you hate them. 

 

 

 

Watch what you step in...

 

 

 

THE BEAUTY OF THEIR TRESSES
—Joe Nolan

You got seduced
By the smell of power,
By the righteousness of authority,
At least that’s how it seemed

And thus,
At least one portion
Of your brains was sucked away.

So you went on missions
To oppress,
Those who went awry
From ordered dress
And beat women
Who wouldn’t cover their hair,

Though they wore a dress,
Lest some lustful rapist
Might espy
Their fairness—
The beauty of their tresses. 

 

 

 

 

 

TOUCHING
—Joe Nolan

I slide my hand
Along your silky skin,
Over and over,
Until I set a fire
Of desire.

All the better,
Since I hug you
Into my heart—
Into our fire.

I touch you there,
In the place of
Worship and desire.
You catch on fire!
And every earthly thing
Gets tossed away
Before the storm.

 

 

 

 

 

GLOBAL CIRCUMCISION
—Joe Nolan

Who has come
Within an inch
Of circumcision?

Was it Magellan,
As he
Circumcised
The globe?

Ready in a pinch,
To make
Crass pirates
Walk the final inch
Across the plank,

A hero to us all,
Whose reverie
In how it used to be,
When men sailed ships,
Whose masts were tall,
Allowing them
To overbear and subjugate
Wherever they might call.

 

 

 

 

 

You wake up

on the wrong side
of the bed, but no
side is right.
You sneer at me,
you show me your
wrinkled prune butt.
You claim it’s your face.
You are too stubborn
to share the morning light.
You’re my reverse.

You’re the me
who looks back
in the mirror.


—Nolcha Fox, Buffalo, WY

 

 

 

 

TWO POEMS FROM DUGOUT ANTHOLOGY
—Michael Ceraolo, S. Euclid, OH

Walter "Red" Barber

I was also a lay preacher,
and I'm going to relate a parable,
though this one is not in the Bible:
The Parable of the Ignoble Motive
A man was born and raised
in the South in the early twentieth century,
and he absorbed the mores of his time and place
In adulthood he went north
to be a baseball broadcaster
A number of years into his career
the team whose games he announced
decided to hire a black player
The man didn't think he could continue in the job
and talked about his decision with his wife,
who was of a similar background
They both wondered what else he could do
to earn the kind of income they were accustomed to,
and the man decided to keep working
What he saw and heard began to strip away
some aspects of his upbringing
Motive matters little, if at all;
the fact of change is paramount
Later, He will judge
whether the changed was for good or ill

* * *

Warren Spahn

When I was on a low rung of the organization,
Casey said I had a great future ahead of me
But when I played for him as a rookie
he said I had no guts and demoted me
because I wouldn't deliberately plunk someone
When I came back after the war
I was a changed man, and Casey was gone
Without those two things
I don't think I would have had the career I had

 

 

 

SMILE
—Sayani Mukherjee, Chandannagar,
W. Bengal, India

Autumn leaves and spring break
Glued by my side to infinity—
All around the globe a ray moves
In the summer it's the moving sun—
That vitalism of unremitting life.
In December, I stopped looking.
Perchance the ray nestled in
The hushed honeycomb,
Circling shadows clad
In white umbrella loop.
In the bridge of sighs, two sides parted—
But the Siamese smile justifies it’s together.
All along, I looked from outside
But the tiny ray shone within me. 

 

 

 

 

 

 

TRUTH
—Sayani Mukherjee

Tilted headings rushed hour
Somnambulism of a talent
Headed for uncovering—
Naked truths, disturbing patterns
Potential that can awaken a nation
Bridges burn under false accusations
Noble cause dies, sacrifice for a reason
But then ashes to dust we become
As in common parlance
Nonchalance comes with liberating truth
The crowd clasps for a crumb of a peace
To just taste the bodhi tree a bit
People mob, mobility, agility, rush hour
Global slippage
The soul wears an overcoat and sighs
My chickpeas, my smoked smile
LSD cookies for my beaded smile
Waking tipsy hungover
While my camera rolls in naked hours
Undercover cop Orwellian bombs
I know the indoctrination and brainwashed fag
They say going to the crowd is righteous
I smack my stone
Over falsehood
My stormy pace to dive down
My driving seat is smudged with Self
My Individuality my awakening
My Soma sacred site. 

 

 

 

 

“RIOMEM”*
—Caschwa, Sacramento, CA

was born with Alzheimer’s
Disease and have been
groomed to accept and
embrace it like it is as
natural as being right-
handed, which I’m not.

OK at rote repetition,
rather clueless at
getting the point

Cantankerous
is by far my
greatest
coping
skill


* “Memoir” spelled backwards

 

 

 

 

OLD RELIABLE
—Caschwa

I have only my own
anecdotal collection
of experiences to draw
from, but will take the
plunge to assert my
postulations as fact:

ALL

vending machines
were designed, built
and serviced by
cantankerous souls
who wanted to pass
on to everyone else
those same tiresome,
unending streams of
disappointment and
despair that typified
their pathetic lives

to magnify what should
be a simple exercise
until it becomes an old,
broken record of the
Seven Voyages of Sinbad

to walk away from a good
day’s work bearing the
glowing smile of a criminal
explosives expert who has
just activated a field of
hidden land mines 

 

 

 

 

 

Today’s LittleNip:

PINOCCHIO
—Joe Nolan

Held together
By wouldn’t pegs,
It cannot walk,
Despite its legs,
Its wooden nose—
It grows!
Each time
It tells a lie,
To any stranger,
Passing by,
About its wooden woes—
Subservient to master,
Anything goes.

____________________

Good Monday morning from SnakePals everywhere, bringing us golden words from around the globe! Not a cantankerous one among them (“Cantankerous” being our Seed of the Week) but only musings about that and many other ways of the world. Be sure to check each Tuesday for the latest Seed of the Week.

And welcome to newcomer Rus Khomutoff, with thanks for his graphic poem this morning (see below)! For more about Rus, go to www.newmystics.com/lit/RusKhomutoff.html/.

The newest issue of Deborah Fruchey’s Strictly East is available online at http://www.strictly-east.org/, with information about events and submissions for the East Bay Area and beyond.

NorCal poetry events this week include a Women’s Wisdom Art workshop this morning, but NO Sac. Poetry Center reading tonight; and another Zoom workshop led by Indigo Moor on Wednesday. A plethora of readings happens on Thursday: Open Mic Night with Oke Junnior in Rancho Cordova; Poetry in Davis; and Poetry Unplugged at Luna’s Cafe and Juice Bar in Sacramento. Saturday brings three events: a Wakamatsu Farm celebration; a Buddhist/writing workshop with Laura Rosenthal; and Stephen Meadows reading on Zoom. Click UPCOMING NORCAL EVENTS at the top of this column for details about these and other future poetry events in the NorCal area—and keep an eye on this link and on the Kitchen for happenings that might pop up during the week.

___________________

—Medusa

Sister Midnight

—Rus Khomutoff, Brooklyn, NY

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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