Killing Grandpa (2)

Corvidae as the crow flies
it’s a good year to die, ’cause
COVID caw-caw hurrah boo

yea true, my father died at 72 —
a cancer the grim blamed on him
and I at 71 demeaned by life
in Corona, a neighborhood
in Queens, New York

Might say in spirit furor
I’m a beer near Flushing Meadows
of the World’s Fair fame, 1964, though Dad
on Malta had his black market museum:
illegal guns in the ancient Hypogeum,
hiding missiles for dismissal of war

It’s a good year to die an honorable death.
the Grandchildren are nervous, but
I’ve put together some cleanly new
legitimate business for them to inherit.

Yeah, I know they want me dead.
Don’t blame them much…
but for fun I remember how I
let them play in the secret tunnels
yeah

it was exciting for them
to play in my tunnels,
and I let them hide in the
safe room so they could
listen to the oosh bang-bang
and smell the gunpowder,
hear the machine guns, the oofh-ow
swoosh, bat-a-tat-tat, ow-arg-uh, thud
zing, zing, chuh-chuh-chud, and muffled
screams, and it was so good to
smell the barbecue of the foiled.

Yeah, a little lie:
I told them their Grandpa
sold toys, and did laundry.

Yeah, kids, I told them
our crew liked
splashing red paint
on manikins:
it’s a war game, and
we always clean up.

Told them well:
Grandpa hated dirt, but
he made billions of dollars
washing things, and doing demolition.

They loved me, Grandpa, and
since childhood they’d
never officially known I
laundered money and
sold weapons to clandestine
really funny-owned groups

Early they heard fairy tales galore
they were to believe as required
and as they were told about me:
he didn’t like public dirt’s roar
so he washed donor money; yet
he gave their poor children toy guns
to play with, unrestricted for causes

Although they stopped believing in Santa Claus
and the tooth fairy as young adults
they inferred that by consulting
the guns and the washing machines
Grandpa controlled with computers.

I heard that Cousin Joe
called the kids
with great news:

he had shortness of breath and a high fever.
heard the kids all gathered
for his very own sneeze party.

It’s a good year to die, and
I know the kids have
a conspiracy to kill me, but

it’s OK.
I welcome them home
to party close-up with me
because they will give me
an honorable death
with shortness of breath, but
they were the only ones
I truly loved to play with.

Killing Grandpa

Corvidae as the crow flies
it’s a good year to die, ’cause
COVID caw-caw hurrah boo

father died at 72 —
cancer who the grim
blamed on him, though
he suffered.

Might say
I’m 71 from Corona
a county of Queens New York, or
I’m a beer near Flushing Meadows
where they had the World’s Fair, 1964

It’s a good year to die an honorable death.
The Grandchildren are nervous, but
I’ve put together some clean
legitimate businesses for them to inherit.

Yeah, I know they want me dead.
Don’t blame them much…
I remember how I
let them play in the secret tunnels
yeah

it was exciting for them
to play in the tunnels,
and I let them hide in the
safe room so they could
listen to the oosh bang-bang
and smell the gunpowder, the oofh-ow
swoosh, bat-a-tat-tat, ow-arg-uh, thud
zing, zing, chuh-chuh-chud, and muffled
screams, and it was so good to
smell the barbecue of the foiled.

Yeah, a little lie:
I told them their Grandpa
sold toys, and did laundry.

Yeah, kids, I told them
our crew liked
splashing red paint
on manikins:
it’s a war game, and
we always clean up.

Told them:
Grandpa hated dirt, but
he made billion of dollars
washing things, and doing demolition.

They loved Grandpa, and
since childhood they’d
never officially known
I launder money and
sell weapons to clandestine
funny-named groups

Early they heard fairy tales
they were to believe as required:
he didn’t like public dirt
so he washed people’s money
and gave their poor children toy guns
to play with.

Although they stopped believing in Santa Claus
and the tooth fairy as young adults
they knew that
the guns and the washing machines
Grandpa controlled with computers.

I heard that Cousin Joe
called the kids
with great news:

he had shortness of breath and a high fever.
heard the kids all gathered for a sneeze party.

It’s a good year to die, and
I know the kids have
a conspiracy to kill me, but

it’s OK.
I welcome them home
to party close-up with me
because they will give me
an honorable death
with shortness of breath, but
they were the only ones
I truly loved to play with.

Sharing

I want to touch you
in all the wrong places
because I see you everywhere I go

everywhere I want you;
everywhere I see you, and
I want you to love me
as much as I do you

Oh sorry,
I didn’t mean to embarrass you
with my enthusiasm, but

Don’t we have fun?
I know we do. I
know we laugh so well
when we hear each other
love the world we share.

Oh in such drama that I see,
you kiss the world and me, and
though I want to share you, can you
come home to my game,
to my play with you, when we
celebrate our sharing.

Lei, l’Alta Sacerdotessa, scrive una poesia in italiano

Camminando Con La musica Dell’amore Che Canto
    “Zawmb’yee Nuje”

Da lontano ho sentito il suo
basso profondo

Gli alberi erano pieni di soprani aviari
e dal svolazzando
i fiori di ciliegio sono caduti su di me
ha reso il mio cuore roseo a
soprano coloratura

camminai
nello scalpiccio della canzone andante,
un uccello aveva un verme nel suo conto
al dente in ondeggiamento
un trillo per la colazione

Ho canticchiato allegretto
ho sentito la risata del mio amante, e
un cardinale sollevò il suo
coda a ventaglio a me
quelle canzoni cinguettanti
canzoncina cinguettante
non per caso di notte
o sciocca canzone daffodil gialla
un’aria per me
il frivolo me,
Ho saltato un passo

Si voltò e mi vide
dal punto di incontro

Più vicino, ma non
abbastanza vicino
Ho fatto un entrechat

Alzò le braccia
il suo sorriso

Più allegro
Ho fatto un salto

Presto, ho corso
e saltò tra le sue braccia,
percussioni e bacio
—————–
(The English directly below is a literal translation. The original I put after this version)
Walking With The Music Of Love I Sing

From a distance I felt his
deep bass

The trees were full of avian sopranos
and by fluttering
cherry blossoms have fallen on me
made my heart pink a
soprano coloring

I walked
in the patter of the going song,
a bird had a worm in its account
al dente in sway
a trill for breakfast

I hummed allegretto
I heard the laugh of my lover, and
a cardinal raised his
fan tail to me
those chirping songs
twittering song
not by chance at night
or silly yellow daffodil song
an Aria for me
the frivolous me,
I skipped a step

He turned and saw me
from the meeting point

Closer, but not
close enough
I did an entrechat

He raised his arms
his smile

Most cheerful
I jumped

Soon, I ran
and jumped into his arms,
percussion and kiss
=======
From afar I heard his
basso profundo

The trees were full of avian sopranos
and from the flitting
cherry blossoms fell on me
made my rosy heart a
coloratura soprano

I walked
in the patter of andante song,
a bird had a worm in his bill
al dente in wiggle
a breakfast trill

I hummed allegretto
heard my lover’s laugh, and
a cardinal lifted its
fan tail at me
those chirpy songs
a twitty ditty
not whippoorwill of night
or silly yellow daffodil song
a dilly to me
dilly I,
I skipped a beat

He turned and saw me
from the rendezvous point

Closer, but not
near enough
I did an entrechat

He lifted his arms
his smile

Più allegro
I leaped

Presto, I ran
and jumped into his arms,
percussion and kiss

Torn by Love

Meager is the cry
of the baby, but
I have tried
not to tear
your torn tissues,
must ask your permission.

Grandmother,
I search for an amulet
to bring you
to soothe you. My
being is torn.

A girl of charm
not of tradition
is in my life, but
I am torn
by love
by being

Grandmother,
I do not wish
to be a tear of the eye
to streak a bloody torn cloth.

I am torn
by love
by being

Though meager was my cry
when you lost your daughter,
I have tried to be a prayer
for you and
for your daughter

Born of your
cries and screams
I pray

Grandmother,
you are
my precious Mother.
What charm may I bring you?

May I pray
for your daughter?
I wish I
had known her,
not caused
her death
though meager was my cry

I am torn
by love
by being.

Meet me
as I am
with gifts
with meager charms.

Grandmother,
there is a girl
who wishes to be
a woman with me.

I am torn
by love
by meetings.

I pray in
many ways
we will all
grow together,
born into love
with your blessings.

Grandmother,
cry me into life
beyond tradition.

I am torn
by love
by meetings.

Meet me
and her, your
new born-in-law, for

Loud and thunderous
is the cry of happiness

Join us in the rain,
Grandmother

Reading In The Circle Square


Oh please let me read
before the acrobats arrive
to drive me batty
claim my turf
near the museum
or in Central Park

Crowds gather to
see the somersaults
and the gray makeup statue people —
a statue that moves; what
is the thrill?

So I say in my false bass
to carry my voice for three blocks
echoing off buildings:

“Carp not the day, but
kiss the past good-bye,
consume the meats of glory
while salad days are over,
green envy of youth begins,
and I say unto you:

friends, toilmen, bumpkins
lend me your eyes to spy;
I have come to bury Caesar salad
not to praise tyrants as Caesar
fishy and salty like an anchovy

See me praise the dance
on the graves of the grave,
and praise the praise
brought to ceremonials

Cheer me
and I shall be cheered,
for no one can tell me
what the sound is
of one tear clapping
in a thunder kiss
applauding the future”

The Vandals and the Visigoths
the hoodlums of heckler youth shout,
“Shut up Shakespeare creep”
(I translate from the key of F)

But I see her of sultry look
turning to pull me into her
like a force field
to tear me from this
mob of barbarians
into her poetic world of fantasy, and
yes, I’d be her Romeo

I turn to her and read:
“I woke up to my
longing for you; coffee
bit my dream
I stirred your cream

If I dress to seek you
will I know where
passion gallivants

You haunt me with
your many haunts. I
feel a phantom kiss
and miss the bliss from
flesh and ardor, belief bones
troubles massaged in a love whisper,
soothing music
melodic compassion

I am out to find you
driven like the mating birds;
walking, I hear the coos
but let them fly unknowing
for I have a gift for us:
wait ’til you
see me smile
everywhere I know you”

I fold down my sign
pack up
walk to her
wanting to ravish

She says,
what do you really do

—- Douglas Gilbert