Posts

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.

Stagionatura (2) (Season Italian) by Rasmus K. Robot

Si sono sempre riuniti la ascoltarla
come se dalle labbra della l’anima di lei,
lei baciò le parole di pace

È il mio fiore della poesia
chi guida la protesta quotidiana

Le folle beate
porta i suoi fiori
per condire la giornata
con gioia spruzzata

È la stagione in cui i fiori esplodono sul marciapiede
dove le persone circondano il fiore di fiori
e i beati vengono baciati con nuove notizie di libertà
una stagione per ragione, per progresso, una parola, ma

Il mio fiore
è stato l’ultimo a parlare,
l’ultimo a baciare la folla quando

i fiori non erano più in stagione
e regnava una grandinata invernale di proiettili

Una parola nell’aria si perse in una brezza nella
stagione in cui i fiori esplodono sul marciapiede,
comunque sia le sue spezie sono ancora tornate nei campi aperti

il suo dolore oscura un sole instabile
e i fiori sono coperti di sangue.
——–
Seasoning

They always came together to listen to her
as if from the lips of her soul,
she kissed the words of peace

It is my flower of poetry
who leads the daily protest

The blessed crowds
brings its flowers
to season the day
with joy sprinkled

It is the season when the flowers explode on the sidewalk
where people surround the flower of flowers
and the blessed are kissed with new news of freedom
a season for reason, for progress, a word, but

My flower
was the last to speak,
the last to kiss the crowd when

the flowers were no longer in season
and a winter hail of bullets reigned

A word in the air was lost in a breeze in the
season when the flowers explode on the sidewalk,
however its spices are still back in the open fields

his pain obscures an unstable sun
and the flowers are covered in blood.

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

Mascelle: Quando la scrittura diventa realtà

Ho visto il film di “Babbo Natale squalo-Mascelle” a Natale stupito
ma poi quando lo squalo ha mangiato la madre ho riso così forte
che la folla con me sotto gli alberi era sbalordita, ma

È una regola che tutti i superbi snob debbano morire nei considerando
così un tinsel Pollyanna bobbled può cadere in vere e proprie bagattelle d’amore
e gioiosi atti di gentilezza possono andare a pescare per catturare l’amore desiderato
———————————————-
Jaws: When writing becomes reality

I saw the movie “Santa Claus Shark-Jaws” at Christmas amazed
but then when the shark ate the mother I laughed so hard
that the crowd with me under the trees was flabbergasted, but

It is a rule that all superb snobs should die in the recitals
so a bobbled Pollyanna tinsel can fall into real love baubles
and joyful acts of kindness can go fishing to capture the desired love