Lady Grey, that fine old girl
Wrapped in her gossamer dress
She’s a tease, a total flirt
Drawing me in with her heady scent
Sliding smoothly across my lips
She tantalizes my tongue
Hot and wet, she tastes so good
But when she’s gone, she’s done
I am not willing to share a picture
Of my worst fashion crime
Because the image would burn holes
In the retinas of the innocent
And tarnish the minds of the youth
And make all that is holy, unholy
It would unmake your fondest childhood memories
And cast a shadow on your future
It would drive you to tequila — and if you’re already there
Force you to drink gin straight from the bottle
And I’m not talking about the good stuff, either
But bargain basement gin covered with oily dust
I will share a mental image, if you dare to read further
A short pair of cut off jeans, torn
Re-sewn together like parts of Frankenstein
Embroidered with symbols of anarchy
A red circled A embellished with black ink
And a rip in the crotch purposely left open
We should see if after drinking a
Whole lotta very strong barley wine
Poetry floats to the surface of the brain
Flowing, floating and flowing, spilling over
Like something not unlike vomit
Onto this big blank computer screen
While meanwhile deep in the bowels of a
Very powerful Texas storm
Several possible tornadoes, potential tornados
Tornadoes that are still just spinning air in a cloud
March insistently toward where this would be poet
Types these alcohol infused words
Wondering, hoping, praying for something so totally exiting
That it will rivet his readers here to this place
Hanging on every word, breath suspended
Waiting to find the symbols of meaning in these lines
To tell them whether there is life or death
After drunken Texas storm poetry
She wanted it
All the local bling bling
And a man to pay for it
A husband of her own
Her desperate goal
The opposite of
Feminist
The Alamo
Surprisingly small
The Texans most sacred shrine
Is really a gift shop
For an odd brand of
Cowboy religion
And martyrs
She wanders
Bird-like across stone
Browsing through history
Hand crafted in China
Pecking at trinkets
Hinting and hoping
I would buy
Mountain lake shore
In afternoon shade
I leap from bow into grass
Thick white rope in my hands
To tie a good knot
That will keep the boat
From drifting
In the green grass
Over by a log
We notice black and white rings
“A kingsnake” says my friend
He bends down to grab
A tail where I see
A rattle
I yank him back
He does not believe
So I carefully handle
Scales rough and beautiful
Holding it eye level
It shows us its fangs
Of venom
A teenage girl
Blue-eyed with blonde locks
Lead deep into the forest
Under moss-covered trees
Beside a small stream
Surrounded by ferns
Barely dressed
A teenage boy
With evil intent
Who would be the Big Bad Wolf
If it had not been for
His lonely, kind heart
Too empathetic
Too concerned
She looked around
She recognized why
Deep in his secret garden
She had been lured here
Let’s go back to town
You buy us pizza
He said yes.
Black neoprene
Clear sea afternoon
Waves of cold stinging needles
Crash against fake seals
Armed like the devil
Gleaming steel tridents
Jabbing sand.
Living seashells
Pulled out of their homes
Squeezing shut and spitting water
Measured with iron gage
Dropped with its fellows
In a burlap sack
Of clam doom.
“This one’s too small,”
Thus spoke my father
Who pulls out a wicked knife
And bottle of hot sauce
A natural law
Eat or be eaten
Goodbye clam.
Somewhere over Newfoundland
To the south of the Labrador Sea
I am going 624 miles per hour
And wondering
If they serve beer in Germany
At 7:00 in the morning
While flying over Ireland
“Just passing through”
I realize that
Even though it’s very early
The wee hours of the morning
It is, in fact, St. Patrick’s Day!
And I’m not wearing even a spot of green
36,000 feet
Over the Celtic Sea
My body says
Night came oddly early
And dawn freakishly soon
Are you on drugs?
Jolly old England
Homeland of my love
I peer far below at cottony fog
And wave hello
At my future in-laws
My younger daughter felt
The simple pure joy that
Can only come from a new binder
Fresh flawless and ready to be filled
With white lined paper
And
Folders
Full of homework covered with doodled
Faries and little imps
This is my version of the Hymn to Ninkasi, written from three translations of the original Sumerian.
“Ninkasi” is the Sumerian Goddess of Beer and Brewing, and this hymn dates back to nearly 2000 years before Christ. It contains the earliest known recipe for beer.
Crystal clear womb
Water lifegiver
The earth and mother-goddess
Ninhursaja by name
Cared for Ninkasi
On her arrival
Water born
Towering walls
Grand as canyon cliffs
Ninkasi completes them
To protect the city
Standing on the shores
Of the sacred lake
Called Abzu
The great Enki
Lord of deep waters
He did father Ninkasi
From his love of Ninti
Queen of the Abzu
And she gave to him
A daughter
Smooth and golden
Handle in her hands
Hefting the big dough shovel
She mixes the bappir
Beer-bread with honey
Sweet aromatics
And passion
The bappir goes
In the big oven
Hot with the fire of the gods
Ninkasi bakes it well
Then puts in order
The piles of hulled grains
Safely kept
Ninkasi she
Then waters the malt
That she’s spread across the earth
Her tigers stand guard
Even potentates
Are forbidden from
Trespassing
She soaks the malt
In a holy jar
While the waves they surge and ebb
The cooked mash she then spreads
Across large reed mats
So that they may cool
And be ready
Ninkasi holds
Her holy sweet wort
In delicate goddess hands
Brewing it with honey
And nectar of fruit
From the Tree of Life
All blended
Ninkasi then
It is suggested
Poured her most holy sweet-wort
Into a large vessel
But this is a guess
As the next few lines
Are damaged
Delicate hands
Carrying aloft
Places the fermenting vat
Which rings low and pleasant
Appropriately
Atop a large vat
Collecting
Ninkasi she
Pours the filtered beer
Out of the collector vat
It is like the Tigris
And the Euphrates
Raging together
At one time
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