a cat in the hat
or a landscape infused
with longing for shores
distant still
yes, he was all that,
intrigued and amused
what wonderful doors
and my quill
would often engage
and await from this sage
a word to encourage
or stow
may poems of light
amuse and delight
god speed, in your carriage
Jon Coe
Witches gather in their covens
scheming evil upon Man
Devil, sitting by the ovens
launches his ambitious plan
Rule in heaven with God's power
that is his eternal dream
doesn't die and doesn't sour
Hell in heaven is his scheme.
Warlocks chant their incantations
demons hasten to obey
Plot the rise and fall of nations
so the Devil may hold sway
Doom is coming to your empires
yes, the end is coming soon
werewolves battling with vampires
under an October moon
if Romeo met Juliet
on TikTok or on Tinder
would Montagues and Capulets
facilitate or hinder
the social network spurred romance
the friends list's such a bother
could he just ask her to the dance
or fear her older brother?
which ever way the story goes
it will wind up on Netflix
see star crossed lovers in the throes
we love romantic conflicts
Did form come first? Or did it follow function?
Eggs did come before chickens, since you're asking.
Let me persuade you, though, that function is what followed.
What right have I to challenge, at this junction
clichés that permeate our language? They are basking
in platitudes. Both commonspeak and hallowed,
as if there is a body that would sanction
and sanctify their "truisms". Their unmasking
is surely not an enviable chore. They're swallowed
without a speck of doubt. Well, the expunction
of platitudes and truisms -- that's my tasking
so writings are no longer sunk or shallowed
by them. What argument do I intend to proffer?
Look up Lamarck and Darwin, that's my offer.
How did we get here, to this junction?
It could not have been a conjunction,
as those are absent from this writ,
and it is, nonetheless, complete.
her lips, the sneer of cold command
her eyes, cold as a queen's
bare naked shoulders, lightly tanned
jewel pendant signals means
hopeless, my kneeling at her shrine
there is no spell to make her mine
Author notes: image from sasee.com with apologies to Shelly and Ozymandias
Well, shall we strike a bargain, then?
I'll hunt for food, you'll guard the den?
We'll run together in the park
and meet nice ladies -- but not bark!
And when the thunder shakes the glass
we'll snuggle on our couch, just us.
Author notes: image from rd.com
You ever wonder why old myths persist
in elevating those the gods cast down?
An easy trend to note; it can't be missed.
The deity that wears the lofty crown
will always have a counterpoint, a foil.
An enemy that pays the utmost price,
of hideous appearance -- you'll recoil,
but also marvel at their daring vice.
Is Lucifer Prometheus, you ask?
The shining star, sent to the depths below?
Who, if not Satan, got the crucial task
of making sure that Man was in the know?
Our spark, at unimaginable cost.
It was for us that paradise was lost.
Author notes: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Lucifer_and_Prometheus
Unspoken grief is what they share.
A crushing weight that's always there.
An unimaginable loss.
Together, they will bear this cross,
and then, one blessed day, lights out.
And afterwards? They hope. But doubt.
Author notes: image from adobe.com
"If you can keep it", the man said.
His face is on the Benjamin
and "Words, not Deeds", the first who led.
Well, and since then, what have we seen?
The giants came and went. They do.
Such is their given role, it seems.
Most of the others? Much ado.
And our republic, and our dreams?
We lose it, gain it, give it back.
It's squirmy and combatant.
So far, it's weathered all attacks,
some insolent, some patent.
Our bill of rights is always due
and never paid in full,
as challengers line up in queue
to celebrate "self-rule".
"If you can keep it", the man said.
The question is, for what?
Let not desire to be led
make you forget all that.
as they left the dock
the Captain's "All Hands On Deck"
felt pretty silly
My prison lacks a rusty cage,
the retched smells of sheer despair.
I need not fear the guard's raw rage.
The torturer prepares his chair,
but not for me, that's not my fate.
For me are banquets and affairs,
though not, of course, affairs of state.
A life of leisure and few cares.
Red velvet drapes are on my walls,
and satin sheets are on my bed,
Fine princesses attend my balls.
No urgency for me to wed --
my uncle says: "do take your time",
still hoping to produce an heir.
I share that hope. Then I could climb
the distant mountains, taste their air.
Or sail into the blue abyss
that beckons out the window sill.
Join desert caravans, and kiss
without a thought to state or will.
I would be free to spend my days
and leave this gilded cage behind.
I'd see it all -- all worth a gaze
and put this castle out of mind.
But he seems sterile, the old goat,
can he perform the needed act?
No soldiers swim across the moat,
the servants whisper, lack of tact.
So what's to be? Idea forms.
Unorthodox, but let it be.
They're not for us, societal norms,
they are for thee, and not for me.
So I will bed his latest wife,
bed her until her belly's full,
and then at last I'll have a life
and he can be the doting fool.
A well laid plan, she's comely, too
and anxious for a proper fit.
And now, it's time to say adieu.
My guard is calling me to eat.