random poetics

turn the page

2008-07-22T21:32:00.003+10:00

we're the cool kids sitting up the back. razor sharp hair, we don't give a care. faded old tees, and ripped up jeans, we lean out the window and wave at strangers. we daydream of candy striped corner shops, mixed lollies like we used to get back in the day. we hum, slightly out of tune, even moreso out of time, and we've forgotten the words - long ago. we make daisy chains together in the park, after dark, and we ride down the slide when there's no kids around to make a sound. when we head home, we rest our weary pretty little heads on faded pillowcases. damn fool, we don't give a damn.

c h a l k talk

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growth: lexi c

You’re swimming – learning at least
And while you’re paddle kicking,
Making splashy toes
There’s piped music,
It could be Beethoven, Mozart
I’m not sure, but it’s one of the greats
And it sounds sort of tinny
But at the same time, it’s great
- like a soundtrack for swooshing around
In all that water.

You occasionally glance at me
As though to elicit confidence,
I smile, I’m always smiling
It’s almost like a mask, my smile
Underneath this happiness,
I can’t believe that you’re paddling across
When once you were a babe in my arms
Floating with me,
Before that, you used to do laps with me
When you were in my belly.
All the while I’m dumbstruck at how fast time really does pass.
Lost in my thoughts, snapshots of memory -
Your class is over, you’re wet and shivering next to me,
I can see the pleasure at my praise in your
Sweet eyes, mine are damp.

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futility: wilfred owen

Move him into the sun -

Gently its touch awoke him once,

At home, whispering of fields unsown.

Always it woke him, even in France,

Until this morning and this snow.

If anything might rouse him now

The kind old sun will know.

Think how it wakes the seeds,

-Woke, once, the clays of a cold star.

Are limbs, so dear-achieved, are sides,

Full-nerved, - still warm, - too hard to stir?

Was it for this the clay grew tall?

- O what made fatuous sunbeams toil

To break earth's sleep at all?
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if you want to tear out our pages, tell us. if you wish our book went on and on, tell us that too.

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one small hope is one big dream. i'm still sitting up the back, absorbed in somewhere else. i'm writing poems in my head, wishing i brought a book and a pencil. i'll etch them into my mind, but i know they'll soon be forgotten, those golden lines. i'll throw out a glance occasionally. but mostly, i keep staring at that blank wall, publishing my own poems.

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walking around all day in my one piece swimsuit

2008-06-20T16:45:00.003+10:00

it could be worse. it could be a bikini. think of it. cold, blue limbs. tickly long, wet grass around my ankles. itchy. the grey skies opening up and drenching my already cold body. it could be worse. a hungry empty stomach. instead it would be more fun dressing for the occasion. think long dr who scarves wrapped around long necks. warm jackets buttoned right-all-the-way up, boots fending off cold feet, long socks -stripey of course, and a cute little hat, jauntily placed, of course. welcome winter. we've missed you.

c h a l k talk

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walking to work: frank o'hara

It's going to be the sunny side

from now

on. Get out, all of you.

This is my traffic over the night

and how

should I range my pride

each oceanic morning like a cutter

if I

confuse the dark world is round

round who

in my eyes at morning saves

nothing from nobody? I'm becoming

the street.

Who are you in love with?

me?

Straight against the light I cross.

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being stung by a bee on the lexington avenue local: john hollander

Ouch! etcetera

Aside, and then likewise the

Conclusion that I

Had indeed not been

Stabbed in the left shoulder with

A knitting needle

By some demented

Wretch whose misery I'd be

Momentarily

Too angry to spare

Any real sympathy for

(Though I knew too well

Life had undone so

Many) sitting in the jammed

Car heading uptown

Through the acutely

Nonrural subway tunnel:

Said conclusion drawn

From a subsequent

Nonmechanical humming

In my ear accompanied

By an actual glimpse

Of the creature who would not

Live long buzzing off,

As it were and as

A matter of fact as well—

What some idiot

Of the literal

Might mean by rus in urbe...

All of those aside,

It was only weeks

After that I realized

That the very (most

Nonliteral) point

Of the sting was that the thought

Buzzed through my mind some

Days later that I

Was as one who, once stung by

A gold-banded

Bee in a fable,

Might have thereupon acquired

As a gift—not from

Apollo himself,

But from one of his nine girls—

A peculiar kind

Of wisdom: but of

Which sort, and from which of them—

Which of the Muses—

Let alone what tied

That bunch to that misplaced bee

(Poor lost bee! I had

No anger for her

As I might have had for the

Knitting-needle nut)

And what deep cosmic

Questions had hung on this I

Could not imagine.

But although with no

Gift nor Muses nor indeed

An available

Apollo, I would

Come to conclude that even

The subsequent brief

Sting of the sudden

Awareness of them and their

Moot irrelevance

Was as much of a

Gift from those nine sisters as

Is ever given.
1952
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if you wish we'd stop making a splash, tell us. if you would like to come frolick in the waves with us, winter or summer, tell us that too.

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sticky jam on cold toast. it tastes too good, of course it's with tea too. on tv there's a cardboard elephant dancing on a wire. it's rickety in its frame, but i remember it well from my own childhood. dear diary, i should be writing more, but instead i'm reading fashion magazines and daydreaming about my next pair of shoes, my new summer dress, the cake i'd like to bake. the new pillowcase i thrifted. i'm doing anything but what i'm supposed to be doing... and then there's the swimsuit. stripes or polka dots this season?

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stealing from the back catalog: everybody's busy

2008-06-11T16:02:00.002+10:00

so – everybody’s busy. everybody’s got a lover (boris, mitzi, derek); or a husband or a wife. everybody’s got themselves into some form of strife (parking tickets, no petrol, no money). everybody’s got a job (mummy, disco dancer, dj), everybody’s got a hobby (macrame, stamps, ant farms), everybody’s joining some political lobby (less work – more pay!). so the excuse of ‘I’m too busy’ doesn’t really stand, because everybody for that one can raise their skinny little hand. if everybody is so busy – then how do friendships ever get made. if everybody’s so busy – everything must surely just get waylaid. i made an oasis in my day to bring you an oasis in your busy-ness.
say no to being too busy.
HMPH!
c h a l k talk

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amanda’s painting: les murray

in the painting, i'm seated in a shield,

coming home in it up a shadowy river.

it is a small metal boat lined in eggshell

and my hands grip the gunwale rims. i'm

a composite bow, tensioning the whole boat,

steering it with my gaze. no oars, no engine,

no sails. i'm propelling the little craft with speech.

the faded rings around the loose bulk shirt

are of five lines each, a musical lineation

and the shirt is apple-red, soaking in salt birth-sheen

more liquid than the river. my cap is a teal mask

pushed back so far that i can pretend it is headgear.

in the middle of the river are cobweb cassowary trees

of the south pacific, and on the far shore rise

dark hills of the temperate zone. to these, at this

moment in the painting's growth, my course is slant

but my eye is on them. to relax, to speak european.

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teeth sensitive to the sand: matsuo basho

teeth sensitive to the sand

in salad greens--

i'm getting old.

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this is a photograph of me: margaret atwood

it was taken some time ago.

at first it seems to be

a smeared

print: blurred lines and grey flecks

blended with the paper; then, as you scan

it, you see in the left-hand corner

a thing that is like a branch: part of a tree

(balsam or spruce) emerging

and, to the right, halfway up

what ought to be a gentle

slope, a small frame house. in the background there is a lake,

and beyond that, some low hills. (the photograph was taken

the day after i drowned. i am in the lake, in the center

of the picture, just under the surface. it is difficult to say where

precisely, or to say

how large or small i am:the effect of water

on light is a distortion but if you look long enough,

eventually

you will be able to see me.)

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if you’re too busy to read this, tell us. if you love to pause a while for the cool air of a poetic oasis, tell us that too.
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i’m skeeeping town, moving to mexico so i can say all day long – heeeey gringo, why you look so sad?
morning time and we skip around in the leaves, crunch, kerunch, crunch. the bottoms of our jeans get wet with dew, my little man wears the radiant smile that beams as a sun, run out feed the ducks, run out into the sunshine, pick flowers, eat breakfast in the morning cool, wonder just how long this winter will take before it melts in the heat.

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making up for lost time

2008-05-21T16:27:00.004+10:00

race into the car. strap the babies in. slide in behind the wheel. did i really strap the little one in? out the door and check. yep. internal dialogue turned up to ten. drive to my destination - but don't remember how i got there. did i really stop at that red light? must have, there's no dents in the car. race around supermarket, bright lights flickering, bad muzak and old ladies deliberating over their tea. english breakfast or irish? get to the checkout and discover an odd arrangement. some extra biscuits with neon icing - definitely didn't want those. a small matchbox car. nope, not that either. must have been my little boy. hide them on the adjacent shelf. back out to the car, i'm always in a hurry, i can't wait to hit the brakes.

c h a l k talk

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parting with thee reluctantly: emily dickinson

1614

Parting with Thee reluctantly,

That we have never met,

A Heart sometimes a Foreigner,

Remembers it forgot—
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the happy prince: janet frame

In the children’s record of the Happy Prince,
before each gold flake is peeled from the Prince’s body,
the voice orders, Turn the Page, Turn the Page,
supposing that children do not know when to turn,
and may live at one line for many years,
sliding and bouncing boisterously along the words,
breaking the closed letters for a warm place to sleep.
Turn the Page, Turn the Page.
By the time the Happy Prince has lost his eyes,
and his melted heart is given to the poor,
and his body taken from the market-place and burned,
there is no need to order, Turn the Page,
for the children have grown up, and know when to turn,
and knowing when, will never again know where.

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if you wish our clock would stop, tell us. if you wish time stopped for no man, tell us that too.

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looking out the back of car windows, dirty from distant travels. blurs of semi-trailers in the distants, lights bleeding into the night rain. up in the front, there's some bad tune twirling out of the radio, ruining it all. all the while, i'm hoping i'll fall asleep, and when i wake - we'll just be there.

silver stripes

2008-05-09T08:12:00.003+10:00

striped skivvies. striped pencils. striped scarves. striped towels. stripey plates. stripey boxes. bikes with racing stripes. yes. yes these are all good things featuring stripes. zebra crossings. zebras. double white lines. lollypop ladies. black and white stripes. red and white stripes. bulls-eyes. i have a little hankering for striped boiled lollies - the type that are kept in glass jars. nostalgia is kick-starting my taste buds. mmm. mattress ticking. speeding stripes. not one single spot in sight.

c h a l k talk

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a hank of her hair: anne french

When he found it
it was the blaze that shocked him
its red flare in the darkness,
its weight, like a body part
an amputation
a ripe fruit.
He sniffed it, expecting
a feral stink
the scent of her
some kind of perfume
or perhaps all three.
Its mustiness recalled all the cupboards
of all the houses they have ever lived in
in several countries
and it inside them all along,
wrapped and waiting
for this moment.
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garbageman: the man with the orderly mind: gwendolyn brooks

What do you think of us in fuzzy endeavor, you whose directions are
sterling, whose lunge is straight?
Can you make a reason, how can you pardon us who memorize the rules and never score?
Who memorize the rules from your own text but never quite transfer them to the game,
Who never quite receive the whistling ball, who gawk, begin to absorb the crowd's own roar.
Is earnest enough, may earnest attract or lead to light;
Is light enough, if hands in clumsy frenzy, flimsy whimsically, enlist;
Is light enough when this bewilderment crying against the dark shuts down the shades?
Dilute confusion. Find and explode our mist.
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if you wish our stripe stopped, tell us. if you wish our pinstripes kept racing, tell us that too.

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the constant rhythm of waves crashing, sand underfoot, in the bottom of your bed. mosquitoes still linger, as though to suck out the very last of the sunshine via your veins. extra-early birds whistle in the morning light, i bunker down hiding under my doona, hoping it's darker for just a little longer. just fifteen more minutes. hit the snooze, well i would if i had one, but instead, my alarm comes in the shape of a three year old wanting to snuggle up close and bury his limbs under my body.

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ghost city

2008-05-02T12:47:00.003+10:00

the sun is making a special guest appearance, but there's no one else around to share it. quiet town. desserted town. almost ghost town, except for the old silent man sweeping leaves out of the gutter. here i am sitting out the front, hoping for a glimmer of a soul. but nothing. it's ghost city.

c h a l k talk

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live model: marie ponsot

Who wouldn't rather paint than pose—
Modeling, you're an itch the artist
Doesn't want to scratch, at least
Not directly, and not yet.
You think, "At last, a man who knows
How bodies are metaphors!" (You're wrong.)

First time I posed for him he made
A gilded throne to sit me on
Crowned open-armed in a blue halfgown.
I sat his way, which was not one of mine
But stiff & breakable as glass,
Pale still, as if
With a rosetree up my spine.
We had to be speechless too,
Gut tight in a sacring thermal
Hush of love & art;
Even songs & poems
Were too mundane for me to quote
To ease our grand feelings
So I sat mute, as if
With a rosetree down my throat.

Now I breathe deep, I sit slack,
I've thrown the glass out, spit,
Evacuated bushels of roses.
I’ve got my old quick walk
& my big dirty voice back.
Why do I still sometimes sit
On what is unmistakably like a throne?
Why not. Bodies are metaphors
And this one's my own.
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consider me: langston hughes

Consider me,
A colored boy,
Once sixteen,
Once five, once three,
Once nobody,
Now me. Before me
Papa, mama,Grandpa, grandma,
So on back
To original
Pa.
(A capital letter there,
He
Being Mystery.)

Consider me,
Colored boy,
Downtown at eight,
Sometimes working late,
Overtime pay
To sport away,
Or save,
Or give my Sugar
For the things
She needs.

My Sugar,
Consider her
Who works, too—
Has to.
One don't make enough
For all the stuff
It takes to live.
Forgive me
What I lack,
Black,
Caught in a crack
That splits the world in two
From China
By way of Arkansas
To Lenox Avenue.

Consider me,
On Friday the eagle flies.
Saturday laughter, a bar, a bed.
Sunday prayers syncopate glory.
Monday comes,
To work at eight,
Late,
Maybe.

Consider me,
Descended also
From the Mystery.
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if you wish we stayed in ghost city, tell us. if you'd like to join us and make ghost city disappear, tell us that too.

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iceberg roses, folds of petals - tutus around rose hips. bees slowed by the cold, i hear them while i read. i holler at the dogs that bark, and ruin the perfect quiet. they hush, rush back, sit at my feet panting as though it's the hottest day, then run off and bark again.

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On Holidays

2008-04-25T19:43:00.002+10:00

I'm away on holiday visiting my family.. I'll be back next week - with two posts instead in lieu of today's.. Sorry - I had good intentions, but I've been enjoying some sleep-ins, too many cups of tea, lemon curd cake and op shopping.. Mmmm.

have a happy weekend

c h a l k talk

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word on the street

2008-04-17T20:46:00.002+10:00

there's a quiet hum on the street. old men stop talking. pens are put down. chess games are deserted. the echo of foot steps running down the road. laughter from a far off house. a quick hush as papers are dropped, cars turned off, the washing is half hung out to dry. cats are left mewing at doorways, trees stop losing their leaves.

it's the weekly edition of random poetics. stop everything to read it and weep.

c h a l k talk

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looking at them asleep: sharon olds

When I come home late at night and go in to kiss them,
I see my girl with her arm curled around her head,
her mouth a little puffed, like one sated, but
slightly pouted like one who hasn't had enough,
her eyes so closed you would think they have rolled the
iris around to face the back of her head,
the eyeball marble-naked under that
thick satisfied desiring lid,
she lies on her back in abandon and sealed completion,
and the son in his room, oh the son he is sideways in his bed,
one knee up as if he is climbing
sharp stairs, up into the night,
and under his thin quivering eyelids you
know his eyes are wide open and
staring and glazed, the blue in them so
anxious and crystally in all this darkness, and his
mouth is open, he is breathing hard from the climb
and panting a bit, his brow is crumpled
and pale, his fine fingers curved,
his hand open, and in the center of each hand
the dry dirty boyish palm
resting like a cookie. I look at him in his
quest, the thin muscles of his arms
passionate and tense, I look at her with her
face like the face of a snake who has swallowed a deer,
content, content—and I know if I wake her she'll
smile and turn her face toward me though
half asleep and open her eyes and I
know if I wake him he'll jerk and say
Don't and sit
up and stare about him in blue
unrecognition, oh my Lord how I
know these two. When love comes to me and says
What do you know, I say This girl, this boy.
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shadows: sarah arvio

I saw some shadows moving on the wall
and heard a shuffle, as of wings or thoughts.
I rolled back the sheets and looked at the day,

a raw, blown day, white papers in the street.
Sheets were flapping in the sky of my mind,
I smelled the wet sheets, I tasted a day

in sheets hanging in the damp of a day.
White pages flapping: my life had been so new
when I didn't yet know how old it was.

I couldn't see the vistas on those sheets,
the dreamscapes sleeping deeply in those sheets;
I hadn't yet seen my shadow vita

or learned which host would trick me or treat me,
which of my hosts would give me something sweet,
some good counsel and a soft place to sleep,

or what was the name of my ghostwriter.
Who ghosted my life, whose dream would I ghost,
who wrote my name and date across these sheets,

and which sheets would be the wings of my thoughts,
and which would hold the words of my angels.
A host, and did I know I’d have a host;

no, a line of sheets is never a bed,
a gaggle of hosts is never a love,
a host is never as good as a home,

a ghost as good as a dog or a god.
But I had my heart, always had my heart
for god and a home as much as it hurt.

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if you don't want to hear the word, tell us. if you want us to shout from the rooftops, tell us that too.

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lazy days, rain pouring outside, watch it flood from the gutters. pinecones drop in groups as the rain tumbles harder. it's cold outside, and we pad around the house in socks, stripey. winter's on our heels, and we're not running. we like the grey.

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it's beautiful

2008-04-10T19:12:00.004+10:00

hanging clothes out on the line, dappled sunlight with a cool breeze hinting at winter. it's beautiful. lasting memories from when you first met your love, butterflies re-light. it's beautiful. watching the last light drain from the sky, while night time swirls in, inky - it's like watching watercolours spread. it's beautiful. savouring a glass of wine, beautiful. hearing your baby laugh, watching her body fill with joy. oh yeah, that's beautiful. walking through empty streets, breathing in the fresh air, walking with a spring in your step, anticipating what awaits. mmm. beautiful.

happy weekend!

c h a l k talk

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tell me why this hurry: julia hartwig

The lindens are blossoming the lindens have lost their blossoms
and this flowery procession moves without any restraint
Where are you hurrying lilies of the valley jasmines
petunias lilacs irises roses and peonies
Mondays and Tuesdays Wednesdays and Fridays
nasturtiums and gladioli zinnias and lobelias
yarrow dill goldenrod and grasses
flowery Mays and Junes and Julys and Augusts
lakes of flowers seas of flowers meadows
holy fires of fern one-day grails
Tell me why this hurry where are you rushing
in a cherry blizzard a deluge of greenness
all with the wind racing in one direction only
crowns proud yesterday today fallen into sand
eternal desires passions mistresses of destruction
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a quote: charles baudelaire

Poetry has no goal other than itself; it can have no other, and no poem will be so great, so noble, so truly worthy of the name of poem, than one written uniquely for the pleasure of writing a poem.

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untitled: kevin goodan

white days, a passion for the winter-birds
cached in every elm, each goat
with its bell in the pasture
as the wind tolls diurnal through the scape,
a far gray band of willows,
the snow cross-harrowed, a barn
where every breath has faltered
where beasts lie down in stalls
quiver and are still, are hauled
to the fire, roil, and enter the earth
as wind skurls bright smoke
against the purple that is darkness blooming
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overblown roses: mimi khalvati

She held one up, twirling it in her hand
as if to show me how the world began
and ended in perfection. I was stunned.
How could she make a rose so woebegone,
couldn't silk stand stiff? And how could a child,
otherwise convinced of her mother's taste,
know what to think? It's overblown, she smiled,
I love roses when they're past their best.

'Overblown roses', the words swam in my head,
making sense as I suddenly saw afresh
the rose now, the rose ahead: where a petal
clings to a last breath; where my mother's flesh
and mine, going the same way, may still
be seen as beautiful, if these words are said.

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if you think it's kind of ugly, tell us. if you think it's blooming beautiful, tell us that too.

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i remember my grandparents' garden full of roses. fat roses. red roses, tangerine roses, baby pink, almost-orange roses, white roses, yellow roses, oh the most fragrant roses. dead rose heads. chop! chop! chop! sweet peas grew out the front, tendrils climbing. my grandmother gave me fragrant rose petal stamps, that i now give my little boy. i remember the heady smell of roses. beautiful.

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ripe, ripe strawberries

2008-04-01T16:12:00.001+11:00

easy mornings, when the sunshine's just feeling its way into the sky. early morning smiles, open eyes wide and welcome the day. ah sweet sunshine, on my back as i learn to sew, warming my face as i hang out the washing - a candy coloured array, sunshine. like john denver sang - it makes me happy. as do ripe strawberries that burst with flavour, oozing, staining your best top - but who cares when life tastes like this?

c h a l k talk

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avenue a: frank o'hara

We hardly ever see the moon any more

so no wonder

it's so beautiful when we look up suddenly

and there it is gliding broken-faced over the bridges

brilliantly coursing, soft, and a cool wind fans

your hair over your forehead and your memories

of Red Grooms' locomotive landscape

I want some bourbon/you want some oranges/I love the leather

jacket Norman gave me

and the corduroy coat David

gave you, it is more mysterious than spring, the El Greco

heavens breaking open and then reassembling like lions

in a vast tragic veldt

that is far from our small selves and our temporally united

passions in the cathedral of Januaries

everything is too comprehensible

these are my delicate and caressing poems

I suppose there will be more of those others to come, as in the past

so many!

but for now the moon is revealing itself like a pearl

to my equally naked heart
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a negro love song: paul laurence dunbar (1872-1906)

Seen my lady home las' night,

Jump back, honey, jump back.

Hel' huh han' an' sque'z it tight,

Jump back, honey, jump back.

Hyeahd huh sigh a little sigh,

Seen a light gleam f'om huh eye,

An' a smile go flittin' by—

Jump back, honey, jump back.

Hyeahd de win' blow thoo de pine,

Jump back, honey, jump back,

Mockin'-bird was singin' fine,

Jump back, honey, jump back.

An' my hea't was beatin' so,

When I reached my lady's do',

Dat I couldn't ba' to go—

Jump back, honey, jump back.

Put my ahm aroun' huh wais',

Jump back, honey, jump back.

Raised huh lips an' took a tase,

Jump back, honey, jump back.

Love me, honey, love me true?

Love me well ez I love you?

An' she answe'd, "'Cose I do"—

Jump back, honey, jump back.

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babe: lexi c

hold your head in my hand

a cap of dark hair,

inhale you - - sweet, sweet milkiness

a smile spreads onto your face

your eyes full of merriment,

locked on mine

i take a photograph in my mind.

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if you think our strawberries are overripe, tell us. if you think our strawberries are ripe for a-picking, tell us that too.

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silk scarves to hide bad hair. big sunglasses to hide tired eyes. a daily masquerade, a quick smile and out the door. grass under my feet, sand on my pillow, summer takes a bow as autumn creeps in, crisp mornings of cold feet and warm tea and toast.

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home sweet home

2008-03-30T11:28:00.000+11:00

it's been a long time between meetings. i think it was the fact that each time i sent a random poetics, it took me ridiculous amounts of time, and so it turned me off. but here's a new home so i don't have to fiddle around with such trivial things. you can visit whenever you want. i'm dizzy from lack of sleep, a messy house, and a new babe in my arms. have you missed me?

random poetics is in a new format and we love our new digs. like a pig in mud! welcome back cotter.

c h a l k talk

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all the world's a stage: william shakespeare

All the world's a stage,
And all the men and women merely players;
They have their exits and their entrances,
And one man in his time plays many parts,
His acts being seven ages. At first, the infant,
Mewling and puking in the nurse's arms.
Then the whining schoolboy, with his satchel
And shining morning face, creeping like snail
Unwillingly to school. And then the lover,
Sighing like furnace, with a woeful ballad
Made to his mistress' eyebrow. Then a soldier,
Full of strange oaths and bearded like the pard,
Jealous in honor, sudden and quick in quarrel,
Seeking the bubble reputation
Even in the cannon's mouth. And then the justice,
In fair round belly with good capon lined,
With eyes severe and beard of formal cut,
Full of wise saws and modern instances;
And so he plays his part. The sixth age shifts
Into the lean and slippered pantaloon,
With spectacles on nose and pouch on side;
His youthful hose, well saved, a world too wide
For his shrunk shank, and his big manly voice,
Turning again toward childish treble, pipes
And whistles in his sound. Last scene of all,
That ends this strange eventful history,
Is second childishness and mere oblivion,
Sans teeth, sans eyes, sans taste, sans everything.
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the pig: roald dahl

In England once there lived a big
And wonderfully clever pig.
To everybody it was plain
That Piggy had a massive brain.
He worked out sums inside his head,
There was no book he hadn't read.
He knew what made an airplane fly,
He knew how engines worked and why.
He knew all this, but in the end
One question drove him round the bend:
He simply couldn't puzzle out
What LIFE was really all about.
What was the reason for his birth?
Why was he placed upon this earth?
His giant brain went round and round.
Alas, no answer could be found.
Till suddenly one wondrous night.
All in a flash he saw the light.
He jumped up like a ballet dancer
And yelled, "By gum, I've got the answer!"
"They want my bacon slice by slice"
To sell at a tremendous price!"
They want my tender juicy chops"
To put in all the butcher's shops!
"They want my pork to make a roast"
And that's the part'll cost the most!
"They want my sausages in strings!
"They even want my chitterlings!
"The butcher's shop! The carving knife!
"That is the reason for my life!"
Such thoughts as these are not designed
To give a pig great piece of mind.
Next morning, in comes Farmer Bland,
A pail of pigswill in his hand,
And piggy with a mighty roar,
Bashes the farmer to the floor…
Now comes the rather grizzly bit
So let's not make too much of it,
Except that you must understand
That Piggy did eat Farmer Bland,
He ate him up from head to toe,
Chewing the pieces nice and slow.
It took an hour to reach the feet,
Because there was so much to eat,
And when he finished, Pig, of course,
Felt absolutely no remorse.
Slowly he scratched his brainy head
And with a little smile he said,
"I had a fairly powerful hunch"
That he might have me for his lunch."
And so, because I feared the worst,
"I thought I'd better eat him first."
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if you think our house is super, tell us. if you'd like to revisit our new home, tell us that too.

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crickets creaking in the twilight. i heard a strange noise, mama. it's alright. it's just mr cricket chirruping away, now go to sleep 'til the sun lights the day.

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