poetry

Saragun Verse Falstaff for God

(Today we honor old Fat Jack. The Drifter has kept him in my mind lately, so the old knight rates a poem. In fact I think that I can dedicate this to His High Rotundity as well as the co-Editor of Saragun Springs— LA)

(The Raccoon in the image is named Falstaff; a truly fitting individual)

i

Handmade gods do not laugh

Even when they employ a staff

Of dull scribes, Bob Hope funny,

He who bought bad jokes with Chrysler money

ii

Go through pages and seek jolly sages

And learn good Will penned the man for all ages

Tankards of ale, sack and wassails

Falstaff lives on after all else fails

iii

Prince Hal was a pal till power spread him nebulous

‘Twas crown and church made him lugubrious

Yet Jack kept laughing and blessed the saints of the doomed

Hallo Pistol, Nym, Bardolph, Drifter and Harold, may your keeness for-ever, Bloom

iv

Kings lose their humour when see good

In split heads, spilled guts and land by the rood

Yet Hal neither lived long nor richly

Nor was he guided home by gentle Dame Quickly

Saragun Verse: “That’s How Come”

(Image of the Messianic Squirrel, Manette, WA at sunrise)

i

On the tongues of angels devils dance

The right words are made but not by chance

If the truth and sound should ever meet

We’d hear “it’s cheaper to let them sleep on the street.”

ii

The keening of youth wears thin in time

Like hippy power ties sold in eighty-nine

The passion disease is easy to cure

With pots of gold and rainbow lures

iii

Sleep tidy in peace is the lucky sin

God loves you more is how it begins

Luxuriate in false security long and well

And but once heed the toll of the bell

iv

And as one hypocrite tells another

“The fault lies with our fathers and mothers”

Yet seldom do parents concede

When devils dance on the tongues of their seed

Daisy versus the billigits: The Second Battle

(As noted yesterday, I expected a reply to Daisy’s scathing message to the billigits. I wasn’t wrongly wrong–LA)

i

o moving hoof you are so quick to huff

o’er such inconsequential puffy stuff

you and adverbs are a mixed potpourri

that reeks of one little miss me me me

ii

billigits fly high and we think divine

we soar in the straightest of guidelines

to add to the story is silly bold

the realm would be best if you did as told

iii

mothball weasel pinto flounder we four

punctuation and caps we do ignore

adverbs are the weeds of the written word

you abuse them the way flies use a turd

iv

o moving hoof with a spirit so sweet

why must you say hoofally bout your feet

have you gone around the bendly bend

from reality to deep insane pretend

(Well, that should pissilly piss the Goatess off. I expect her reply tomorrow–LA)

Daisy and the billigits: A New Poetry War Dawns by Dame Daisy Kloverleaf

Saragun Verse

(Ed note–Dame Daisy is well known for her little “beefs” with members of the realm. These poetic dust ups, even with her nemesis the Lambs, are usually over fairly quickly. They mostly stem from opinions about the Moving Hoof’s beloved adverbs; hence the missive of the day. Her use of small case letters is indeed sarcastic.–LA)

by dame daisy kloverleaf

i

the billigits are everywhere

flying phoney little squares

too wholesome too cute sez I this moving hoof

too Osmondy with their big grinning tooths

ii

dear billigits where have we errly erred

we were once as close as under and wear

but time its sad selfly self hath decreed

that you be pithy and I adverby

iii

oh what vilely vile little scorners

who skimp on fairness and so close borders

i seethly seeth over their obloquy

the finks have for we the adverbally

iv

your kind knows oh so little compassion

we see you as pains in the assassin

the hemingway song of your boozely wit

speaks only of dying by killing shit

(Second Ed note–To date the billies have yet to reply; but I’m sure one is coming–LA)

Saragun Verse: Saving the Ghost of 1983

i

I was walking home and met the Ghost of 1983

Clove cigarettes, Orange Julius and Plug-in potpourri

It seemed a pity that it had to wander without a mall to roam

I wanted to do something nice so I brought it home

ii

The Samaritan has hit the skids in millenia number three

No good deed goes unpunished is the modern screed

But I rather like my dayglo phantasm born in cheerier climes

Before everyone got a branch from which to bleat full time

iii

So now I share my roost with the Ghost of 1983

Clove cigarettes, Orange Julius, Plug-in potpourri

If I can be good enough to open up and make a little room

Then maybe I shan’t be so alone when sealed in the tomb

Saragun Verse: Ode to Foul Waters

i

The Spring is the thing in Saragun

It creeps up from the nether-nether land

Located below the meanest sin

Where you can fry Peter without a pan

ii

It smells of charnel houses and sulfurized souls

Mouldy shoes, dollar store cologne

Lovers lies and quitters’ scorn

And the still rooms of the should ne’er been born

iii

And yet it is the best of devices

A sucking abyss for idiot crisis

And it leaves our air cleanly grown

Fresh to the lung not previously blown

iv

Yes the Spring is the thing in Saragun

It takes out the trash and dung

It’s a happy exit for the aggressively putrid

We wave bye bye to anti-Cupid

Saragun Verse: Moonfog Returns

i

Moonfog Madrone nods in the lush field

In vegetable dreams seldom revealed

Little goes against Moonfog’s serenity

Save humankind the greedy enemy

ii

Little colored flags and a for sale sign

Once entered the doze of Moonfog’s calm mind

He cast an enchantment into below

Where the little fey gods flicker and glow

iii

“Bring forth a shake to unkind human steps

Those that never feel the earth is kept

By Forces more elemental than gold

Little gods I say do as you are told!”

iv

The flags and for sale sign went away

For when humans touched the field it swayed

Some said nature, others, the will of God

Moonfog cared not, for he was on the nod

Leonard Cohen on the Phone by Dale Williams Barrigar

(Image of Berwyn, Illinois, U.S.A. provided by DWB)

“Show me the place where the word became a man.”

– Leonard Cohen, “Show Me the Place”

Poetry can create

and does create

urban

affection, the tiny,

brief

reaching

out

to one’s fellow

humans

that us city

folks (the vast

majority

of the planet

now) need to

indulge in so we

can remain

connected

to one another,

our fellow

humanity,

in a real way,

however strange or

however much

a stranger. Whenever

people compliment

one of my beautiful

animals (Siberian Huskies

or pit bulls), I take it

personally

and return

the favor.

Walking across

the parking lot,

I resolved

that I

would continue

to do so. And I turned

the Leonard Cohen

song way up

on my phone

and placed it

near my ear

one more

time

for now.

Dr. Dale Williams Barrigar is a poet whose own poetry transformed his own life: suddenly, and then gradually. It’s good enough for him.

Porcupine Spirit by Dale Williams Barrigar

(Image of DWB provided by DWB)

Porcupine Spirit

For Montmorency County, Michigan,

USA

In a cedar swamp

one time, I saw

a gigantic

porcupine

standing up

on his hind legs

like a miniature

human. He was three

feet tall, and looked

like something out of

Star Wars with his incredible,

innumerable

quills

sticking out every which

way and his arms dangling

in front of him as he

stood there, his small face

unafraid of me and his whole

self refusing to move

off the path

which he

was blocking.

And indeed

he continued

to block the path

and watch me walk

away after I

gingerly

stepped

around him.

The forests up here

allow for many

moments like these –

vast, indigenous,

Germanic, huge,

mysterious, with little

to no

human habitations

for gigantic wild

stretches and nothing but

dirt roads. If you want

to be independent

on foot and wander

in a pine wilderness

like Johnny Appleseed

with a wolf,

you can choose

any direction

to do that

here

in the middle

of a place

that makes you

free.

Dr. Dale Williams Barrigar is a poet whose own poetry transformed his own life: suddenly, and then gradually. It’s good enough for him.

For the First Time by Dale Williams Barrigar

(image provided by DWB)

Through it all,

and during it all,

the vast collection

of poetry

he’d created

in the last

ten years

had turned into

a monster

like Grendel

that was now devouring

my life. William Carlos

Williams said:

since the imagination is

nothing, nothing

comes

of it. This lesson

was weighing

heavily. But Jack

Spicer

also said: the poet gets

messages

for her or his life right

from the act

of writing poetry. This

makes poetry

worth doing daily

in its own right,

regardless

of any outward

consequences, or

non-consequences,

that can be

immediately seen. I remembered

I was a person born

with a humble sense

of mystic vision

(since day one). Since day

one

I’d felt

the correspondences

in the world

and had

a certain sense that we

are all here

for a reason, or for

many reasons

and meanings, which we

can feel (sometimes), but not

clearly

see

or say (most of the time).

An ambiguous

mystical

seeing, since

the dawning

of consciousness:

the first memory:

opening the eyes

outside of her body

for the first time.

Dr. Dale Williams Barrigar is a poet whose own poetry transformed his own life: suddenly, and then gradually. It’s good enough for him.