Joy

My Name

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My Name

My name is proficient, businesslike.
It has the ability to be punctual.
It requires little effort.
Yet when sighed in pleasure, or called in happiness,
My ears gloss over the familiar corners of my identity
And turn my name into a new conglomeration
Composed of unfamiliar vowels and consonants.
I cannot hear my name spoken in joy.
It sounds foreign, a strange sound of exaltation.
That surely cannot be my name.
You cannot be referring to me.
That would mean that my name has other capabilities
Beyond my standard identifiers.
Who is this person you speak of?

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2.25 – A Freeform Verse with Anger and Birds

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2.25

A Freeform Verse with Anger and Birds

You dive bomb like a blue jay
You’re as faithless as a crow
I watch you peck and rend and bend
The old things that I know

You screech just like a magpie
You’re catbird cruel in show
I watch you peck and flick and prick
The old ways that I know

You frighten like the night owl
You’re a wasteful, spiteful sparrow
I watch you peck and shake and break
The old joys that I know

—

So where did I misplace my dove
Where is my cardinal true
Who took away my joyful thrush
And left me here with you?

Perhaps I am the grackle
The junco deep in snow
Perhaps it’s I who let you fly
Away with what I know.

****

I think I’ll work on this one. I love birds, and I don’t know why I went to such an angry place with the bird imagery.

Saint Brigid, Saint Patrick, Mary, and God

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Saint Brigid, Saint Patrick, Mary, and God

Saint Brigid saw Saint Patrick
Walking by her lake of beer.
She called to him, “Hey, Patrick!
Care to share a cup of cheer?”

Saint Patrick winked and nodded.
“Aye, but I will drink no beer.
It’s whiskey that’s my drink of choice –
Would you like a dram, my dear?”

So Saint Patrick and Saint Brigid
Got to celebrating days
Until their song reached Heaven
(Drunk voices carry quite a ways.)

Immaculate Mary descended
Down to the lake of beer
And Saint Brigid raised her tankard,
“Hey Mary, how ‘bout a mug of beer?”

Gentle Mary smiled at the pair
“I’ll drink something more fine.
If we’re in celebrating mood
I’d much prefer a glass of wine.”

So Brigid drank a mighty draught
And Patrick from his flasks
Sweet Mary had amphora brought
The angels rolled the casks.

The trio sat by the lake of beer
And sang hymnals full of praise
Until God himself popped into sight
(For he has mysterious ways)

“Across my kingdom’s reaches
Have I heard the noise you’ve made
You could awaken souls asleep
What happens in this glade?”

“Good Father,” said Saint Patrick.
“Come and join us for a drink!
Be merry and happy on a day of feast
Come on, Lord, whatdya think?”

“Holy Lord,” enjoined Saint Brigid.
“Let me offer you a glass!
Let’s celebrate the day of days
That many more may pass!”

“Almighty God,” spoke Mary.
“Come drink the grape’s delight
Let’s sing and dance and spin the Earth
Throughout the day and night.”

And God sat down beside them
By the lake of beer and song
He drank the whiskey and the wine
For God’s tolerance is strong.

Until, that is, God’s humor
Got the better of his mind
“Hey guys, check out what I can do!
Let’s see what I can find!”

Saint Brigid, Saint Patrick, and Mary
All paused within their drinking
Each wanting to see what the Lord would bring
To see what Yahweh was thinking.

With a mighty clap and a joyous noise
The Lord gave out a cheer
And all around the angels sang
And drank at the lake of beer.

Yet when the magic settled,
And the power had all been spent,
The only thing that God had made
Was an awkward looking rodent.

Its tail was rat, its fur was white
“I shall call it – an opossum!
It shall confound my mortal charges…
Now, which Saint had the rum?”

Saint Brigid cheered the creature
And Saint Patrick cried “Here! Here!”
Sweet Mary laughed and clapped her hands
By that merry lake of beer.

*****

Saint Brigid of Ireland is my patron saint, and her prayer involves providing beer for all eternity for the holy family. On this, Saint Patrick’s day, I like to think that God gets to enjoy him/herself with the Saints.

And like all drunks, strange creatures get made when God gets tipsy. I mean, the platypus, most deep sea creatures, the opossum (which I call God’s sneeze).

Ode to a Marriott Turkey Club

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Your surly fingers try to hide

the obvious joy you feel at handling latex gloves.

Taking two glorious pieces of white bread,

White as the Queen’s tablecloth

Factory, bulk-made light bread, you trudge to the toaster.

But I know better – I can sense your anticipation.

And then – oh blessed lady – the mayonnaise

The tart but sweet condiment spread thinly on the toast,

Your knife a brush on a canvas of yeasted perfection.

Oh, do not curl your lip, Heavenly creature, as you handle

the turkey, the tomato, the lettuce! You cannot maintain

Ennui when handling bits of culinary paradise.

You lay each with the precision of minimum wage calculations

The expertise of time tables

And the secret love of a chef working the late shift.

What sound could I hope to make to impress upon your glowering eye, your pursed lips, your indifferent hands,

The towering testament to sandwich in my hands,

The climactic crunch of a 10pm late flight appetite appeasement!

Words shame the first bite.

The masterful combination of flavor and texture –

The sweet turkey, the salt of the bacon,

The fresh burst of tomato, the smooth lettuce,

A symphony for the taste buds, gastronomic bliss.

Oh, sweet Muse of the Marriott cafe,

You could never achieve anything less than perfection.

And my tip shall reflect my rapture.