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Religion Free DVD PlayerAs an avowed atheist, I've always despised overt religious subtext in my movies. So when I ran across a back-alley electronics shop offering "Religion Free DVD Players", I snatched one up faster than a Southern Baptist preacher could call out, "Hallelujah!"

Set-up was a breeze, thank Nobody. So the first movie I popped in was one of my favorites, The Wizard of Oz.

Well, by the time the angelic Glinda introduces herself to saintly little Dorothy in front of the Munchkin choir, I was already beginning to suspect that something might be off. And it only got worse, as her ragtag band of pilgrims undergoes their yellow-brick hajj to the Emerald
Trouser, SnakeA natty pair of trousers came upon
A gracile set of stockings, quite by chance.
"Milady, say the word and I'll begone,
But firstly I must ask if thou wouldst dance."

"Of course, milord; but only if romance
And not a one-time fling dost thou propose."
"Thou hast my promise," acquiesced the pants,
Even as he sidled toward the hose.

In a manner unbefitting gallant clothes
He sought to lay himself upon her silk;
"Stop, cad!" she cried, "So thou'rt one of those!
My mother said to watch out for thy ilk."

Much wiser heads have voiced it best and first:
Those Worsted wools have always been the worst.
ImaginagerieThe chickens are locked in the closet;
   the dinosaur's under the bed.
The toad has just jumped from the windowsill
   and landed on top of my head.

The ferrets are out planting flowers;
   the peacock's new plumage is torn.
The unicorn used my last dishtowel
   to polish its glimmering horn.

The reindeer have raided the pantry;
   the dolphin won't fit in the tub.
The lemmings ate all of my lemon drops,
   then played hide-and-seek with the cub.

The donkey's been braying all morning;
   the cheetah's been chasing her tail.
Cats
I think there may be nothing that
Is quite so lovely as a cat.

A cat whose hungry head is pressed
And purring loud against my breast;

A cat which slumbers all the day,
And claws you when it's time to play;

A cat which will in summer chase
A nest of robins 'round the place;

Upon whose bosom fur has lain;
Whose territory none may claim.

Pomes are writ by fools like that,
But only Darwin makes a cat.
A Garden Trampled: Sandy Hook, 14 Dec. 2012Twenty saplings plucked
   Seven pillars toppled
  Salt and ashes strewn
My Friend NatalieJoey led Cassandra down the stairs blindfolded, guiding her carefully down each and every step to make sure she didn't trip. He'd spent all day cleaning the house so that, unlike most days, the floor wasn't covered in his stepdaughter's toys. (Well, she would be his stepdaughter, if tonight went well.)

"Are you sure I'm not about to step on a pony, Joey? I could've sworn there was a pony on these stairs last night." Cassandra had spent most of the day in bed and didn't entirely believe Joey when he told her that the house was clean and tidy.

"I'm sure, babe. You'll be fine. Trust me." He laughed as he said it, which didn't entirely help in
FebruumA bitter chill is carried on the wind:
it hasn't anything to do with cold,
but all the same, reminds me how thin-skinned

I am, in terms of being pigeonholed
by those who place more value on themselves
(and all the propaganda they've been told)

than on the truth. Were I the one who delves
into the reasons why, I might unearth
a viscid blend: of fragile sense of selves

exaggerating their own sense of worth,
amalgamated with hypocrisy
and left to stew on High. That such a dearth

of charity and common courtesy
could be directed at my unassum-
ing person, marks a huge discrepancy

between all those I wish I could, and whom
I actuall
Gravity and YouYou saunter (no other
word would describe
the lilt of your gait quite
so eloquently) toward
me, smiling. You tilt
your head in question:

"What are you doing?" The question
remains unanswered. You ask another:
"Why are you upside down?" I tilt
my head toward you. "Describe
'upside down.'" You lean toward
me: "you." I beam "Not quite!"

"Not-" (I interrupt) "Quite!
Not at all, in fact. Your question
is invalid." You seem to lean toward
cuffing me, but you repeat the other
question, your first. So I describe
why I am laying, on a dock with a tilt,

my head limp over the edge: "The tilt
and the view flipped around cannot quite
Nerd Humor(An Open Source Poem)

I'd compiled a REALbasic poem
in which a Python
with a bad Lisp
named Haskell
(or Pascal)
concocted a Scheme
to swap a dull Ruby
for a shiny new Perl
from the king Cobol
while making Smalltalk
about Mathematica
over a cup of Java
before knocking him out with a SNOBOL

My prof gave it a C++
pale horseWhat if God was a gunfighter, wearing His
Navy Colt revolver low on His
hip a'swagger, each bullet a Flood that He promised
He'd never use again. That was then,
but Now, when
He turns His cheek,
Is there a tear running down for the Son
we took from him?
Does He look down on us,
and see a gang of outlaws,
hooligans,
shiftless Sons of Bitches,
fanning the Seven Deadlies
drinking the Seven Deadlies
like hands in a poker game,
like shots of rotgut,
seeing double when He walks in,
spurs jingling,
dust falling,
and Hell coming with him?
the machine unmaking melearn me this way: scour
my flesh from these iron
bones.  the drums tense in me, stretched
and languid with unspeaking.

listen: it is the still
before grasping.  it is hands on hammers:
this clamorous, unthinking birth.

(the architect sleeps
in me still, skin-daughter of raucous
stumbling, this span
of lung to life.  my blood
runs heavy with noise.)

learn me this way: your jaw
opening my bones with the patience
of coffins.  i have spent my growth,
this upward twisting of mind and sinew,

to meet you--to know my tongue flush
with the language of godhead,
your skull printing my skies,
a bloated marble sun.
i have been walking our oceans againhere, these nights bruise
dark with wondering, and i feel
you in beds you have never
known.  here, there are places
in me taken with thirst, and i
have learned, by your music,
to forgive them.

i think you now: your spires
of absent motion, and, buried
in the folds of reaching, i name
myself home.  i think my promise,
smouldering in the cathedral
of my bones; oh, love, bless me
with the ruin
of my senses--

let me light the candles
of your spine: your face, a quiet
turning; let me call for you
to break in me like tide;

let me write redemption
on the small of your back; sky
drenched open, ripe
in the orchards
of our risin
distance songwalking is not walking any
longer. every footstep
like a fist pounding
on your door.

this winter expands
its lungs with faltering,
and over, and again, i pierce
your memory: this silence
that conquers.  you, my unreachable
eloquence: i am here, painting
my remnants with blind swaths
of music.

(sing the mind found itself
anew, another.  sing this sleep, your hands
imagining circles
over me.)

walking is not walking
any longer.  it is waiting
for trains, those dark prophets,
to color us with passing.  it is away
becoming toward: nearer,
nearer.  it is sound moving against
the close.
the beauty's in the leavingRead aloud here.
sweetheart, let's head out. let's
drink up the desert asphalt and that last bottle
of johnny walker blue--
one last toast to the copper sunsets,
to the good earth. a pair of
tailgate stargazers, you and i:
roaming curves across the glove compartment map, until
every foldline is worn flannel-soft
and it'd rather stay open
than closed.
let's forget route sixty-six. let's forget 
the numbers
and pick up terra cotta dust--
breathe in the mojave. let's pretend
that the world's already ended
and it's just us.
let's leave the door unlocked
and go
west.
AubadeI am
no goddess of
articulation.

I am abrupt syllables,
Bezaleel staining dog-eared dictionaries--
a cinder from God's own panic attack.

So when my shivers are redolent, seeped
in Earl Grey and the sound of
her whispers against the underside of your wrist,
I can string together phonemes
that ardent logophiles slaver over.

This is me, understood--
not a poet, but
an
anxiety disorder left to pens
and paper.
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Things Fella PartFor deviantART's 12th birthday, the staff decided to throw a callipygian surprise party for Fella. They gathered at Fella's favorite restaurant, The Fancy Vermin, with presents in hand. Llama brought Fella to the door and once they stepped in, all of the staff screamed, "Huzzah to the Queen!" Fella was so shocked that he instantly defenestrated himself. He opened his presents to find that Llama had given him 12 kilos of black-market catnip. He was amazed! He would never forget that night.

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January 14, 2012
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Apotheosis: Prometheus Re-Bound

:iconhavetales-willtell:

I thought I saw each day flow by,
from final rest to birthing cry:
the total sum of deeds undone
are bleached beneath the blazing sun
and offered up to passers-by.

The crows will claw, the seagulls cry,
the terns will carry tidbits high,
the pterodactyls catch and run—
    I thought I saw.

But vivisect or vivify,
the price will never be as high
as back when I had purchased one
brand-new, and clearly underdone;
to Zeus in gratitude, I'll testify:
    "I thought I saw."
:iconhavetales-willtell:
a·poth·e·o·sis n. 1) The act of deification. 2) The high point or climax. 3) The epitome or best example.

Originally inspired by a timed prompt in the #CRLiterature chatroom; reworked into something a bit larger in scope.

:bulletpurple: Yes, this is a rondeau. The extra foot in the penultimate line is deliberate: it's a modified alexandrine, and its inclusion has been my small contribution to the form.
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:iconfuzzyhoser:
`FuzzyHoser Dec 2, 2012  Hobbyist Writer
I'm loving the rhythm in this. Gorgeous work! :)
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:iconhavetales-willtell:
`HaveTales-WillTell Dec 3, 2012  Professional Writer
8-) Thank you; this was fun to write.
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:iconfuzzyhoser:
`FuzzyHoser Dec 4, 2012  Hobbyist Writer
My pleasure!
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:iconquelythe:
~Quelythe May 22, 2012  Hobbyist Writer
Poems like this make me wish I knew more about fixed form. I loved the rhythm, and the sense of going in reverse.
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:iconhavetales-willtell:
`HaveTales-WillTell May 24, 2012  Professional Writer
:nod: It's said the best creativity is found in constraint, in the same way that a snowflake requires a mote of dust around which to form. Thank you.
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:iconquelythe:
~Quelythe May 27, 2012  Hobbyist Writer
I like the analogy. Although I have to say that free verse can also have some dazzling displays of creativity -- although perhaps it forms around another type of dust mote. :)
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:iconhavetales-willtell:
`HaveTales-WillTell May 27, 2012  Professional Writer
More than likely. It's the restriction that's important; not which specific kind.
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:iconcembree:
~cembree Apr 9, 2012  Hobbyist Traditional Artist
It's such a pretty poem.
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:iconhavetales-willtell:
Mood: dA Love `HaveTales-WillTell Apr 12, 2012  Professional Writer
:thanks: I'm glad you enjoyed it.
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:iconfelineicecream:
!felineicecream Feb 7, 2012  Student Writer
I love this poem. :) It just... Flows really smoothly. I'm not always a big poetry fan, but this has such a nice rhythm.
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