A Post-Legalization Guide to Reasonable Restrictions Upon Your Liberty

GOPS ON HOP

I am a Gop
And I hate hop.

If you won't stop,
I'll close your shop.

You may not smoke it in a house.
You may not share it with a mouse.
You may not toke it with a fox.
You may not keep it in a box.

You may not toot it at a bar.
You may not zoot it in a car.
You may not smoke it here or there
Our influence is everywhere.

Some speak about the voters' will,
But we cling to our power still--
We'll give our donor base a thrill
And keep their dollars in the till.

You may not toke and play a tune
You may not smoke beneath the moon
You may not puff in parks and caves
Or vipe upon the open waves.

You look for freedom. So do we.
Freedom's good, we all agree
But unless your lot gives in to me,
By god above, I'm just not free!

So do not use it on a plane
No subway tokin', bus or train
Don't puff near the Eternal Flame
Don't rock it at a Rangers game

Freedom's a flop.
It's gotta stop
Cause I'm a Gop
And I hate hop.
.

REUNION

I walked along a street in my home town
Between the scenes of yet another dream.
A noisy car came near, slowed slightly down;
Inside, un-aged, my high school chums--my team!

Brad, at the wheel, looked like he always did,
Seen in the hallways or up on the stage.
Mark, Laurie, Keith, and some familiar kid
And all still at their adolescent age:

Seventeen, untouched by life, still prime.
All seventeen, untouched by life, and prime.

I called their names, they turned their heads to stare.
I said "Good grief, where have you guys all been?
How is it you're still young and fresh and fair?
How'd you do that? Can I be seventeen?"

They focused on me briefly, features frank,
Examining me like some sort of bug,
Then looked at one another, silent, blank,
And shared a brief and apathetic shrug.

Seventeen, and looking fine, still prime.
All seventeen, and looking fine, and prime.

Their interest in me faded fairly fast.
It wasn't for my sake they'd driven slow--
I was just a stranger who they'd passed,
And clearly, they were ready now to go.

"I guess I'm doomed," I said, "I'm doomed, aren't I?"
They talked among themselves as off they rolled.
Who was that? Have you ever seen that guy?
I stood flat-footed, overweight and old.

Fifty-nine, and past the prime, and doomed
But even in the dream, they too were doomed.
In much the way that all of us are doomed.
.

 

This was a real dream from a few years ago, though I may have been older or younger than 59.

Left foot. Right foot.

I walk through the world on the soles of my feet.
Left foot. Right foot. If not there yet, repeat.

Out of my driveway and over a block;
Detouring through streets with the shadiest trees
I figure on just over four miles to walk.
I'm ready to relish the tiniest breeze.

The path between houses, a trail through the woods,
The Auburn trail beckons. I enter its shade
Past daughter's old school via two neighborhoods
To tread the firm earth that the railroad men laid.

Small movement seizes my gaze at my feet
A frog moves one yard and then freezes in place
Another blackberry is ready to eat
White butterfly drunkenly flies in my face.

The last leg's uphill, it's slow going but sweet
Umbrella and cap help to temper the heat.
I practically coast the last few dozen feet:
Left foot. Right foot. If not there yet, repeat.

The house is a haven that always needs work
Our work gives life meaning and fodder for talk
Complaining is free. It's an un-ending perk
A topic for small chat along the long walk.

The leak that I fixed last year's dripping again
I'd call in the plumber, but he must be paid
I'll do what I can just one more time, and then
Next year they can deal with the muddle I made.

This is the year when the porch's damn roof
Must be fixed and fixed well, or we'll lose the whole room
Winter will come, we're not yet water-proof
We ponder our financial peril with gloom.

Solutions don't last, resolutions aren't neat
It isn't an option to shrug that we're beat
So we struggle ahead, not admitting defeat:
Left foot. Right foot. If not there yet, repeat.

The world is a house on the edge of a drop
Some party inside like tomorrow won't come
While others are nervously working up top
Trying to re-roof, for Winter will come.

We work for solutions and think we're ahead
When we've managed to budget for vittles and rent
But our loud, feckless roommates have broken their bed
And accused us of wasting the money they spent.

The going's unsure: slowly gain, quickly lose
The prizes we'd won somehow frittered away.
When we're running ahead, someone's stolen our shoes.
The progress of decades wiped out in a day

The road is uneven, the map's incomplete
And it's rare we can hitchhike or otherwise cheat.
We work through this life with our souls in our feet.

Left foot.
Right foot.
Are we there yet?

Repeat.

 .




I'm not sure if this is finished or not. Watch this space: Changes may take place silently.

the train sonnet

LINES OF INQUIRY

On the streets, our steps make tracks not seen
Above the tracks, long snaking train forms hover
Which show, or would if vision were more keen
Air populated by our breaths o'er ground we cover.

No sage can tell how long these paths remain
Or how much harm they do if two paths cross.
It might fade in an hour, this phantom train,
Or linger for uncalculable loss!

Don't cross those tracks: Your fate may hang upon
Not catching them, so keep your path from theirs.
Though impulse leads you where your friends have gone,
The voice of reason whispers loud: Take cares!

Steer clear those tracks unseen all walkers leave:
Beware the tangled webs our footsteps weave!

kw 20200422 
(posting delayed until today, Shakespeare's putative 456th birthday)

.

sonnet time

COMBINATION LOCK

My home's a safe where I keep safe inside;
Distance and loneness my vault. I guard my skin,
See no one; go nowhere. Here I hide
To help my chance that virus won't creep in.

Millions like me fending for themselves,
Each alone within their self-scribed space,
Must venture now and then to empty shelves
And view a screen to find a friendly face.

One by one, the commons quarantine:
Wash our hands of meetings, lock our doors.
And passers on the street leave space between
Their paths, recalibrating social mores.

I'm know it's right, and still it pangs my heart:
To pull together from so far apart.

Kip W
March 17, 2020

Combination Lock#readasonnet pic.twitter.com/8GFgiX6V2Z

— Kip Williams sort of (@kiptw) March 28, 2020

A Child's Garden of Robots [part 1]

from A CHILD’S GARDEN OF ROBOTS

An Optimal Morning

A robot with a blinking head

Stood beside my trundle bed

Took my vital signs and said

“Normal tolerances read.”

The Little Friend

I have a metal playmate Papa made when I took ill

He fetches things I cannot reach, and brings my morning pill

He tells me what’s on telly, and he wheels me on the green,

And he helps me keep my dining room and playroom good and clean.

When he stands right beside me, he comes just up to my chin,

But he can touch the ceiling when he squeezes himself thin

And he can lift my bed up just by spreading out quite squat

And he can make me go to bed, if I want to or not!

One morning, I woke up before the clock was telling five

And saw him there beside me, very still, his eyes alive.

He tracked each movement that I made, and hummed and clicked inside,

I asked if all was well. "Oh yes," my metal friend replied.

My metal playmate’s my best friend. He's with me every day

He's stood by me, although my other friends have gone away.

My life would be so dull without the truest friend I've seen.

And Papa says he’ll make a girl for me when I’m thirteen!

The Traffic Copper

The robot on the street tells all the autos where to go

And tickets robot cars who drive too quickly or too slow.

It’s terribly observant, and its eyes don’t miss a thing;

Its moves are like a dance so quick it makes you want to sing.

When I start walking 'cross the street, it holds its hand up high

To signal all the robot cars to part and let me by

But if I ask “How do you do?” it never answers back

But gives a friendly little wave to keep me on my track.

I sometimes stand and watch it from the bus stop’s comfy bench.

It’s never tired or angry, and it has no thirst to quench.

It does its job all day without complaining of sore feet.

Why can’t we all be like the shiny robot on the street?

.

The New Ozymandias

.

I met a farer from a far-off strand

Who said, “Two giant feet of bronze, gone green,

In water sit, bedecked with broken chains

That show their maker well did understand

That bonds of former slavery, still seen,

Convey defeated servitude’s remains.

Near by, a broken torch lies, dead and dark

In grimy water’s tide that, fitful, passes,

And on the base, these words my eyes did mark:

‘Give me your tired, your poor, your huddled masses

Yearning to breathe free—’ Here ends the poem,

The rest is swallowed in the rising water.

Along the shore, starved, feral humans roam

Whose brandished weapons offer only slaughter.”

KW 20180310

.

THE PURPLE FRUIT OF OMAR KHAYYAM

Regret! for I, within the dead of Night,

Have eaten Plums you’d saved for your Delight.

 And Lo! away I slink, and leave this note:

So cold were they, so sweet, so right.

Pacing the Kitchen as you slept in Bed

I paused: a Voice within my Stomach said

 “Refresh, my hungry one, and fill me up

Before Life’s Ways leave you too long unfed!”

And, as my Pangs grew, the Voice within me cried,

And yea, it shouted— “Ope thy Fridge Door wide!

 You know which Shelf holds Dish of Tupperware,

And what Delights your tongue shall meet inside.”

Come, fill ye up, then in thy Rapture sweet

A post-Meal Garment of Repentance meet:

 The Owl of Opportunity has but inches

To go—and Lo! rises already to its Feet.

There with a Dish of Plums beside the Stove,

A Glass of Beer, a Magazine—ah, Love!

 By your quiet snoring in the other Room—

The Kitchen was as Heaven far above.

O! my Beloved, fill your Heart with Tears

TO-DAY of my Regrets and guilty Fears—

 TO-MORROW?— Why, To-morrow may not come

And I’d regret those Plums not eaten all my Years.

Ah, drain the Dish:—it foots not to repeat

The Provenance of this or that cool Treat:

 Unpicked LAST WEEK, gone off TO-MORROW,

Why sweat it, if TO-DAY be sweet!

In Vision, by the Westinghouse struck dumb,

Beheld I—in the Dusk a Shape did come,

 Bearing a dish in Angel’s Hands; and

He urged me sample it; and ’twas—a Plum!

The Munching Jawbone chews; and having chawed,

Gulps down: nor all thy Remorse, nor God,

 Shall lure it back to undo half a Bite,

Nor all my Tears wash back a morsel of the wad.

Ah, Light of open’d Door who shine’st e’er bright,

Past Jugs of Milk, they meet my Sight:

 How oft hereafter, rising shall you look
Through this same Fridge for Plums and find—no Bite!

.

way down upon Toon River

Freckles Friendly

A lot of people, when they talk about their life,

Say, “Sure, I did what I did. I had no choice.”

I’m not judging them, but that describes me:

The poor friend of the richest kid on earth!

What else can you do when one family

Owns everything in the county, in the state,

And the pampered heir decides that he

Has to cultivate the poorest of the poor

To show that he has the common touch?

You going to put your foot down, show your pride

And listen to your kid brother cough all night

In the leaky room you share with your folks?

So you listen to his golly-gee platitudes

And you thank him for everything you get,

No matter how trivial or useless it is.

And try your damnedest to save a little,

Shopping at the company store: lotsa luck!

And one day, maybe, you survive it all

And you escape him and go to another state,

Start your own business, and tell folks

That your last name has always been Welloff.

.

Toon River Anthology Excavates Comic Books (continued)

DOROTHY “DOT” POLKA

Names are destiny. You have to choose carefully.

Dad and Mom loved to dance. They were the Polkas!

They thought I’d be a dancer too, but I wasn’t like them.

My aunts thought it would be cute to dress me in dots,

Like my name! I was surrounded by dots as a baby.

I couldn’t get over them. They became my life.

Dots here, Dots there. It drove Dad to distraction,

And Mom eventually left us, crying. She still loved us,

But she couldn't cope with it, and she fled the state.

I hardly noticed when she left. She wasn’t a dot!

Partnerless, Dad soldiered on. When I was fifteen, I had an accident,

Fell off my polka-dot bike, hit my head. I was okay. 

But when I realized that I could see spots, beautiful spots, 

Any time, anywhere, just by hitting myself on the head,
My doom was sealed.

.

Toon River Returns

.

It's been a while, but the epitaphs keep on coming:

RICHARD $ RICH, JR.

I had wealthy friends, but I preferred the poor kids—

Bedraggled ragamuffins with bad hair and no fashion sense. 

How they gaped at my opulence! How they thanked me

For any little crumb of generosity that trickled down.

“Kissing up,” some called it. I learned the term

From our second Cadbury, on his way out: Bitter!

They could have had an easy life if they’d kept to it,

But when their voices changed, so did their tune.

They still thanked me, but there was some edge to it

That I couldn’t abide. They thought they were entitled!

It wasn’t enough that I let them ride my golden wagon

Down a hill of gold coins and jewels any more. No,

They betrayed my trust. Small gems “accidentally” stuck 

In a shoe or a ragged pants cuff. Dishonest!

I might have even let that go unpunished, if it hadn’t been

For their miserable attitudes. Oh, we’re so poor. We’re so cold.

Our mom is so sick. Our dad got laid off at your plant.

Can’t you do something? You were our friend!

What do you mean “were,” you ingrates?

I sent them away. No sense of respect. Sad!

Who needs them? I have this huge mausoleum now:

A solid gold statue of myself by the best artist,

And my personal police force to keep out the riff-raff.

.

Oi! Post number 100. Some people get to 100 in a month. It took me about nine years. We'll see how long it takes to get to 100 comments—presently at 59, and half those are me answering back.
.

THE KITTY KATS' BARBECUE

.

Little mice, trussed up so nice, 

Are roasting on the grill.

Oh! what fun when they are done, 

For kats to eat their fill!

All the kitty kats are there, 

For it’s their special day.

With vim and pep they prance and step. 

They love to romp and play.

As kittens sport, their mothers set 

A ribbon at each place.

Each momma kat makes certain that 

Each youngster combs its face.

A baby birdie shivers on 

Each gaily colored plate,

And though the maws say, “Wash your paws!”, 

The wee ones cannot wait!

"Oh, listen to their frightened cries
Whenever we come near!
See them roll their tiny eyes
And see them quake with fear!

“Oh, let us have one, Daddy dear, 

To tease and fill with fright!”

“I am too lenient, I fear,” 

Says Poppa, “But, all right.”

Once Grace is said, the forks come out. 

The feasting shan’t be through

Till every feline’s had his fill 

Of birdie barbecue!

And home they troop, to doze all day, 

In Dreamland to arrive.

How grand to be a kitty kat! 

How great to be alive!

(Originally ca 1981. Started by Ken D., finished by Kip W. Reconstructed from incomplete memories, 2016; found an original, kept some changes)

.

Tr**s

.
I think that I shall never see
A pervert sicker than a tree.

A tree that squats on Nature's breast
And spews its seed upon her chest.

A tree that, feeling urges yearly,
Shows its gaudy gonads clearly.

A tree that sprays the air with pollen
Ere its rotting fruits have fallen.

Caring not for you or me,
It sheds its waste for all to see.

Just lock me up in Cell Block C
When I am filthy as a tree!
.

Our New Colossus

.
A gigantic, bronzed statue of a dame,
Gleaming limbs 'neath 'lectric sunlamp tanned;
Below yon giant lamppost, see her stand—
This brazen woman sings her song of flame.
She gestures, having turned from early fame
To spurn unshelter'd poor. Now her hand
Waves them off with heavy book of Rand;
Thro' painted lashes seeks she fitter game.
“Keep your poor and tired trash,” calls she
With ruby'd lips, “Send me your rich, your white
Your lucky heirs, who scheme to live tax-free;
The wretched I refuse—my legal right!
Outsourcing, open-handed men for me—
Above my door I shine the scarlet light!”
.

[line 8 tweaked 15 Feb 2015]

baboon river anthology?

.
This has been festering in my head for a while.

THE OLD COLOSSUS

I met a human from a time-lost land
Who said: “A woman, bronze, with diadem
Sits broken, buried slantwise in the sand,
Her legs and trunk are gone: no sign of them.
A head remains, two shoulders, arm and hand,
A torch, long dead, and one piece yet beside,
A copper plaque in whose impassioned plea,
Corroded words bade weary travelers bide.
I traced their meaning; not an easy chore:
‘Give me your masses, yearning to breathe free…
I lift my lamp beside the golden door!’
My horse browsed nigh; the witness to my yell:
You blew it up! Curse you forevermore!
Mad, hairless apes! God damn you all to hell!”
.

Toon River Anthology continues

It's a long one this time!

.

ALEXANDER BUMSTEAD

No disrespect to Dad, of course, but I never really understood

Why Mom insisted on combing my hair in just that particular way

With those little ‘dags’ always sticking out on the sides. 

The lookalike thing was fun when I was little, but as I grew up,

I wanted to be myself, to be my own man. I asked to change it

When I was sixteen, but she got around me just as easily

As she always got around him. The hair stayed as it was.

I even kept wearing those one-button shirts, just like his.

Years passed. After Dad died, I finally ventured out

And found a college 300 miles away — close enough

For visits, but far enough that I felt independent, able

To make my own decisions and, more importantly,

To make myself something other than a living memorial

To my father. The barber I chose said he’d never seen a cut like it.

I told him to take a picture, because it would soon be gone.

He trimmed it down into a generic cut that I picked

From the poster by his mirror. He chatted away as he cut.

I mumbled assent occasionally, thinking of my new, different life.

For me, the cut symbolized everything regrettable about Dad:

Eccentric, almost willfully so; sticking out inconveniently, 

Yet docile, deferential, even kind of dumb. I was done with it.

The barber brushed and patted and sprayed it with something,

And told me I looked great. In the mirror sat the new man,

Moving when I moved, standing when I stood, brow furrowing

At the exact moment that something looked unsettlingly familiar.

The shop faded away, leaving only me and the staring stranger.

I pushed my hair to the right. He pushed his to the left. I pushed mine back,

As did he. My heart thumped, and I wished I had a sandwich.

For no reason I know, I was holding the barber’s skinny comb.

My hand moved, held it under my nose, not unlike a mustache,

And I knew. I knew him then. I knew myself, and I knew why Mom

Spent all those mornings brushing and combing and spraying my hair

To avoid this moment: The man in the mirror could be none other

Than Mr. Woodley — Herb Woodley, from next door. Dad’s best friend

Who’d died in retirement, down in Florida. The resemblance was clear.

The intolerable moment passed. The barber was still talking. I settled and left.

For the next while, I kept to my room until it was long enough

To restore the way I’d always looked. Well, I stayed in college two years —

Enough to learn I was no office worker; I ended up becoming a mailman.

.

toon river anthology strikes again

RIP HAYWIRE

Sweet Mother Macreedy! I hate to disappoint you,

But if you’re here for a tearful admission 

Of my gnawing fears and secret doubts, or

An ironically revealing origin story, or perhaps

The news that I was put here by the betrayal

Of a colleague or a loved one —

My dog, maybe — then you’re out of luck.

Dead? No way! I don’t know what this is about, but

It sure as hello kitty isn’t my grave or my stone.

Death is for saps and sidekicks. No sirree Bob,

I’m not under this dumb rock. I’m somewhere else,

Sticking my neck out, enjoying an honest rhubarb.

This? This is a dream, or some imaginary story,

Maybe even a sinister plot by my enemies

Meant to fool someone or other. Happens every day.

Heroes don’t die. Anyone with the common sense of a flapjack

Would know that. Scrambooch, buster,

And save your flowers for somebody who needs 'em.

still more toon river anthology

.
DAGWOOD BUMSTEAD

Dithers came at me with the ash tray. I ran, of course.
One minute, I was tossing paper airplanes with Crane in Payroll,
And the next, the boss was screaming about the Stevens account
(Which, for reasons beyond my understanding, flew remarkably well)
And the old man went completely ape. Well, I’d seen him like that,
So I ran for the elevator, which closed in my face as usual.
With practiced grace, I pirouetted past him toward the break room,
Trying to put the table between us, but he flung it aside and kept coming.
Long years of running had taught me to head for his office:
Sometimes Cora was there, and he always stopped when he saw her.
This time she wasn’t, so my only recourse was the window.
Hoping to get out on the ledge. The old boy hated heights,
So usually he’d just throw things at me and curse till he calmed down,
But before I could get my footing, he was striking at me,
Red-faced, panting and shaking. I slipped, whirled, and grabbed the sill.
In half a second, he was banging away at my fingers with the ash tray.
When he lost his hold on that, I thought we were done, but he resumed
With his putter. Up to now, there was nothing new about any of this,
But this time, he kept hitting. He screamed. I screamed. I was losing my hold
On the sill, and still he kept hitting. My fingers were bleeding
And my attempts to keep a purchase on the wood only resulted
In trying to cling to a surface slick with blood. That couldn’t last.
When I fell, I was dimly aware that my hands were hurting a bit less
And that Mr. Dithers was still yelling, brandishing the club like a Zulu,
His face getting smaller and smaller as the buildings seemed
To crowd together, as if to witness my descent.
The last thing I remember was my own feeling of surprise
About life, the boss, and the Stevens account. Well.
How was I to know the old man was really mad?
.

solution

.

The dam of silence burdens us too hard
Behind our brow, the pressure's far too high
The hand we hold leaves us no other card,
So come; the weight's too much. It's time to cry.

We're all alone. No one will mock our sobs
We'll prime the pump with brine, our eyelids pursed
The others all are busy at their jobs
And won't be here to see us at our worst.

We pray our brain's endorphins buy some peace
Two ducts purr like a cat behind our eyes
Too much to hope our cares might really cease
But, for a time, the hard lump liquefies.

The silent burden won't be eased by sleep
The load's too great, so come: It's time to weep.

.

revised Feb 2020 (line order changed for a contest; third place!)

Toon River Anthology continues

DENNIS MITCHELL

How does it happen that Mr. Wilson outlived me?

I was young, with decades yet to go,

And I reminded him of it every day,

Sometimes loudly playing games to point up the age gap

Or by frequently speculating on just how ancient he was.

One giddy time, I yelled across the fence

That when I reached half his age, he’d be long gone.

I could see the red run up his neck 

Like Mrs. Dowd’s ol’ cat skinning up her elm tree to avoid a rock.

That changed him. He stopped yelling, stopped cursing,

Stopped trying to keep me out of his house.

He got friendly with me, gave me presents,

Like his old Boy Scout knife, lawn darts, a Zippo lighter.

He convinced Dad I was ready for a two-wheeler,

And later showed me how he could ride with one hand—

No hands! Who knew? All it took, he said, was practice.

When our other neighbor’s moving van backed over me practicing,

Good ol’ Mr. Wilson was first on the scene. Insisted on carrying me in.

The last thing I remember was him murmuring “sleep quietly,”

With a look of mild regret on his saggy, bulbous old features.

.