The feds are making headway
(generously passing out their treats!)
while the whistle blower
and his boon companion
hit the 22nd floor
fiscal plans
are tidily falling into place
and the suits are all busy
chasing their dimes
dancing around the spire
full of wine and cheer
(seems the demand side imbalance
has got everyone doing the same old shimmy!)

they’re all studying their bollinger bands
MACD's, and treasuries
just like the good old days
santali would say
while capitol hill is busy
with its own pleasantries;
repatriate that currency
hold those rates
bring the boys back home!
the affirmations are robust
and filled with glee!

conspiracy thinkers
are busy in their own back rooms
initiating the trade
and building their counter claims
as pork bellies
and soybeans
continue to soar
(looks like eddy and the margin men
are at it again!)

what happened to that bear masquerade anyways?
they really were a band of brothers
colourful clowns
with big painted smiles
ready to lead in any parade
but they met with the resistance
a horned wall
satan’s horsemen riding high
with bags hung heavy
under dark squinting eyes

are we near an end?
the undertakers will say
it's only a blink of an eye
to the thin red line
where risk takers and front men
all jump ship
debt addiction is crippling
and hell breaks loose
when entitlements are out
and towels are thrown in

there’s a center piece here
those pugnacious statesmen
with invigorating tales
have had their place
time to clip them at the limbs
and pull the punch from the bowl
(sobriety has its merits you know!)
let’s head to the commission
and throw darts to the board ~
seems the moral blueprints are fading

Dusk is dull and gray
but the poet
will not break
his addictive trance.

It is not a romantic dance
of swirling fools
twirling to
a concerto
we all knew,

but a dangerous stream
going full steam,
a watery dream
of the unseen
unconscious
activity,

pushing and pulling.
Till, he stumbles, drooling
like a mewling fool
not controlling
his roving mind
but being moved
with its rapid taps.

His words are marked
with a metronomic beat.
His face is flushed
with the rushing heat,
a side-effect
of his anxiously
overactive mind.

Pushing well beyond
his normal bedtime
he writes
like a recovering
word addict
who he has relapsed.

I wake in tears.
My heart is a scarlet mess,
broken sutures,
split stiches,
torn incisions
not from surgery,
but from the
precise pain
of losing someone
and remembering
said loss
when I awake.

What doe dared dart
from the dark heart
of those grievously green
bushes we have seen,
jumping quickly
with an urgent need
to escape those strangers
who might impede
this deer’s dear
but queer traveling.

I had barely time
to see its brown coat
or the white spots
that rode up
to its beautiful throat
as an arrow pierced
it’s perfectly pristine pelt.

Blood bubbled bulging from
its big neck
as the doe tried to escape
into the night.
Now, I try to
only recall
the beautiful parts
of this sight,
but the deer slipped
on the wet grass
tripped and fell to fast
as it gasped for its last
obstructed breath.

Until, sweet venison
met its death
and though I feel bad
the meat was
the best I ever had.

Barely beyond seven years,
I was a small brown-haired boy
biking in a small town.
Till, I found
a little feisty dog
angrily yapping
and snapping
at me
when I tried to be friendly.

Older by three or four years,
walking out of the housing
down alleyways
on my way to school.
Till, I met a big dumb dog,
friendly enough
and playful to boot,
just a little too rough
as it nibbled at my shoe,
then tugged at my pants.
It would not let me get away
scraping my legs
and making me late to school.

Almost thirty
working at Diary Queen,
dating some creepy girl
who was really mean,
and had a pit.
Poor dog had been abused,
kind of aggressive
when it wanted attention,
kind of dangerous
if you had your hands up,
bit and scratched me
a little too much
playing just a little too rough.

He was slow and slurred
in a stupidly stumped stupor
and in my naivete
I cared for him
because of my innate
sense of sympathy.
Until, the thieving
and harassment
finally took me
to the limits
of my patience.

It is a cold-hearted comparison
but I liked those dangerous dogs
more than that **** and ******
addict.

the Geese have much to say these days
their voices travel across the field from the shore
- their roosting spot they return to each evening.
Geese mate for life, and stay in family groups
you can have grandma and all the children
from several generations, all talking at once.
They have a lot to say, and I wonder,
do they discuss global warming? the coming
Winter? the Summer just gone? The aunt
they lost to last Christmas?

FIRST:  the poem which inspired...oh, yes, laugh--it's reminiscent of, of, would that be the old "the house that jack built"? ie, Joshua Amos Graff/aka Graff1980's poem--

Graff1980
4h@18:04, 29Oct17
Untitled

The phone store
is closed,
but I can still see
the sharp blue glow
of those
bright screens
blinking out at me
from the window
to the streets
where I am walking slowly.
https://hellopoetry.com/poem/2187429/untitled/

SECOND:  the comment his poem inspired and which he too generously told me I "should post."--

[He said Jenny Williams]--Like a ghost none sees, catching the lurid eye of those eyeless windows to the black hole of an eerie yonder, the speaker treads as if slippered through the darkness which itself is alive and aware, the scene commonplace, yet rendered thus with a poignant ghastliness, a delicacy. Thank you for sharing.

THIRD:  the sonnet which I told him I'd endeavour to compose from that same comment, yet which is a frustrating reminder why as Stella Armour was it? told me years ago she did NOT want to force thoughts into sonnets, and I heartily concur:  I'd far rather pour the unformed thought into that "most exquisite form of poetry" than try to squeeze a complete thought into that "gilded cage"--

...for Joshua Amos Graff's poem--



(sonnet #MMMMMMDCCXXII)


Likeas a ghost none sees where streetlamps fence
The blacker shroud of night, how in betrayl
'Non catching lo, the lurid eye's detail
Of those more eyeless windows harking thence
Unto the black hole of an eerie sense
Of yonder, how you tread as if t'avail
Now slippered through the darkness which in pale
'Scuse ah, itself's alive and 'ware.  What hence?
You only put down for the page as twere
That lonely walk through naked streets left to
None else.  Yet where dead cellphones look in poor
Excuse out, la, you render thus anew
What's common, but whose ghastliness in tour
Is poignant, delcacies I cherish.  You?

29Oct17a