The Writing Lion,
who is creative,
bold and fearless,
strides the jungle path
of poems, eager to eat,
ready to sink his teeth
into the meat of
a good metaphor.
Behind him, Dog
holds the pen ready
for Lion when he tears
into the main courses
which, naturally,
will be verses.
The British bulldog who once helped Britannia rule the waves
Holds high with honor the Queen of Pens in all her pearly blaze
Splendid, as she is, all trimmed in gold and stolen from India.
In regal glory (and with a consort or two) the Queen rules, then,
o’er her court of princess pens: blacks, browns, reds and greens.
And when she says, “Girls, let’s uncap ourselves
and write a story!” The princess pens all clap with glee
and begin the hunt for metaphors and allegories.
(14th Street, Omaha, Nebraska)
Old Leo, it’s always good to see you
no matter the time of day or season
I enjoy staring at your regal bearing
as you guard your spot on this empty lot.
You sit alone and I, your kindred spirit,
walk alone, sometimes stopping by
to see if you have anything to say.
I believe you must, for I look at you
in all your kingly glory and think
“I’ll bet that fellow has a story!”
Your furrowed brow bears marks
earned from years of wisdom; therefore
I beg you, Sir Leo, share your vision.
But what worries you so? You look inward.
Something you forgot? Did a bad thought
get caught in one of your regal dreadlocks?
You big cat. What happened to your passion?
I’m certain in your day you were quite dashing.
Shouldn’t you be out romping and roaring
all over the savannah, humping lionesses
and tearing into those damn hyenas, then
ending such pleasure with a royal snooze?
That’s the path I’d choose if I were a lion
like you. Wait. Don’t tell me. Those days.
Not over for you, are they? Oh my gosh!
They are, aren’t they? Caught up in a coup,
chased off by a younger version of you.
Your days of roaring decidedly through.
Now I know what makes you blue.
You’re a deposed lion, aren’t you?
Friend, we can’t break bread. You’re stone
and can’t eat. No worries. I’ll sit. We can
share stories, enjoy a mental feast instead.
And if it’s tears you want to shed, we can
get to crying. For I, too, am a deposed lion.
#Omaha #poetry Ganja-tales.com
Friends, amigos, Freunde! Sorry for the absence. I got manic in August and poetry took over. Seriously. And I do mean took over. Sometimes four a day. It was so bad, one night I was leaving my son’s place and he said: “Damn, dad, the Muse is raping you.”
The next morning I wrote a poem about “My Muse.” And you know, some people say: “Poetry?”
And I reply “Well . . . yeah.”
Did you know in forty years of writing I’ve been a military journalist, a city hall reporter, a news service editor, a magazine feature writer and college writing instructor? I’ve written a volume of short stories (Ganja Tales); a novel I couldn’t sell (“Free Fall”) and three marijuana screenplays (I’m trying to sell): Ganja Tales, Southern Bud and The Osipenko File.
Now poetry.
Thus, you can see I’m a writing fool. Not too many of me left around. This statement leads me, in effect, back to my topic, which is: What’s your blog about, Craig?
Hell, I don’t know! Stuff. Stuff you like to read; stuff I like to write for you. Things that hit home.
Truths others avoid. A sense of humor through all the pain. Kind, like you I bet. Because we’re all living the same life, breathing the same air, hurting over the same things; we’re all just loving and crying; living and dying, winning and losing and trying to keep going. So yeah, plenty to write about there!
Thanks again for reading. Your eyes are worth more than money to me.
