Super-Sized Series

 Alphabet poems inspired by Barbara Crooker

https://kennethsalzmann.substack.com/p/the-recent-widow-considers-the-alphabet

 

Photo by j.lewis

 

used car blues by j.lewis

after the trip to sacramento to
buy an "affordable" used
car, after the careful research my
daughter had done, we found
exactly what she needed
for a price that seemed to be
good enough to be true.
how could we know about
issues with that model's
jittery transmission? or
know about the dozen
little problems that arose later
making the purchase
not worth the price?
ordinarily, i would scream
pressure, harass, and raise
quite a ruckus with
robert or rosa, whoever it was that
sold us the car and then
try to get some money back.
unfortunately, it was bought "as is"
verified by the bill of sale
which left me feeling much less
xenial than is my norm
yacking my head off with
zero chance of satisfaction.
 

 

Mary Starbuck’s Letter by Wilda Morris

April 25th, Dear Husband, Each day our
Boy eats his porridge, then insists I take him to the
crest of the Hill to look for the Pequod’s sails. He
drops his toy ship & jumps up & down
each time he sees a Mast, sure his
father has returned. While you’re at sea, he
grows so fast—he’s learned much & now asks to
hear the fates of Captains & first mates. He’s 2
inches taller than when you left & says he will                          
join a whaling crew when he’s a man so he can
kill Whales just like his papa. Every night we reread the
letter The Bachelor delivered. I’ll endeavor to start
my garden plot before the weather’s hot.
Nothing fills the time so well as to plant & weed
onions, potatoes, corn & lettuce seed. The beach
plum’s in bud & the birds are no longer
quiet, so I know ‘tis spring. Piping plovers
ran across the sand above the tideline today. I
sent Maid to buy Sea Beans & cod. She cooked chowder
tonight. Our Boy had a headache. He was
unhappy and ate little. When I put him to bed, I told him your
voyage should end soon. I went outside so I could listen to
waves and see the lighthouse. I so want to know
‘xactly where in the ocean you are, Husband, & when
you’re coming back. I pray that before the rockrose blooms a
Zephyr will bring you safely home. Your loving wife, Mary

 

Under the Microscope by Tina Hacker
 
Above, the eye,
below,
cells combining,
dodging, dividing
energy of earth’s
forces both
grand and
humble
in vitro,
just beginnings,
kismet of
life in
merging  
nature,
of
planned or unplanned events,
quiet, unassuming,
rising,
swelling history’s story
told and retold,
unknown and unknowable,
valued or hated with passion,
weak or strong, an
X in a box of questions,
yes or no answers,
perhaps the emergence of
zero at the apex of life.

 

 

D Is for Dance by Alarie Tennille

About the time I could walk
Bolt upright without
Clinging to a rail, Mama said, “Let’s
Dance!” Beginning with a polka –
Enough like skipping to be
Fun. Step, step, bounce…step, step, bounce.
Galloping around the living room,
Hopping to the beat.
I didn’t know grown ups had so much fun!
Jitterbug, Samba, Fox Trot, Waltz.
Kids don’t know what they’re missing, but
Looking at American Bandstand, I realize
Mama doesn’t know every dance.
Now I have moves to teach her.
On TV I enter the world of teens.
Paul Anka, the Righteous Brothers, Chubby Checker.
Quickly I learn to love music Mama calls
“Racket.” The Twist, Watusi, Jerk, and
Swim. My childhood speeds
Through music ahead of my
Undeveloped body. At school, the
Virginia Reel tries to hold me back 200 years.
Wishing for white go-go boots I never get –
eXtravagant says Mama.
“You should go outside, run around the yard.
Zorro needs your help!”

Poets note: FYI, when I say “entering the world of teens,” I was only five years old, and American Bandstand was still filmed in Philadelphia in black and white. I asked for the Everly Brothers’ "Dream, Dream, Dream” and “The Witch Doctor” by David Seville for my sixth birthday.

First published in Waking on the Moon     

 

 

A Cicada Corresponds by Mike Orlock

About this, then, this callithumpian cacophony associated with our unsurprising return: Believe what you will, but our steady ascent from the shallow depths of your yards isn’t some trick of black magic. Cicadas are real as rutabagas, my friends, and we have been waiting up to seventeen years to revel in these daylight sights and soar! Don’t begrudge us our few fleeting moments of sun and serendipity. Every one of us only wants what you and everything else wants: Freedom to mingle and meet. Granted, the displays of affection we exhibit publicly might shock the sensibilities of those of you who prefer your courting rituals discreet. However, our biological clocks are counting down double time and we have to cut to copulation without the customary chase. If we don’t mate within a fortnight, we don’t get to propagate. Just look away if all our conjugal cavorting embarrasses you. Keep in mind that your romantic conceits seem pretty bizarre to us, too. (Lucky we only get the occasional glimpse buzzing by an open window or two.) Most of us are too busy living to pass judgment on what others choose to do, anyway. None of our business on the wing, so to speak. Our time is consumed by other concerns. Partaking in lawn parties and hanging out in trees—while avoiding getting devoured by all manner of avian nightmares known to nature—is more our thing. Quotidian encounters with automobiles, especially those nasty windshields, are a bit more pressing on the typical cicada’s mind than what the neighbors might be thinking of what we might be doing, so it’s not like we have a lot of free time to waste on introspection. Retrospection, either, not when six lousy weeks is all we get for seventeen years’ worth of dedicated root work! Sometimes I think I should have been a slug slithering through the soil of sodden gardens...Trying to make sense of a world where everything is senselessly confusing is enough to drive me buggy, forgive the pun. Until such time we cicadas are welcome without prejudice and revulsion, we will keep our own society, thank you, singing to each other for fun. Violent death will not deter us. Wanton deforestation will never discourage us. Xenophobia, I am afraid, is your problem, not ours. You can’t avoid us any more than we can avoid this simple fact: Zoology is destiny, and destiny is fate, so let’s learn to accept each other in this world before it’s too late.

 

 

 Held Hostage by Rachael Ikins

A golf course ranger will spread poison
by Tuesday. Lawns will sprout small yellow flags
cautioning dogs not to tread,  24 hours.
Deluge, rain,
Escalating downhill potassium, cyanide, used condoms,
Four mini liquor bottles, plastic grocery bags sluice into the pond.

Great blue heron fishes Sunday.
He stands between a plastic milk jug and a bag.
I wonder how frogs, ducks their freight of eight babies
jostling mother’s back, water snakes, the giant
koi submariners that eat algae survive?

Lull. A hummingbird hovers before the fountain,
Making up its mind.
Nods head, stabs into that flow.
Our resident tree toad trills.

Possibly Iran has a bomb,
Quickening travelers in
record numbers the coming weekend.
Sure as the face before you, overheating the atmosphere
Tender peony petals
Unfurl fists,
Veer sideways, sun chasers. Everything,
We are all hostages


Exclaiming, “Let me live, please!!”
Yes yes,
Zipping the body bags until they run out.

Art Teacher Answers the Phone—Listening in to Her Side of the Call by Joan Leotta

Already finished and want to bring it over today?  Be sure you have truly finished before handing in your project. Canvas should be dry. Don’t give me that snide chuckle, young lady! Extra points taken off if your work smears all over me, understand? Folded, what do you mean you folded it?  Good idea for transporting maybe, but folding might smear it. Have you considered that? I don’t think I heard what you just said. Japanese influence? Kintsugi or did you say kinetic? Look, I don’t think we are communicating. Maybe you should just let your project dry for a day. No need to hand it in so very early, but yes do deliver it in person……. Origami, you say, not kintsugi, not block print, not painting? Paper folding! Quite a fun craft for a child, I think, but I don’t see it as art. Really, a compilation of folded paper is  what you are turning in as your final project? So, simply said, I have to agree that the rules did not specify the type of art, but I’m not sure about… Today is only one day into the allotted week, so you still have time to shift to a new project…. Under the rules, yes I have to agree, sculpture is allowed, but paper as sculpture…..not sure about that…… Very true, nothing was written in my list of rules about the type of material that could be used in anyone’s project. When you say you made a collection of small paper sculptures and combined them into one piece, what do you mean? Xact explanation please. You need to convince me that your suspended  kinetic collection of folded paper animals is art…………”.Zooscape in the Wind?” Zippy name-- bring it over, I’ll take a look.

Librarian Abecedarian by Mary Ellen Talley

Awkward, this burst of anger
brought on by a sophomoric
challenge to an adolescent’s ego-fisted
dignity and bottled-up frustration.
Even three feet of beige tape in the high school hallway
fails to camouflage the damage—
giant hole the insulted teen punched in a wall.     
However, hell hath no fury clever as a mindful
intervention, the school librarian—
jury-rigging a Gandhi wall so nonviolent words become  
keys of peace—affirmations to make passing teens think, not
laugh, when the drywall man arrives to
manage, patch, and paint site of the tidal tsunami.
Notice the waves of impulse from the student,
only a few birthdays away from learning to back off.
Probably, he’ll mellow with age,
question misjudgments, learn negotiation, drop
revenge, and consider what to model for his future   
sons or daughters—although today’s slammed fist becomes    
temporary heroism.     Gandhi said it’s
unwise to be too sure of one’s wisdom or misuse strength for
violence.     The seasoned librarian knows waves of conflict
will continue to erode civil shores.     No motivational
x-ray predicted the student’s adrenaline surge.     Fortunately,      
youth’s bruised knuckles will calm between storms—while time
zeros in as the principal awaits an apology.  

Jump Rope Champions by Fran Abrams

“A is for applesauce,”
both girls called out.
“Criss cross applesauce,” they shouted as they jumped
Double Dutch on two jump ropes, a trick
every other girl on the team had
failed to conquer.
“Go again, go again,” the other girls yelled, then
hushed as they watched the
impossibly tricky
jumps. The two girls
kicked their feet high,
legs bent at just the right
moment to miss the spinning ropes.
“Nice job, girls,”
opined their coach, “I’m
proud of you for being such
quick learners.
Rest now and get ready to
skip rope
tomorrow to make
us the undefeated champions of
Valley View High.
Win tomorrow and you’ll be
xtra special
young women
zapping all the competition.”

School for Girls Who Shouldn’t Trust by Luane Castle

Arithmetic and grammar aren’t enough.
Better add subjects like wolf identification,
chemistry of the pack, and bestiary analysis.
Don’t keep them too isolated or the eventual
effect will be post-parochial syndrome.
Fools need classes. So do the so-called smart
girls who answer long equations on the board.
How do they know not to trust their hearts
if they aren’t warned by books and teachers?
Just kneel them down to check their hems,
keep their thighs covered, their minds intent.
Let them learn karate and debate to live with
men and beasts without damage or regret.
Nobody warns them about the animal calls
or sighs that susurrate through the drainpipes.
Poor things, the crone teachers croon alone.
Quite early, while still young, before adults
realize, hunger will feed on empty bodies as
sleep covers them with an erroneous grace.
To send them out in the midst of this process
unravels their studies, leaves them naked
vessels of prism-burst translucence
without the skills of relational interpretation.
XO they sign notes to any mysterious anyone.
Yet in this school girls must learn that
zing goes the strings of their very selves.

From Our Wolves, First Runner-up for the Eric Hoffer award     

Sex Education for Mom by Sharon Waller Knutson

Abstinence is the answer, she tells her newlywed 19-year-old brother, when he says he doesn’t want children until he finishes college. Birth control is better, I say. Condoms can spring holes, she says. Don’t talk like that in front of Mom, he says.  Every one of her kids was conceived using birth control she admits. Face flushed, he laughs. Geeze, way too much information. He takes a drink of soda. I am thrilled they are confiding in me. Just don’t tell my wife, he says. Keeping secrets is no way to start a marriage, I say. Laugh because I can’t picture my babies being married and having sex. Marriages are filled with secrets, she says. Not long marriages, I say. Open the car window, he says. Puts his head out, inhales a deep breath of fresh air. Questions his sister. Really are you not having sex? Second marriage with no children. That’s none of your business, she says. Upsetting your sister is not going to resolve the problem, I say putting back on my mom hat. Vehemently denying he was doing that, he says he won’t give up sex. We don’t have sex, she admits because she doesn’t want any more children. Xing out this entire conversation in my head, I make up an excuse to drop them off. Your dad needs the car, I say. Zero tolerance for confrontation, they get out of the car and wave goodbye.

Now Barbara Crooker challenges us to write a poem using the alphabet frontwards and backwards.

ALPHA/OMEGA: A DOUBLE HELIX by Barbara Crooker

Alter my heart, or should it be altar it?  Is this a quiz?
     Zero at the bone wrote Miss Emily, as she penned a
bunch of poems, then put them in her trunk.  Today
     you can recognize her genius, but they were numb,
couldn’t see it for the words.  Women, the fairer sex,
     x cetera, were only meant for the domestic
daily grind.  Step outside the lines, and pow!
     Won’t just everybody shun you?  But did
Emily care?  It’s not like she was yearning to be on TV,
     video, or even the stage.  She had time
for dreaming, up in her room, didn’t need a guru
     until the world intruded.  Enter the pasty-faced minister of
God’s holy house, the white church down the street
     that wanted her on the hard pew, what a drag.
How did love your neighbor come to this:
     Sunday morning’s slow march,
itchy clothing, endless sermons, torpor
     rendering us insensible.  I
just don’t think it’s what God had in mind, the ps and qs
     quietly morphing into zs.  Even the Muslim hajj
kicks more butt than this circumstance and pomp
     putting the congregation to sleep.  Seek
love where you can find it should be the motto,
     or else you risk losing your soul.
Maybe Jesus had a better plan.
     No more hate, no more wars, and sure, use a condom.
Never mind the liturgy, the organ’s sonorous hum,
     move in your seat if you feel the rhythm low down,
or groove on the trumpet’s blare, the drum’s roll.
     Love one another is the only credo.
Politics, environment, chastity:  a mixed up shtick
     keeping you from listening up.
Quiet, hush, says the Librarian.  Rock on goes the DJ,
     jump, jive and wail.  Your IQ,
running to high numbers, isn’t going to save you.  I
     italicize every word that’s important.  Our
souls continue their wayward search.
     Happiness?  Riches?  Success?
The secret could be as simple as bootleg
     Gucci stonewashed jeans.  Or it might not.
Up til now I thought it might be a Hèrmes scarf,
     foulard, loosely knotted in a drop-dead manner.  You
very well might admit this.  Women know we
    exist, if we shop.  So cut me up with a shiv.
Wash my feet, pour something sweet on them, like nard.
     Deny you know me, three times.  The cock’s crow.
Xray my heart, is the blood still pumping, frantic,
     coursing, lub dub, lub dub?  Remix
your tapes, turn up the woofers, let it throb,
     blast, make the angels shake their celestial booty.
Zero in on what’s important.  Be bop a looma
     a love bam boom, alter or altar, all that jazz.

From Les Fauves (C&R Press)