Category: Poetry

Forcing a Poem

Posted on by Joel D Canfield

I’m going to paste a list of words that rhyme with “tired”, then fill in words ahead of each to make the worst poem you’ve read today. It probably helps to read it aloud, getting faster and louder with each line.

attitude hardwired
bedraggled and perspired
bit of peace acquired
can anguish be retired
can brains be rewired
each tower neatly spired
efforts all backfired
how my brain is wired
I am so very tired
little thought required
much to be desired
my synapses misfired
my two minds conspired
no success admired
pretend to be inspired
quietly inquired
whatever transpired
unwilling uninspired

The Engineer’s Funeral

Posted on by Joel D Canfield

when we’re told to look to the ant
it is because they are industrious
not because they are smart
consider: if a shoe the size of a Lincoln Continental smooshed a guy down the street, would you rush down so you could be next?

even their industriousness is shaded
and I mean no disrespect, because they do indeed get things done
you can, when you never sleep
your whole life
at all
not to mention your 99,999 brothers and sisters and aunts and uncles and cousins once twice thrice removed
because that is a lot of sleepless doing of stuff
but if two of you grab the same twig
and then head in opposite directions
because, you know, the “no leader” thing
you might be observed in a certain laboratory playing tug of war for two weeks
two
weeks
and that twig could have sprouted roots for all the progress you’ve made

there is a chap who finds empty nests
of the ant kind
and fills them with aluminum
of the molten kind
and then
dig dig dig
flip brush wash
and mount
you have a monument in aluminum to the engineering prowess of a tiny chap and his extended family who still don’t have the sense to avoid their third cousin’s funeral

A Reading on Reading

Posted on by Joel D Canfield

have you heard the sad fact
that after school most people never read another book?
this is confusing to me
are they too busy? too tired? did they forget how?
it isn’t a lack of great books
I read a new one every year, another weighty tome filled with deathless prose that makes me feel and makes me see things differently, changes my perspective, changes me
and who’s too busy for that?

maybe they don’t want to change
and I get it
because I didn’t either, until I did
it’s inertia, that thing Newton described, that a person without direction will remain directionless, a resister of change will resist until resistance is not futile but painful
because they say we only change when the pain of change is less than the pain of staying the same
and that’s sad, too, if you only change to change the pain
and I know pain can make you tired but never be too tired to move away from pain and what if a book will change you without pain, did you consider that?

but I don’t think they know about the change thing, so it must be that they’ve forgotten how
forgotten how to slip between the covers of a gentleman in Moscow, how to go back to 11.22.63, where to hunt for Red October or ditch the big sleep and be gone with the wind
or they’ve mislaid the memory of saying goodnight moon with a hungry caterpillar and a purple crayon where those wild things weave a web and cats wear hats and hop on who knows who
or maybe they never knew about how the pigeon found that hot dog and why he shouldn’t drive the bus, why Anne must be spelled with an e, how the wind sounds in the willows or how to find where the sidewalk ends

but if a little engine could, even after a terrible horrible no good very bad day
maybe we can teach them again
and they’ll remember that reading doesn’t hurt, it heals
and after the initial inertia instead of resistance we’ll have more readers
and the readers’ kids will be readers
like yours
and like mine
like you
and me
and wouldn’t that be splendid?

Dry Heat

Posted on by Joel D Canfield

at least it’s a dry heat

crematoriums, or would it be crematoria?
they use dry heat

so does the oven in the kitchen
unless you’re using bain marie
which is French for boiled with wet air
a common cause of insanity and death in east Texas

fire
fire is as dry as heat gets
but we don’t want first responders to say “at least it’s a dry fire”
at least it’s a dry fire

that frying pan you left on the stove top after you rinsed it
when you remembered it and took it off the burner and you forgot how long it had been on so you didn’t use a potholder
that’s a dry heat

in Seattle
or San Francisco
or Milwaukee
they don’t say, when it rains, “at least it’s a cool wet”
it doesn’t help
thank you
thank you very much for reminding me that instead of being cold and wet, I could be hot and wet
because knowing things could be worse always makes the pain go away
worse things happen at sea
possibly to children starving in China
I don’t know
but I still won’t eat liver
so don’t tell me they’re hungry
it doesn’t help

temperatures should have 2 digits
I’m flexible
the first digit can be anywhere from 2 to 7
and the second digit can be anything you like
any number at all
I’m flexible

but when the temperature has 3 digits
no matter what they are
I know it’s a dry heat
I’ve used an oven
and a frying pan
and I’ve been to Seattle
and San Francisco
and even Milwaukee
not China
not yet
and nobody says “at least it’s a cool wet”
nobody says that
anywhere
and there’s a reason for it
it doesn’t make sense
even to those hungry Chinese children

butter comma peanut

Posted on by Joel D Canfield

Who decided peanut butter should come first?
What reasoning led to this order?
It is not alphabetical
Unless it was decided by a librarian, butter comma peanut ampersand jelly
Librarians, beautiful minds all, are not the natural arbiters of sandwich naming conventions

It is not historical, the origins of both lost in the mists of time
Though let us explore that concept
Once upon a time, neither existed, no butter comma peanut, no jelly
I would pause for a moment of silence here, sad as the thought of a pre-PBJ world is, but you might think I was finished and applaud so let us press on

At some point in antiquity someone dug up, roasted, salted, and crushed the cotyledons of Arachis hypogaea
And it was good
Someone, was it someone else or the same someone, mashed berries containing a sufficient quantity of pectin and, perhaps they forgot them on the counter, and it jelled into, well, you know
And it was good, too

But which happened first?

Fine, I said origins, mists of time, et cetera
But fruit is easy to find
Peanuts, not so much
Fruit is obvious, over time becoming sweeter, and mushier, with no help from Homo Sapiens
Peanuts, not so much
What with the digging (why?) and the roasting (why?) and salting, which I get, but crushing, again why?
Jelly is obvious, likely, spontaneous, inevitable
Peanut butter, not so much

And yet
If someone were to offer you a jelly and peanut butter sandwich
Or, in fact, a jelly and butter comma peanut sandwich
Or even a sandwich comma jelly ampersand butter comma peanut
Would you trust them?
Would your taste buds tingle?
Or would that be the hairs at the back of your neck?
Because whatever the origins
Fair
Or not so much
Even a child knows
Peanut butter comes first
(except, dear librarians, in the dictionary)

Nothing to Wear

Posted on by Joel D Canfield

what, exactly, do you mean by “nothing to wear”?
because you may have forgotten, but we share a closet
and I just tried to hang up a shirt

do you mean nothing you like?
because, if I recall correctly and correct me if I’m wrong
didn’t you buy all that stuff?
and didn’t you like it when you bought it?

or do you mean nothing appropriate for the occasion, which I can certainly understand
up to a point
but let’s remember it’s karaoke at the neighbors, not Cleopatra’s barge down the Nile
Marc Antony, that cummerbund is too to excruciating, well done my good man
and I get keeping up with the Joneses
even if their name is really wait don’t tell me I see it on the mailbox every time we pull in Mortense I think the missing letter is an N Mortensen

or do you mean nothing that fits?

ahem

there are whole colonies where they don’t worry if they have nothing to wear because that’s what they wear all the time
but that is not us
or here
or now
because we are, like Cleo and Marc, civilized

so then, what, exactly do you mean?
you’d think I’d know by now, but I’m still learning
it’s a steep curve
and speaking of curves…

blow, wind!

Posted on by Joel D Canfield

blow, wind!
shatter leaves from the trees and slash them through my dream
pour them onto the road I cannot travel
smear them across the windows I cannot see

blow, wind!
tear the rain from the air and chase it from this place
dry the lies
and the hate and
upturn the funnel
empty the blackness till it whitens

blow, wind!
drag my heart from here to that place I belong
that place where I dreamt I was me,
myself,
and I—
where I dreamt I was myself
without dreaming

http://www.freeimages.com/photo/maple-leaf-1510431

asleep fall

Posted on by Joel D Canfield

a poem

and, overnight, fall
fall the leaves
fall the mercury
fall the crisp carpeting dead to begin the blanket
fall asleep
fall the snow another blanket to hide beneath
to lie beneath
what lies beneath
is falling
asleep

snow-window-sue

I searched for the word mercury to see if I’d posted this poem here before. I didn’t find it, but I found an amusing bit I wrote about the end of the universe, inspired one morning as I tried not to listen to the feed mill 100 yards up the street from our home in Wisconsin.

Greenback Blues

Posted on by Joel D Canfield

While many of my songs are about Best Beloved, this one is not.

Although the lyrics reference any number of U.S. Presidents, the astute observer will note that it is not even remotely about politicians.

Without boring you with musicological details, the intro to this song is a challenge when we perform it live. While many of my other songs can be shifted up or down as much as a full key, those where I play the harmonica don’t have that luxury. Mostly because I don’t own enough harmonicas.

Someone called Ireland the land of happy wars and sad love songs. This song always feels like a little of both.

Greenback Blues

You should have married Andrew Jackson
I know that you think more of him than me
I’ll bet Ben Franklin would be fine with you
And that’s fine with me as far as I can see

Alexander Hamilton is only half as much
As Andrew Jackson in your twisted mind
George Washington‘s just peanuts; Abe Lincoln‘s not much more
But Grover Cleveland would be quite a find

Too bad Woodrow Wilson don’t circulate no more
Got your hands on him he’d never leave
But gimme just one Roosevelt to call a cab
And I’ll be gone for good you’d best believe