Parallel Universes (Unpub)

     To grasp Ravel, 

she drills like hell. 

She "l'Oye, Ma... 

     Mere" is learning.

     Typography...? 

She knows what's key:

Each letter...

     pair she's kerning.

     ‘Tis true that Cher's 

ditch’d Sonny. Where's 

it writ whom…
     Cher’s now spurning…?

     Friend Kier reveres 

Three Musketeers:
for Dumas,… 
     pere, he's yearning.

     Pea Green Anjou's 

have turn’d to blues.
Don't stare: each…
     pear is turning!

     How much seems right 

to mind my mite…?
Francs our au…
     pair is earning.

     'Mongst actors, which 

named Charles is rich...?
A billion-…
     -aire is Durning.

     Der Fuhrer calls 

von Choltitz, bawls: 

"Mein Herr, is…
     Paris burning…?"

Semordnilap Spelt Backwards (Unpub)

Less mal must tomes
of palindromes
be coupl’d with than cobia.
Remember:
‘aibohphobia’’s still,
backwards, ‘aibohphobia.’
 
Some stock (bouillon)
does Godfrey spawn
without a bouillon cube.
From shocks of flocs
he stock concocts. (And,
backwards, ‘boob’s still ‘boob.’)
 
How scoundrels skulk
behind the stars ‘n’ 

stripes one can’t forgive. Ick!
They’re sunshine soldiers.
‘Civic’'s, though,
both back- and forwards, ‘civic.’
 
“We are as gods
and might as well get
good at it,” Brand cried.
Forgets does Stu that
‘deified’’s still, 

backwards, ‘deified’...?
 
One pyramid reads,
“M  D  C  C…
L  X  X  V  I.”
Atop sits one
omniscient orb: ‘eye,’
backwards-spelt, is ‘eye.’
 
To don one’s truss…?
Innocuous,
but never eejit-proof.
Remember:
Is not ‘foolaloof,’ spelt
backwards, ‘foolaloof’…?
 
To lay down tracks
on discs of wax
we blow our axes, dig…?
And, through it all,
we all recall,
how ‘gig’’s still, backwards, ‘gig.’
 
Soon, dialogues
in synagogues
from Wien to Walla Walla
shall argue this
hypothesis: “Claim:
backwards, ‘hallah’’s ‘hallah.’"
 
When pollsters bang,
do I harangue…?
Do I unleash my id…? I
do not. I sigh, 

“’I did, did I…?’ is, 

backwards, ‘I did, did I…?’”
 
Ten grand, by gum,
is quite some sum:
it’s air fare for my hajj.
And yet, reversed,
‘jaravaraj’ remains
‘jaravaraj.’
 
Objets which float –
canoe, toy boat,
ark, raft – all craft which sway –
read diff’rent each 

direction. (‘Kayak’s 

‘kayak’ either way.)
 
You’re such a devil!
As you revel,
handling your bevel,
you’re less inclined,
perhaps, to mind
that ‘level’’s, backwards, ‘level.’
 
With push turns shove.
reserve your love
for women of the night.
Remember: ‘madam’’s ‘madam,’
right to left…
or left to right.
 
Our father’s glib.
Pa’s quick to fib
or croon a ribald tune.
As Daddy’s sons,
we run to puns
like “’noon,’ half spun, spells ‘noon.’”
 
Slim, Morag, Nessie,
Mussie, Cressie:
beasts unparallel’d.
Worse, ‘Ogopogo’’s
‘Ogopogo,’
either way (s)he’s spelled.
 
Don’t tell me you
don’t smell it. Whew!
The toilet’s overflowing.
No matter how you
spell it, ‘poop’’s ‘poop’ coming,
‘poop’’s ‘poop’ going.
 
In Qaanaaq are
some folks bizarre:
none dwell much farther north,
though ‘Qaanaaq’s ‘Qaanaaq,’
from whichever pole
one sallies forth.
 
The coin gets tossed.
Through clouds, exhaust,
the race is lost or won,
while ‘racecar’’s
always ‘racecar,’
from whichever end it’s run.
 
There L. There’s G.
There’s B, Q, T.
There’s many shades of gay.
There’s + as well.
Thus, ‘sexes’ looks
like ‘sexes’ either way.
 
This pol’s a souse.
He’s such a louse
he shames both house and Senate
by hawking votes
to purchase potes --
though ‘tenet’’s backwards ‘tenet.’
 
Some purr’d, “Absurd!”
That herd had heard
how, now, King Turd’s call'd Trump.
Yet, ‘Ubu’’s, backwards,
‘Ubu.’ (So: from
both tacks, Drumpf’s a chump.)
 
There’s yod. There’s beth.
There’s mem. There’s teth.
One’s shibboleths they’ll aid.
‘Vav’’s ‘vav’…no matter how –
back, forth –
its letters be array’d.
 
Most differ,
back- and forwards:
Crikey! Blimey! Holy cow!
Gadzooks! Gosh! Jeepers!
E-e-e-eek! Good grief!
But ‘Wow!’’s still, backwards, ‘Wow!’
 
Alprazolam,
diazepam:
each pill’s a silly name,
though none as fun as
Xanax: backwards,
Xanax reads the same.
 
Yreka, California’s
famous bakery’s
closed today.
But ‘Yreka Bakery’’s
still ‘Yreka Bakery,’
come what may.
 
A dollar’s
not a Krugerrand.
A nickel’s not a dime.
Withal, a ‘zuz’ is,
backwards, ‘zuz.’
Thus wraps my rap in rhyme.

26 Non-Pomaceous Pairs (Unpub)

One pair of Chutes (one spells it ‘Shute’)
once shared one pair of parachutes.
The two proved resolute to boot:
they’d wear, unair’d, wet Wellie boots.
 
One pair of Bulls, one day in shul,
declar’d one pair of parables.
One’s Mike; one’s Scott. Pay heed and you’ll
hear bells not toll’d at tractor pulls.
 
One pair of grins – one’s yang, one’s yin –
once graced one pair of peregrines.
“Good morning, Minh.” “How fare thee, Flynn…?”
(If frowns such clowns wear, no one wins.)
 
One pair of pets were order’d, “Get
thee b’yond yon pair of parapets!”
Their fate…? No fete. (Here, on cassette,
view “Tigh ‘n’ Tigger’s Death Duets.”)
 
One pair of Sauls (whose…? Montreal’s)
installs one pair of parasols.
Just who plants whose none now recalls,
nor were there pressing protocols.
 

“A couple of parabolas,”

declares one pair of gabb(e)lers,
“results in psychobabble from
most mathematics dabb(e)lers.”

One pair of dice – much-needed spice –

Eve’d introduce in Paradise.
“You! You’d entice…? Heed Asp’s advice.
One uns-s-s-sliced apple sh-sh-shall s-s-s-suffice.”
 
One pair of Moores one can’t ignore
once took one pair of paramours,
new senses ceding (veil’d before)
to turns of phrase like “two-by-fours.”
 
      * One early manuscript shows
“cellar doors” here. Another has
 
“parquet floors.” Both are early.
 
One pair of graphs (one can but laugh)
attempts one pair of paragraphs
to paraphrase, though just one half
proves readable; the other’s chaff.
 
One peer of Keats (from l’hommes d’elites)
repeats one pair of parakeets’
loquacity: “Too-wheet, too-wheet!”
(L’eclairess’ment: “What’s shakin,’ Sweets…?”)
 
One pair of docs (one Groucho mocks)
apparently’s one paradox:
The short one’s wily as an ox.
The shorter…? Dumber than a fox!
 
Two pairs of dimes – amalgams I’m
to view as pairs of paradigms:
financial fall guys for tough times –
now fail, I fear, to “k’ching!” my chimes.
 
One pair of Finns did, for their sins,
smear pairs of beards with paraffins.
That each bears pairs of double chins
diminish’d damage to their skins.
 
Of all accounts of pairs of mounts
in Lit, which pair be paramount…?
If Silver Rosinant’ surmounts,
does Dapple Tonto’s Scout discount…?
 
Do “noids” of Freud’s wax overjoy’d,
annoying pairs of paranoids…?
Of pity Sigmund proves devoid,
while Anna schizoids now avoids.
 
One pair of lies (who’ll pose the “why…?”s?)
will petrify and paralyze.
The first…? That God bestrides the skies.
The second…? That She prophesies.
 
One pair of Rays (so someone says)
twin virelays in paraphrase
determine to compose…in days!
Fiasco…? Let me count the ways.
 
One pair of sites sits train’d tonight
upon one pair of parasites.
Before they flee (go left, flow right),
let fly…and nuke their leukocites!
 
One pair of Ds (thus: PAR-OD-DY)
misspells completely ‘parodies’
and orthographic’lly ODs…
unless one’s speaking Parrotese.
 
One pair of cleats to prink two feet,
one each for pairs of Paracletes.
Two’d be taboo; yet still they’re fleet.
Pete poached the pair. (Pete always cheats.)
 
One pair of blasts, one day long past,
destroy’d one pair of parablasts.
One film crew on the scene was gass’d.
Press sketches…? None like Nast’s nor Chast’s.
 
One pair of cells, one chemist tells,
invade one pair of paraceles
within one’s brain, where – swell! – they’ll swell,
until one’s hearing “boids ‘n’ bells.”
 
Who’ll swear to share au pairs – in pairs –
with Herr Moliere…? Au pairs like theirs
could care for heirs of trillionaires.
(Their nightmares…? Or their answered prayers…?)
 
A pair of guys (I tell no lies!)
discovered pairs of Paraguays.
The one…? A tropic paradise.
The other…? Shades of Paris skies.
 
Parameters…? I don’t know yours,
but mine rate pairs of amateurs
who’re fabricating haut coutures.
(One hopes that “off-the-rack” endures.)
 
Paracelsus Hohenheim,
a Swiss physician friend of mine,
says, “On one pair o’ seltzas dine
each day. ‘Twill keep ya feelin’ fine.”

The Oyyofest (Past)

Enjoy, did you, the OyyoFest, my boy…?
E’en though ‘twas held in an arroyo…? Oy!
 
Fast food for Friday: fried hay. 
(Fried hay: it may, at last, my vast hide fray.)   
 
Heck! 'O's: lots look like echos.
(Heck! 'O's pot rooks and geckos.)  
 
I'd land on odd O Island --
land high, and -- please! -- on dry land.  
 
Let her lick Lorne's love letter…?
But let her! Who licks wetter…?  

(a work in progress) 
 
Mere roars can't crack curved mirrors.
  
My tears bathe bishops' mitres.
 
Some myrrh cures coughs come summer.     
Dessert…?  Doughnut holes in the desert.
 
Two-day leave, heh…? Let's leave today.
 
Herman! Has he harm’d her, man…?