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Tuesday, August 30, 2022

New Year's Queries

     Must our 'end's tend to rend our 'begin's
as our fingers finagle our fins...?
     Must our angels extinguish our djinns
as our Bezoses brainwash our Brins...?
     Must our paperclips poison our pins
as our Sawyers torpedo our Finns...?
     Pray our losses fall short of our wins!
Hey! Our losses must lose to our wins!

     Must our grimaces gainsay our grins
as our Ho Chi Minhs mangle our Nins...?
     Must our newcomers needle our kins
as our Judases jostle our Pnins...?
     Must our forthcomings battle our beens
as our stables make room for our inns...?
     Pray our losses fall short of our wins!
Hey! Our losses must lose to our wins!

     Must our kindnesses kill off our sins
as our bones break the back of shins...?
     Must our truths disestablish our spins
as our clamshells outnumber our tins...?
     Must our shirts beat the pants off our skins
as our triplets outnumber our twins...?
     Pray our losses fall short of our wins!
Hey! Our losses must lose to our wins!

The Casuarina Spoon

One of those sweet-sixteen types.
Gael whose glè mhath on the pipes.
     High-school girl / Guy who'll skirl

Hat/-tleTales

     While many shameless Texans, recognized 
by their fellows as the braggarts, blowhards and 
bloviators they routinely prove to be, often hear 
themselves tagged as being "all hat and no cattle," 
there remain oodles of citizens two-stepping through
the wider landscape whose behaviors are similarly 
characterized -- similarly, sure...but not quite the 
same.

When Rev'rend Spooner gets his way,
ol' Callaway heads t'other way.
     That cowboy's all cat and no hattle.

She schools each wee preschooler
as she wields one wicked ruler.
     That nun is all habit, no cassock.

Six slugs sail'd straight through, 
leaving zilch residue:
     He's all (rat-a-tat-) tat and no shrapnel.

Sergeant Friday's a cop, 
an abrupt one full stop.
     Hear him gripe: "Just the facts, ma'am; no tattle!"

Though her atria's chill'd, 
she's prepared to be thrill'd
    to her cor: She's all heart (though no cockle).

With Rice Krispies I find 
I prefer just one kind.
     Forget Pop: I'm all Snap and no Crackle.

He brings signs to each march 
and his slogans are arch,
     never dull. He's all that, but no catalyst

She'll not wriggle one hair, 
much less fly through the air.
     She's immobile: all halt and no cartwheel. 

Donald's evil's like cancer. 
For Don, love's no answer,
     That's Drumpf: he's all hate and no cuddle.

She's a Bell Witch/Quay blend* 
and, for sure, no one's friend.
     Fire burn! She's all haunt and no Casper.
          * The Bell Witch haunts an area in Tennessee; 
Minnie Quay is a legendary ghost spooking Michigan. 
"Fire burn..." is part of a couplet chanted by the 
Weird Sisters in Shakespeare's Macbeth

If Dad laughs at all, 
his laugh's big, never small.
     That's our Dad: he's all "HA!" and no chortle.

She's, when tough love's requir'd, 
ne'er in pull'd punches mired.
     Best to duck: she's all hit and no coddle.

His applause is sedate. 
Meet Monsieur Understate.
    In the end, he's all hint and no catcall.


Monday, August 29, 2022

A Dozen "Che"quivalents: "Che"pter I

     Iconic Revolutionary: 
Ernesto "Che" Guevara

     Iconic Revolutionary Tonsorialist
:
"Che" van O'Hayrcutt 
     Iconic Revolutionary Solitary:
"Che" DeSalinger 
     Iconic Revolutionary Enthusiast: 
"Che" Phinghat-deBitt
     Iconic Revolutionary Regency Novelist: 
"Che" Naughston
 
     Iconic Revolutionary Split Personality: 
Dr. "Che"kyl
  
     Iconic Revolutionary Singing Cowboy: 
"Che" Naughtry
     Iconic Revolutionary Irish Operatic Hero: 
Don "Che" O'Vaughney
     Iconic Revolutionary Jazz Great: 
Sidney Be"Che"

     Iconic Revolutionary Bombshell: 
"Che"yne Mansfield
 
     Iconic Revolutionary Taxi Driver: 
Al Pa"Che"no
     Iconic Revolutionary Moneybags:
"Che" P. Morgan 
     Iconic Revolutionary Mother of God: 
Regina "Che" Lorum 

The Painted Spoon

Gardenias...? Billie's flowers.
Sex ev'ry 24 hours.
Lady Day / Daily lay

Saturday, August 27, 2022

Of Spooner Bondage

Rogers limn'd in emerald-cum-blue-edelic hues.
Chill'd legume risotto...? Inappropriate for Jews.
Green 'n' bice Roy / Bean in rice...? Goy!

Friday, August 26, 2022

The Spooner's Edge

Rare condiments lace Colonel's chicken; that's how you tell.
Three threes plus two Belgradians in terrorist cell.
Eleven herbs 'n' spices / Eleven Serbs in ISIS

Thursday, August 25, 2022

The Hat/Cattle and Sixpence

She schools each wee preschooler
and wields one wicked ruler.
     That nun is all habit, no cassock.

38...39...

Through history, for multi-millions, 
'forty' spells 'a lot.'
But such is just a fraction 
of the meanings 'forty''s got: 

Against some forty bandits 
a septet Akira matches.
A mule (plus forty acres) 
slaves were pledg'd to plow their patches.

Last night Drumpf got no sleep; 
Don needs to grab his forty winks.
Some folks believe that Benny's not reach'd forty 
(so Jack thinks).

Minus 40...? 
Temp where Fahrenheit and Celsius match.
Zirconium's atomic number: 
40 is it...? Natch'!

Who'd tell of Enki 
sometimes scratches '40' in their clays.
In Genesis, the rains fell forty nights -- 
and forty days.

Forty years did David rule...
and Solomon...and Saul...
"Nineveh!" warns Jonah. 
"Forty days you've left: that's all."

In tennis, 40-40's call'd a deuce.
(It's like a tie.)
In American Top 40
Casey Kasem was our guy.

Sakes alive! 2³ X 5 adds up to...
10 X 4!
(To who'd be wise this I'll advise:
Shut not thine eyes! Don't snore!)

Goliath challenged David twice each day
for forty days.
Lent also lasts full forty,
after which: Spring holidays.

This song's a mix of forty stichs
and once it's sung I'm done.
But here's the thing: I'm set to sing
A Song of Forty One.  

Cakes and Spoons

Garland sang of neighbor, claim'd she dug him.
Dexter is a nerd. What say let's bug him!
A boy next door / Annoy Dex, bore

Wednesday, August 24, 2022

The Alien Spoon

Determin'd, she, to have a ball.
The monks have gather'd, mange 'n' all.
Last o' the red-hot mamas / Mass'd are the head-rot lamas.

Saturday, August 20, 2022

On Beyond Oz or Over, Under, Around & Through the Rainbow: an Alphabet

With L. Frank's Tin Woodman the sagas don't stop.
There are umpteen -Tin Woodmen. Let's start at the top:


















The Au GraTin Woodman, as do all his kin,
nine-to-fives it: they're loggers in woodlands wherein
flourish maples and ashes and hickory trees,
all a-blooming with half-wheels and wedges of cheese.

The BulleTin Woodman reveals breaking news
concerning his fringe controversialist views.
(His Vatican counterpart's mode is the bull;
the pair are past masters at pullin' the wool.)

The Woodman who's known as CatocTin fells trees
in the Blue Ridge -- oaks, junipers -- does so with ease.
He'd never log redwoods, not just 'cuz they're old:
he regards 'em World Wonders. "They're not to be sold!"

The DusTin Woodman, like the JusTin Woodman (see below),
loves nothing more than fisticuffs: he lives for "blow-by-blow."
With JusTin, DusTin builds a ring within a forest clearing.
Poor DusTin's cauliflower ears have left him hard of hearing.

















The ExeunTin' Woodmen bid the timberlands "Bye-bye!" --
most often when they've only just arrived. (I can't say why.)
They claim they feel they've gotta go and then they've gotta stay.
(They're no far cry from Jimmy "Schnozz" Durante in that way.)

The FerriTin Woodman, like all living things,
carries iron in his blood -- and the health iron brings.
(It goes without saying, of course, that he must
assume fail-safe precautions to guard against rust.)


















The GelaTin Woodman's all wiggly 'n' quivv'ry,
all squirmy 'n' twitchy, all shudd'ry 'n' shivv'ry.
In short, this guy's one hyper-jittery fellow --
for all the world not unlike chokeberry Jello.

The Woodman ID'd HighfaluTin...? Ornate!
In place of his tin he sports stainless steel plate.
I'd not dub him pompous, albeit he's bold:
one metalsmith promised to glaze him in gold.

The IvermecTin Woodman is a fan of Donald Drumpf.
He follows Trump's misinformation. End result...? A slumpf
in health and strength; his vital signs head south; he almost dies.
I ask the man, "What part of this do you not get: 'Drumpf lies'...?"

The JusTin Woodman (see above), 
as noted, shows unbounded love
for pugilism -- fests de slug.
Our boy has caught the boxing bug.


 














Near Emerald Forest I've heard there's a tarn
on the shoreline of which sits a sheep-shearing barn 
where my kin KnitTin' Woodman hoards gathers of yarn.
Do text him when you've threadbare slippers to darn.

The Liquor Tin Woodman -- no teetot'ler, he --
has a tummy well chamber'd to stockpile his "tea."
His "tea tins" he calls 'em, but we know that booze
be the bev'rage within 'em, a view that's no news.
 
The MasturbaTin' Woodman, Hansel/Gretel-like, doles out
some something through the woods to help the lad retrace his route.
It clearly isn't breadcrumbs we see scatter'd on the soil.
Perhaps it's clear hydraulic, gear or light transmission oil. 

Trong thuốc lá NicoTin Woodman cũng 
giúp an thần, tỉnh táo và trầm -- mung mung.
Ở một khía cạnh nào đó, nicotine 
cũng giúp điều trị căn bệnh...(Where've ya been...?)

The OvalTin(e) Woodman... 

The PecTin Woodman...

The QuenTin Woodman... 

The RaspuTin Woodman...

The SaTin Woodman...

The TinTin Woodman...? Gatherer of news
who deals in what?s, when?s, where?s, why?s, how?s 'n' who?s.
He sings the news; he belts it brash 'n' bluesy.
(His "Ten-Ton Tann'd Tin Tune"'s a freakin' doozy.)

The UnguenTin(e) Woodman...

The Vlad'mir PuTin Woodman... 

The WesTin Woodman... 

The XiTin Woodman...

The YachTin' Woodman...

The ZeaTin Woodman...

Monday, August 15, 2022

Heil, Herr Fred or Dies Ist Das Search


Dies ist Das Donjon where Don John, Don, rocks.
     Dies ist Das Storeroom secured with new locks
in Die Depths of Das Donjon where Don John, Don, rocks.
    Dies ist Das Safe hiding un-escrowed stocks
that squats in Das Storeroom secured with new locks
in Die Depths of Das Donjon where Don John, Don, rocks.
     Dies sind assortments of unsorted Socks
sitting stashed in Das Safe hiding un-escrowed stocks
that squats in Das Storeroom secured with new locks
in Die Depths of Das Donjon where Don John, Don, rocks.     
     Dies sind Das Surfeits of classified docs,
some seen stuffed in assortments of unsorted Socks
sitting stashed in Das Safe hiding un-escrowed stocks
that squats in Das Storeroom secured with new locks
in Die Depths of Das Donjon where Don John, Don, rocks.
     Dies...? Die Container Crates -- each a big box --
spotted shelt'ring Die Surfeits of classified docs,
some seen stuffed in assortments of unsorted Socks
sitting stashed in Das Safe hiding un-escrowed stocks
that squats in Das Storeroom secured with new locks
in Die Depths of Das Donjon where Don John, Don, rocks.
     Dies sind Die Feds, making nary Das Sound
as they, armed with Das Warrant, go searching around
for Die packing Container Crates -- each a big box --
spotted shelt'ring Die Surfeits of classified docs,
some seen stuffed in assortments of unsorted Socks
sitting stashed in Das Safe hiding un-escrowed stocks
that squats in Das Storeroom secured with new locks
in Die Depths of Das Donjon where Don John, Don, rocks.
     Dies ist His Honor who issues Das Warrant
requested by Justice, which loosens Das Torrent
of FBI agents, who make not Das Sound
as they, armed with Das Warrant, go searching around
for Die packing Container Crates -- each a big box --
spotted shelt'ring Die Surfeits of classified docs,
some seen stuffed in assortments of unsorted Socks
sitting stashed in Das Safe hiding un-escrowed stocks
that squats in Das Storeroom secured with new locks
in Die Depths of Das Donjon where Don John, Don, rocks.
     Dies ist Das Nation where holds court the judge
who gives Das Green Light (with no hint of Das Grudge
or political bias) and issues Das Warrant
requested by Justice, which loosens Das Torrent
of FBI agents, who make not Das Sound
as they, armed with Das Warrant, go searching around
for Die packing Container Crates -- each a big box --
spotted shelt'ring  Die Surfeits of classified docs,
some seen stuffed in assortments of unsorted Socks
sitting stashed in Das Safe hiding un-sescrowed stocks
that squats in Das Storeroom secured with new locks
in Die Depths of Das Donjon where Don John, Don, rocks.
     Dies ist Don Don John whose administration
endangers, imperils and hazards Das Nation,
Das Balkanized Country where holds court Der Judge
who gives Das Green Light (with no hint of Das Grudge
or political bias) and issues Das Warrant
requested by Justice, which loosens Das Torrent
of FBI agents, who make not Das Sound
as they, armed with Das Warrant, go searching around
for Die packing Container Crates -- each a big box --
spotted shelt'ring Die Surfeits of classified docs,
some seen stuffed in assortments of unsorted Socks
sitting stashed in the safe hiding un-escrowed stocks
that squats in Das Storeroom secured with new locks
in Die Depths of Das Donjon where Don Don John rocks.
     Dies ist Der Domnus, Das craven old Con
who peculates millions while siring Der Don,
who swaps love for money -- Das poor Pro Quo Quid --
and, thus "Kruppted," winds up wid Das oversized Id
and Das self-serving Ego which hazards Das Nation
(conspiring, 'tis true, with his administration),
Das Balkanized Country where holds court Der Judge
who gives Das Green Light (with no hint of Das Grudge
or political bias) and issues Das Warrant
requested by Justice, which loosens Das Torrent
of FBI agents, who make not Das Sound
as they, armed with Das Warrant, go searching around
for Die packing Container Crates -- each a big box --
spotted shelt'ring Das Surfeits of classified docs,
some seen stuffed in assortments of unsorted Socks
sitting stashed in Das Safe hiding un-escrowed stocks
that squats in Das Storeroom secured with new locks
in Die Depths of Das Donjon where Don Don John rocks.

...But Sombody's Gotta Do It.

It's up to me which words go where:
this word goes here; that word goes there.
Some po'ms grow big; some po'ms stay small.
Hey! I'm The Poet, after all.

Though aping Edgar's "...nothing more,"
I mean to say there's things galore.
It's what they label 'irony.'
And I'm The Poet, don'cha see...?

I Emily's "I could not stop..."
restate, for I'm The Nation's Scop.
I Walt's "Myself I sing" re-shout.
That I'm The Poet there's no doubt.

Some po'ms are sung; some po'ms are penn'd.
And I'm The Poet, in the end.
Yes, I'm The Poet, come what may,
though I've not got a thing to say.

Sunday, August 14, 2022

What's New in Poe's "Hat/Cattle" Catalog & Among Runcibl'd Spooners

     New "Hat/Cattle" Chatter

Sergeant Friday's a cop, an abrupt one full stop.
Hear him gripe: "Just the facts, ma'am; no tattle!"

Though her atria's chill'd, she's prepared to be thrill'd
to her cor: She's all heart (though no cockles).

With Rice Krispies I find I like only one kind.
Forget Pop: I'm all Snap and no Crackle.

He brings signs to each march and his slogans are arch,
never dull. He's all that, but no catalyst

She'll not wriggle one hair, much less fly through the air.
She's immobile: all halt and no cartwheel. 

Donald's evil's like cancer. For Don, love's no answer,
That's Drumpf: he's all hate and no cuddle.

A Bell Witch/Quay blend,* she's for sure no one's friend.
Fire burn: she's all haunt and no Casper.
     * The Bell Witch haunts an area in Tennessee; Minnie Quay 
is a legendary ghost spooking Michigan. "Fire burn..." is part 
of a couplet chanted by the Weird Sisters in Shakespeare's 
Macbeth

If Dad laughs at all, his laugh's big, never small.
That's our Dad: he's all "HA!" and no chortle.

She's, when tough love's requir'd, ne'er in pull'd punches mired.
Best to duck: she's all hit and no coddle.

His applause is sedate. Meet Monsieur Understate.
In the end, he's all hint and no catcall.


     More Runcibl'd Spooners

Ernest's famous six-word story. 
Must four small "cetes" cede hirsute glory...?* 
For sale: baby shoes, never worn / Four whale babies soon (Never!) shorn.
     * In the sense of 1 Corinthians 11:15 "If a woman have hair it is a glory to her." 

Attacking those "giants" keeps Don in fine fettle.
He fades before factories coated in metal. 
     Tilting at windmills / Wilting at tinn'd mills 

Where Drumpf dreams up his latest fraud.
The adult stage of household god.
     Mar-a-lago / Lar imago 

More "Hat/Cattle" materials (some per GFH)

helot 
hatchet 
half-wit
habit 
Hamlet
hamlet 
high-hat 

height
hot
haut
hut
hoot
hurt
hint
Hants
Holt
host
hunt
haste
Hearst
haft
heft
hart
'hast'
Hecht
heat
hilt
hint
hoist
Hoyt

catch-all 
Katzenjammer kids
catamaran
Katmandu
Catskills
catnip
catnap
curdle
cordial


All hat and no atelier
All hat and no cabal
All hat and no cackle
All hat and no catapult
All hat and no catcall
All hat and no cachalots
All hat and no cachet
All hat and no cadaver
All hat and no cakes and ale
All hat and no campanile
All hat and no can do
All hat and no canticle
All hat and no Cantinflas
All hat and no captives
All hat and no castle
All hat and no casuistry
All hat and no Cat at All
All hat and no catafalque
All hat and no cataleptic
All hat and no Catalhoyuk
All hat and no Catalonia
All hat and no catapult
“All Hat and No Kettle”
All hat and no catcall
All hat and no caterpillar
All hat and no Cathay
All hat and no Catland
All hat and no Cattle of the Sun
All hat and no cattle prod
All hat and no chasuble
All hat and no chattel
All hat and no cuttlefish
All hat and no gaggle
All hat and no kettle
All hat and no kleagle
All hat and no Quetzalcoatl
All hat and no tattle
All hats and no capitals
All hats and no caput

...or not!

Seven waltzes penn'd Bach -- plus one sprightly ceroc.
These works' keys...? All A-flat, none A nat'ral. 

Doodhpak, shrikhand, chaas, dal; roti, farsan et al...
Fare found where...? Gujarat. (Not Seattle.)

Friday, August 12, 2022

A Final Four-Fold Foray into "Hat/Cattle" Folderol

     Letter ç appears to be pronounced something like 
/ch/ in the Turkmen word 'çal,' meaning 'grey' in that 
language. The neologism 'çalcells' as a Turkmen-Anglo 
hybrid refers to the brain in an Agatha Christie sense 
of (little) grey cells. In The Big Sleep we hear Chandler's 
hero comment on the locale's ratio of guns to gray 
matter -- all of which leads to the first of another 
(possibly final...?) series of "hat/cattle" verses.

Philip Marlowe: "My, my! Glut of guns! No brains! Why...?
Don'cha know...? It's all gats and no çalcells."

There be basins in France where Typhaceae plants
fail to grow: they're all jattes and no cattails.

Dumpty Drumpf dumpsters docs. Guilty...? Down to his socks! 
Drumpf must go! He's all rat: no acquittal!

Some fraternities quash any hazing of frosh.
Mu Tau Rho's one: all frat and no paddle.

Christmas Day: A Mare Egg...

     "A Mare Egg, Her Wrist, "Miss Two 'U'"