"A is for Abe and his unfunded pension" The Gashlycrumb Seniors: A Short Sojourn At Archaedian Acres Retirement Village with a Nod to Edward Gorey

(B/w line illustrations prompted by those appearing in Gorey's "Gashlycrumb Tinies" are on the drawing board: a work in progress.) 

A is for Abe and his unfunded pension.
B is for Babs with severe hypertension.

C is for Carl, largely vegetative.
D is for Dotty. Her mem’ry? A sieve.

E is for Esther awaiting a heart.
F is for Fred of the flatulent fart.

G is for Gordon who suffers from gout.
H is for Helga. Her hair’s falling out.

I is for Ida. That itching’s come back.
J is for Johnny. His stools have turn'd black.

K is for Kurt with three holes in his colon.
L is for Lu. Her identity? Stolen.

M is for Maud with a face like a prune.
N is for Nick. Turned 100 in June.

O is for Oscar. The man is obese.
P is for Pearl. (Best to leave Pearl in peace.)

Q is for Queenie who has to be fed.
R is for Ralph: "Am I better off dead?"

S is for Sylvie. Can’t hear worth a damn.
T is for Tim. Suffers flashbacks from Nam.

U’s for Umberto. As yet there's no cure.
V is for Vince: old…but still immature.

W’s Wilfred whose hemorrhoids swell.
X is for Xan: Senor Singular Smell.

Y’s for Yolanda who'll pass come the Fall.
Z is for ZaSu. She’ll outlive us all.

"Take note: what's Potus fear..." Events, My Dear...Events

(Asked what would most likely send a government off the rails, one-time UK PM Harold McMillan is reported to have answered, “Events, my dear boy, events.” Below is a reposting, with a few emendations, of an earlier poem updating the PM's observation. In this revised form it's just been published as one of Light Poetry Magazine's Poems of the Week for the week of September 24th.)
  
Take note: what's Potus fear the most?
Misdeeds by dissidents?
Nope! Let's be clear: his greatest fear? 
Events, my dear...events. 
Need Trump beware the Koch-choked air
his laissez faire augments?
You heard it here: What checks his cheer?
Events, my dear...events.

Apologize does Trump for lies,
for fake news he invents?
Nope! What's he do when day is through?
He vents! Mon Dieu: he vents: 
"So sad" (Trump tweets) “how Congress meets,
advises and consents."
Still, worse than they? His tweets might say:
“Events, okay? Events.” 

Trump's blackest bane? Iraq's kids slain 
by ISIS malcontents?
Though dreaded, fa-a-ar more dreadful are
events, Akbar...events. 
What scares the pants off Potus? Rants
by former presidents?
Nope! Worse than those, he duly knows:
events, my bros…events.

What fans Trump’s fright 'round three at night?
The ninety-nine percents?
That mob he’ll bear. His bigly scare?
Events, mes freres...events. 
So: what might you do to undo
the troubles Trump foments?
This message send when you attend
events, my friend, events: 

Till Donald pivots or relents,
till lui-même he reinvents;
till less psychosis he presents,
till allies’ ties he re-cements;
until he vaults the White House fence
and cedes its deed to VeePee Pence;
until, in short, Trump shows some sense,
support all anti-Trump events! 

"He calls her aunt..." Name Calling; or, He Calls/She Calls: A Nonsense Alphabet

(This isn't called 'nonsense' for nothing.)

I 

It's "he calls/she calls, she calls/he calls," 
all call'd oddball names. 
Be "she calls/he calls, he calls/she calls" 
homonymble games? 

He calls her aunt 'Aunt Tipp O'Dees.' 
So solitary, she. 
She calls his brother 'Brother ‘Hood.' 
Small-town. Small-time. (Small t.)

She calls his cat 'Cat Astrofee,' 
a "fee"-line wild when wet. 
He calls her dog 'Dog Mattic.' 
Spot's her high-'n'-mighty pet!

II

He calls her eyes 'Eye Tinnerants.' 
One's lazy. One's oblique. 
She calls his face 'Face Seeshuss.' 
Wily. Wry. And tongue-in-cheek.

She calls his gal 'Gal Lip O'Lee.' 
Gal sheds Italic tears. 
He calls her home 'Home Eric.' 
She's lived rough a score of years.

He calls her ire 'Ire Restmycase.' 
Her rages swiftly wane. 
She calls his jests 'Jest Tickle-8s.' 
He lives to yank her chain.

III 

She calls his kiss 'Kiss Seamy.' 
Both his lips be woebegones. 
He calls her legs 'Leg Yumes'n'peas.' 
All tops for hops on johns.*
     * And for Hoppin' John as well, 
of course.

He calls her mom 'Mom Mentum.' 
Ma's one universal force. 
She calls his neon 'Neon Nate.' 
"Let there be light"? Of course.

She calls his "om" 'Om Mega.' 
'Om''s the final word in wu.* 
He calls her pies 'Pies Zannoze.' 
He prefers peach pies. (Don't you?)
     * Wu is a Chinese equivalent 
to enlightenment.

IV 

He calls her quips 'Quips Psychosi?'* 
when sanity's in doubt. 
She calls his rap 'Rap Unzel' 
when it lets stuff all hang out. 
     * Roughly, "She's nutty, right?" 
in Late (very Late) Latin.

She calls his shoe 'Shoe Doldacquaint'
to dance each New Year in.
He calls her tie 'Tie Maftertime.'
(Same tie, reworn...ag'in.)

He calls her urn 'Urn Extrabucks.'
She hides one dime each week.
She calls his vest 'Vestibulees,'
a well-dressed ancient Greek.

V 

She calls his wig 'Wig Getthejoke.'
He lives for Halloween.
He calls her X 'X Marksthespot.'
Not here. Not there. Between!

He calls her Yule 'Yule Walkalone.'
Her same sad Xmas story.
She calls his zen 'Zen Offtosleep."
He snoozes through satori.

It's he calls/she calls, she calls/he calls:
homonymble games.
(But though they both call -- he calls/she calls --
neither calls me 'James.')

"I'd window shopp'd..." Handustan, the Land of Palms: A Doggerel Gazetteer In Rhyme As An Hommage To Manguel & Guadalupi, With A Verse Itinerarial Coda, A Nonsense Glossary & A Selective Map Including Detail

Handustan, the Land of Palms

I 

I’d window shopp'd in Hindustan. I'd flip-flopp'd o'er Balochistan. 
I’d cotton chopp'd in Kurdistan. I'd acid dropp'd near Kazakhstan. 

I’d razors stropp'd in Pakistan. I’d wet mopp'd dry Uzbekistan. 
I’d charts topp'd in Tajikistan. I’d hip-hopp'd ‘round Turkmenistan. 

I’d pleas copp'd in Afghanistan. I’d island hopp'd ‘cross Baltistan. 
And though I'd never opted to, I’d whistle stopp'd in Kyrgyzstan. 

I'd thought I’d haunted ev'ry “-stan,” as tourist, tramp or triggerman. 
Surprise! 'Twas one I'd fail'd to scan. The natives call'd it Handustan.  

II 

Thought I: "Treks there require aplombs. One untrod '-stan'?" I suffer'd qualms 
(which ale – two pints of Bass – becalms). One fret? Those unexploded bombs. 

My roommates, via intercoms, inform'd me how their aunts and moms 
wept, urging me to chant the Psalms while gifting local beggars alms. 

I ponder'd: "Were they Vietnam’s?" (The bombs, I'd meant, not roomies moms. 
It turn'd out most of ‘em were Guam’s, though some proved French, perhaps La Prom’s.) 

Ukraine's still famous for pogroms, as Arab states are, for salaams. 
As Gilead's the land of balms, so Handustan’s the land of palms. 

III 

'Cross Handustan stretch Finger Lakes. Ring Finger's home to Old World crakes. 
In Index Finger? Schools of hakes. (The natives crave their Hakefish steaks.)

For Middle Finger Lake make drakes. Young rappers? No! (For heaven sakes!) 
In Pinky Finger slither snakes. One bite and...ouch! One's tummy aches!

In Handustan a forest grows -- for short call'd F'ist. (Why? No one knows.)
Its full names's ForeWrist -- rows on rows of palms wherein perch ForeWrist Crows...

...who'll claw clean off your back clean clothes and nonchalantly lop your nose. 
These fowls are quite les quelque choses. But few've encounter'd one of those.

IV 

Handustan tors number two. The higher? Venus Mount. The view
when climbers summit Venus? Whew! (The view from Luna Mount's nice, too.)

The northern bit, call'd Upper Hand, is skirted by a blist'ring strand
where suckers once for hangnails pann'd. (None struck it rich, though all got tann'd.)

The rolling hills of Knuckle Down (in Spring, shagreen -- though now turn'd brown), 
are work'd by shepherds from the town by pastur'd goats with wool like down...

from which stemm'd Handustan's renown when warpp'd and woof'd into a gown
then donn'd by Clarabelle the Clown, who'd "thumbs-down'd" ev'ry hand-me-down. 

V 

The western quarter, mostly sand, is label'd Left Hand. In demand
there? Bedrock. Multi-stories? Bann'd. (There are some yurts and hogans plann'd.)

Due east of Left Hand lies a plain call'd Right Hand, where dwell, in the main,
the polis, nurtur'd by these twain: an Asian sun plus Europe's rain.

Listen! Don't you hear that hum? In Right Hand lies the town of Thumb.
Thumb's charter, call'd the Rule of Thumb, keeps "underThumb" that burg, by gum.

The tithes folks pay, the Thumb Tax, some believe to be, put briefly, dumb.
But pay Thumb's suckers do. In sum: for tax relief none beat the drum. 

VI 

At last I'd pass'd through ev'ry "-stan." I'd caravan'd through Handustan,
now, "-stan"-wise, just an also-ran. (Regarding "-stan"s, I'm Superman.)

En fin each man does all he can within his three-score-ten-year span.
Still, one "-stan" rocks like Harmattan. The natives call it Handustan. 

Getting There: A Coda 
  

Handustan-

bound...?

My best suggestion? Go well dressed. Set forth chemise'd – a shirt, at least

(or, though unpressed, a special vest. Mine (leather)? Leased and well policed).

From east of Pest, finesse your geste by heading east – three weeks at least.

At Bucharest – I would not jest – your vest divest...or, have it creased. 

When's ceased your quest (oh, good: you've guess'd), just stop. And rest. Then, on the feast
of San Baptiste (I'm his high priest), you take (if past tense, 'took') a look a-

round.

The HanduBook: An Abecedarial Glossary for the Land of Palms

(Full entries to come: a work in progress) 

All handus on deck! 
Back of my handu, the

Clap your handus! 

Dead man's handu
Dishpan handus
Dry your handus! 

Empty handu'd 
Fold your handus!

Glad handu
Grandma's handus 
Handuaxe 
Handubag

Handuball

Handubasket, hell in a

Handubrake

Handucapp’d parking

Handucraft

Handucuffs

Handu-dandu 
Handul, George Frideric

Handugun

Handu-held camera

Handu-in-glove 
Handu-in-handu 
Handujive

handukerchief
Handumaiden

Handuman 

Handu-me-down 
Handuprints

Handurail

Handus across the water 

Handu sanitizer 

Handusaw

Handushake

Handus off! 
Handustand

Handutowel

Handus up!

Handuwriting on the wall 
Hired handu

In God's handus

Jesus's handus 
Kiss on the hand, a 
Left Handu 
Living handu-mouth 
Made by handu 
My handus are tied

Mojo handu
Nine handus hight 
Out of my handus
Praying Handus 

Quick handus 
Right Handu 
Short-handu'd 
Single-handu'd 
Sound of one handu clapping, the
Take my handu, I'm a stranger in paradise 
Three-handu'd cribbage 
Upper Handu 
Wash your handus!
X handu tattoo 
You're in safe handus
Zoo handuler

"Once days grow less..." A Final Four: Lines From A L=a=n=g=u=a=g=e Poet

  

O      N      C    E  

D      A     Y     S 

G      R    O     W

L      E     S      S 

T      H     A     N

L      O     N     G,   



W     H     O’    D

M     A      K     E 

T      H      E     M  

E      A     C     H

M     O     R     E  

F      U     L      L



N      E     E     D 

K      N    O     W 

W     H    A     T

W     O    R     D, 

W     H    A     T 

S      O    N     G, 



W     E     L     L

S      U    N     G,

N      E    T     S 

T       I    M     E

L      E    S     S

N     U     L     L

Liebling des Schöpfers; or, Oh My Gott!: A Nonsense Alphabet

What is The Author Of All Creation's absolutely most favorite… 
…advertising slogan?                                                             “Gott milk?"
…Billie Holiday record?                        “I Gott a Right (to Sing the Blues).”
…classic automobile?                                                           The BuGotti.
…Dickens character?                                                       Ham PegGotty.
…esoteric language?                                                      Thieves’ arGott.
…fungus fruiting structure?                                          ErGott sclerotium.
…Gene Kelly movie line?                                                  “Gotta dance!”
…heavyweight boxing title holder?                             Jersey Joe WalGott.
…imaginary location?                                                    McElliGott’s Pool.
…journalist’s interview tactic?                                 The Gottcha question.
…king of rhumba?                                                            Xavier CuGott.  
…Lois Lane portrayer?                                                     MarGott Kidder.
…movie tough guy?                                                    Humphrey BoGott.
…nougat reimagining?                                                               NouGott.
…O’Neill drama?                                          "A Moon for the MisbeGotten."
…Portuguese “thankyou”?                                                       “ObriGotto.”
…quintessential Italian double reed bass clef woodwind?         The FaGotto.
…ripe fruit?                                                                        The ApriGott.
…second-act opening musical number?                       The AsGott Gavotte.
…tourist destination?                                            Florida's EpGott Center.
…university town?                                                                   Gottingen. 

…Vincent De Paul namesake?                                         Vincent van Gott.
…weight-loss fad?                                                           Fat-free yoGott.
…xyloform?                                                                        WainsGotting. 
...ye’elimite portable form?                                                     The InGott. 
…'ziggurat' misspelling?                                                         'ZigG(ur)ott.'

"Once ferrets prove carrots..." What Shall We Do Once Bob's Probe Proves It's True: Proposals & A Poll

Once ferrets prove carrots, we'll dice each brash rascal
and toss 'em in salads with radish and Pascal.
Once carrots prove parrots, we'll teach each bright bird
to recite Shakespeare sonnets she's learnt word for word.

Once parrots prove clarets, we'll bottle 'em so
they sagaciously age till they're vintage Bordeaux!
Once clarets prove Jarretts, (a Val'rie, a Keith),
we'll warn 'em: "Atop the bus; never beneath."

Once Jarretts prove Barretts -- Elizabeth, say --
we'll host sojourns haut in our cabriolet.
Once Barretts prove square (it's not proven they were),
we'll announce, "We doubt nowt about aught you infer."

Once Barretts bérets prove (Note how we pronounce!),
we'll don 'em as toppers: 'roun' town how we'll flounce!
Once "berrets" prove merits (distinctions we earn),
we'll award 'em en masse: we'll have merits to burn.

Once merits prove carets for editing texts,
blue pencils we'll drop, leaving editors vexed.
Once carets prove garrets where artists might paint,
we'll lease to Da Vinci: an artist we ain't.

Once garrets prove karats for measuring gold, 
shall your Nantes or my Danvers yield twenty-four fold?
Once karats prove fer-...ah-h-h-h, but, surely, we're through.
(Though once heroes prove zeros, once leaders prove bleeders,
once Don proves a con man, then what shall we to do.)