Dantegrams (and a Mobygram) for St. Paddy's Day

Midway on the journey of our life
we jury found the oily moon arife.
One pony an' a well be there? Oh, dear!
Abandon hope, all ye who enter here!

Midway on the journey of our life
we jury found the oily moon afire.
Need no owl be here? Nah! Altho' a pyre...
(Abandon hope, all ye who enter here.)

Call me Ishmael.
Mail me a "C" shell.

Go Figurata!

Hand Book or My Manualphabet: Verses Embodying a Carmina Figurata 

An artist’s hand impersonates: it’s counterfeiting life. A bachelor’s hand procrastinates: it’s disinclined to wife.

The Christ’s hand grins ‘n’ bears it as Delilah’s hand deceives. An empty hand? It supplicates. A four-in-hand inweaves.
Guidonian hands elaborate Mnemosyne with runes. An hour hand meanders through one's endless afternoons.
Does Israel Hands bear malice? Yes, though Horner’s hand would play, whilst Karloff’s hand dehydrates and your left leads me astray.
A mojo hand infatuates, its victims paralyzed. Napoleon’s hand dissimulates, its hubris well disguised.
An open hand calumniates. A penn’d hand signifies. A Qainchi hand embellishes. A read hand prophesies.
A sever’d hand vituperates, its future’s come to grief. A tether’d hand excruciates, despairing of relief.
An underhand informs against. A vampire’s hand garrote's. A waving hand dismisses. A xanthoma’d hand? All spots.
A yogi’s hand surrenders: its beginning is its end. Then Zeus’s hand cracks down on me, though bidding me, “Transcend!”

Bananagraffe on 'T H E S H R E W'

As Saiph, with Beta Ceti, set,
to wit: abandoning to wet
erewhile sere isles -- soon sunk, you see,
beneath sopp'd southern seas (too twee!) --
more stars sank slowly in the West,
while I from Morpheus more rest
to wrest limn'd imprecations three:
"Bonjour." "Shalom." "Good morrow, thee.
O Morph: do do thy thing in re
this matter of my dreaming, eh?
Down from thy hypnagogic tree
descend, while cachennating, 'Whee!'
Then grant that hibernation we're
so keen on. Hear! Hear! (Or, Here! Here!)
Here ends the pangelingual stew
I've call'd "The Framing of 'T H E  S H R E W.'" 

"Now, Frog!"

Jude Higgins 

"'Now, Frog!' ('Naufrage' -- 'Shipwreck' -- en Francais)"

Acrylic on canvas 

36" x 24"

Arma Virique (Pace, Virgil) or Second Amendment Flights

Four men, three armed, from 
a well-regulated militia of nineteen  
drawn by a very close friend of the blog 
several years ago. 

Other arms rendered, whose 
bearers aren't included here, are:
a sword, a slingshot, a wand, a bow,
an axe, a staff, a spear, a whip, a scythe,
a shield, a bomb , a hammer (two, in fact),
a stick and a plata. The young artist 
also drew a lone dead combatant.
Verses originally accompanying
the drawings appear below. 

Adrian's Arsenal: a Stockpile of Constrained Verse

Zany stick        fygures (sic)        pencill'd plain.
You but scroll        to butt whole        worlds of pain.

Chum: beware        l'homme de guerre        avec sword!
His fell move        may well prove        untoward.

Let's assume        gents with boom-        erangs might...
take their best        shots from nests        out of sight.

Any king        heaving sling-        shotted stone...
may assail.        (David's tale        is well known.) 

Do avoid        you a 'droid        with a wand!
Run! Go now!        (None know how        to respond.)

                                                                 (cont'd below)

Note twin schmos        totin' bows.        (Where's his br'er?)
Skip their bar-        rows: tipp'd ar-        rows. Take care!

Fear these guys!        Near their thighs        hangs a knife.
Who's not bet-        tin' they'll threat-        en your life?

Ought a per-        son caught cur-        sin' wield axes?
Not at all!        Swat that gall         'fore it waxes!

Where's the luck!        There's this schmuck        with a crossbow.
'Nuf's enuf!      None need suf-        fer such loss. Go!

Shit! His staff        splits me chaff        from me wheat.
Clue this gent:         "Git thee bent!"        [Hit 'delete.']

                                                                             (cont'd below) 

   

When a bloke's         yen to poke        with a spear
your left side,        what's left...? Hide!        Disappear!

Chimes nex' cad,        "I'm Rex Bhadd!        Fear my pata!"
Joke's on him:        folks him limn        "vir non grata."

Ought a lad        thought "not bad"        with cane whips
get to snag        that lit fag        'twixt pain'd lips?

Men may writhe        when with scythe        you attack 'em.
Moral's clear:        more foil fear        when they pack 'em.

"E-e-e-ek! A bomb,"        squeaks the Mom        of this fellow.
"Show no fear!"        'swhat the dear        gal should bellow.

Ev'ry boy-        chik who'd toye        (sic) with hammer...
must be tarr'd.        (Trust you'll pard-        on my grammar.) 

Might who wields        fright'ning shields        run the risk...
 of a scrap        with a chap        with a disc?

   Sound th'alarm!        Bounder's arm'd        with a stick.
      Answer? Charm:        lance his karm-        a with schtick!

     Tykes with noth-        in' like Goths        in old Edda --
     combat blind --        though that kind        should know betta.

     "One's soul's dead,"        some droll said,        "empty handed.
     Sans one's gun,        man's undone:        'no-man's land'ed!"

Carpenter Redux: remember this guy?

Carpenter Reimagined: 

a caricature based on John Tenniel's illustration 

from Lewis Carroll's "Alice Through the Looking Glass."

Print, hand colored in colored pencil, 

of original drawing in graphite pencil

14" x 17" 

Another Profile in Textile

Profiles in Textiles: Men of the Cloth 

Political Journalist Robert Coaster 

Graphite Pencil on Gesso'd Beer Mats Glued to Canvas

16" x 20"

More Profiles in Textiles

Profiles in Textiles: Men of the Cloth 

Israeli PM Bibi Netting-Yahoo

Colored Pencil on Canvas Overlaid with Plastic Mesh

16" x 20"

SasqSwatch
   or Big Foot Descending a Staircase
Woven Textile Strips Glued to Canvas
16" x 20"

Bananagraffe on H E R B I N D I

A Banagraffe on H E R  B I N D I

Sing at me, Muse, of that blue-bloody deb

and her costar, cross lover el socio Reb.
Si! Si! Sing at me, Spirit! Behave as you're bid!
Sing the whole enchilada -- nor leave nada hid --
of how, in the beginning, an ear-splitting din

(though ears hadn't evolv'd yet) had put kinfolk in
an estate of great pain. (I retired to my bed,
as did Auntie McAsser with Great Uncle Ned.)

   
Cousin Bella, as well, towards her hammock did hie,

crying, "Christopher Coulomb! I wanna not die."

(As regards that above-noted op'ning in re

its deep drum-deaf'ning din: who's responsible, eh?
At whose feet lies the blame for this circumstance dire?
To find out, do I need to some Holmes homie hire? 
Of a sudden (in answer?) the welkin ran red,
as up, out of the wine cellar, clump'd Señor Ed.

Oh, I know what you're wond'ring: "So: who in hell's he?

Mainly Spanish? Mad-manish? Sheesh! Who can he be?" 

Sui generis, clearly -- not one o' the herd.
Señor Ed was a one-off, one curious bird --

a Reb rooster, in fact, one in search of his hen

as he lurches -- on crutches! -- up out of his den.
In the meantime, the daughter of Protoplast's rib
spots, then mocks, Señor Cock-a-doo's upstanding nib.

"Do I pluprefer deer? Bucks? Stags? Even a hind?
'Deed I do." (As would you when you'd find ties that bind.)  

Thus, suppressing her ego while boosting her id,
Bella moo'd, “Of unsuitable grooms I’d be rid.
So: shall you I wed? Never! With Ed I'd not bide.
I dare not even date you, much less be your bride."
Though its tale shan't now go 'round some "That's a wrap!" bend,
this ballade of the Muse comes not quite to its end.

As was promis'd, Ms. Muse shall no nicety hide

as she takes us on one Harpomarkable ride.
Nor shall, while at her "fable"ous table we dine,
Ms. Muse serve us, instead of a Pinot, white brine: 
Bella ships out for one or another East Indie,
on which fertile isle Bella bags her her bindi. 

A Split Bananagraffe as Coda:

(Materials, none with qualified rhymes, to be incorporated: a work in progress)

I  Idi  her ER rind rend herb 
ibid nerd bier en diner hinder binder

Mods and/or Rockers?

Which the Rocker? Which the Mod? Barack O'B? Marquis de Sade?
Broccolini? Sweeney Todd? Which the Rocker? Which the Mod?

Which the Mod and which the Rocker? SPAD? Some New York Knickerbocker? 
Serling, Rod? & Gamble Proc'er? Which the Mod and which the Rocker? 

Which the Rocker, which the Mod? P. D. Q. Bach? Scheherazade?
H&R Block? Gen'ral Zod? Which the Rocker? Which the Mod?

Which the Mod and which the Rocker? People of the Pod? Joe Cocker?
Wynken? Blynken? Nod? Dan Blocker? Which the Mod and which the Rocker?

Which the Rocker, which the Mod? Gaylord Focker? al-Assad?
Les Ballets Trockadero? God? Which the Rocker? Which the Mod?

Which the Mod and which the Rocker? M. al-Sadr? Frere Jacques?
David Dodd? Miss Eve Teschmacher? Which the Mod and which the Rocker?

Which the Rocker, which the Mod? Oz's Tik-Tok? Putin, Vlad? 

Baby Doc? Ahmad Rashad? Which the Rocker? Which the Mod?

Which the Mod and which the Rocker? "Klaatu b'rada nikto"? Soccer? 
Prada? Du Printemps le Sacre? Which the Mod and which the Rocker?

  

Prosopogostichs on Tommy Wiseau

Not unpleasant to know...? Mr. Wiseau,
star, director et al of “The Room.”
Should you screen it, note well this proviso:
who’ll of fluff -- you...? -- this oiseau deplume...?
Tommy’s tunes...? Some ring true, some seem lies. So:
o'er his hist’ry does leeriness loom...?
Sure! Plus, further, was Tommy born Wiseau...?
Or is that Tom's Cold War nom-de-plume...?