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A Selection of Poetry
By Gary B. Larson
©2022
If Only Calendars Were King--And Days Went on Forever
Last year, I'm told, the kingdom went kaput--
But not in so many words.
It was here--and then it wasn't:
Life abounded--
and kids played with frogs and sticks.
Moonshadows cast their ancient spell
upon neighbors playing kick the can.
And barbecues accentuated the air
of cul-de-sacs.
Across bridges and byways
manufactured movement carried unfamiliar faces
to places of the daily grind.
to momentary visions of unsurpassed pleasure.
to unchecked money lending and spending.
In canyons of downtown wilderness--
Typewriters clicked.
Doors made open and shut cases.
Hierarchies sterilized free expression.
This car bumper dented that car bumper.
Elsewhere in the city--
Deciduous steeples shaded tight-knit rows:
of personalized castles of protection.
of edible greens and yellows.
of words and pictures residing on granite shelves.
And then:
A site of our supposed defenses
was struck
by an unliving but wild
creation of
our intelligence.
And everything died:
Too few had done too little too late.
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TheDefenseBudget Blues: Tanks but No Tanks
Golden-green galoshes
in the snow
went splat
on top of the manhole
that covered the depths
of human waste.
Everyone stared
at the model in the window.
"That waist ain't human,"
they said in unison.
And the man in the peacoat and felt hat
walked away shaking his head:
"It's near Christmas,
and there are too many toy models
to play with."
They were all standing in lines
underground
and on freeways,
at checkout counters
and in typewriter keyboards
awaiting the long-awaited arrival
of letters that signify
sharing
one's own silk pajamas
with people without shoes.
Nuh-nuh, nuh-nuh-nuh, nuh-nuh-nuh.
"I can't get no!" Nuh, nuh, nuh. "Satisfaction!" Nuh, nuh, nuh.
"Oh shaddup, liver lips. Don't you know
that money can't buy you love?"
With a microphone between his legs,
Mick told the peanut vendor,
"Hey, you, get offa my cloud."
But the holiday spirit lost its cork:
The pumpkin raised
its crusty head,
instead,
and took aim at the organ grinder,
knocked the chimp off his shoulder
and made mincemeat
of the so-called poet.
"Be thankful that you
can be thankful,"
said the turkey with envy.
"Give and I will receive,"
said the stereo component.
And the remote-controlled VCR
got wrapped up in red magnetic tape.
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Homes to Houses in One Easy Lesson
The flour mill on top of Cherry Hill
burned to the ground yesterday.
It was the day the new year began,
and union leaders had said workers could stay away.
But gray Samuel McGovern didn't listen. He was alone
and had nothing to do--
so he went to the mill
as he had done
since Ruth left his world
after 30 years.
He was in the machine shop when it started,
repairing flywheels and switches
and making things work.
His foreman had dropped by
but left in a hurry:
He went to get drunk;
he didn't want to face
the future and fates
of the workers he once knew as friends.
"Too bad about that," said the chairman of the board.
"Oh, it's too bad," said the mayor.
"Yes, it's too bad," said the president of Cherry Hill First National.
"I agree. It really is too bad," said the developer
of the proposed Cherry Hill Mall.
"I hate to sound redundant, but it is too bad,"
said Nickerson of Nickerson's' Cherry Hill Realty.
On January 2, papers were filed
for a new development.
It was to be Cherry Hill Estates:
"Get Away from It All," the slogan would say.
And commuters-to-be
would come in droves.
Portstown was just
20 minutes away.
"Our Empire's Financial Hub," its promoters called it.
But the briefcase carriers hated it
and would be happy to move away:
Portstown neighborhoods
were old and dark,
and undesirables lived there.
Mill workers without jobs
soon lost their homes
and moved to Portstown.
The powerful cried, "Arson!" And Samuel McGovern was pulled
from his hospital bed...
He was burned again
with the third degree.
The flywheel fixer took the blame:
and the bankers, developers and their lawyers
lay at home in hammocks
--and were happy.
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Flash Garden Saves Safeway Lot
The steering wheel blares at the driver:
"Get your hands off me, honky."
The driver ignores the blast
and turns around, instead,
just in time
to see the curb
as his tires roll through
the viburnum davidi and Oregon grape
planted there.
"Now I've done it," says the driver,
taking a break
and smashing the pedal
to the floor.
"Woooooooooaaaaaaaaaahhhhhhhh, horsepower!"
he says.
"We're getting really tired of this,"
say the berries falling from the grape bush.
"Same here,"
agree the berries
still clinging barely
to the shrub.
Mother Nature has few kind words
for parking lot forests.
Scattered across
the wide, open asphalt fields,
little oases
crop up.
Heartbroken branches, soiled dirt
and downtrodden cedar chips
give a poor impression
of evergreen jungles.
"Well, at least they're not plastic,"
says the grocery store manager.
"Here, buy some petunias and marigolds
--on sale now--
and place them
in this whiskey barrel
on your porch.
You, too, can go native."
But the Chevy station wagon
does not hear or see.
It flies right past
and empties its
2-year-old, 8-year-old and 30-year-old cargo
alongside a stand of flowering cherries.
"Ouch," yelps the driver with a twig in his eye.
"I can't see no forest, let alone a tree!"
His well-trained kids play leapfrog across the ivy.
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And Smelling Tulips on the Starboard Side
He was sailing along
the southern shore
when his oven overheated
and burned his snorkel to a crisp.
But he didn't care; he was wearing crimson,
and he felt like dancing, instead...
with the first 9-foot mermaid
that should appear
on the horizon.
"My horizon girl," he would say,
before changing his clothes
and finding the right hat
to yank from the chipmunks
that had boarded his vessel
when the lookout was empty.
The chipmunks could not speak,
but if they could they would
have much to tell.
Not about acorns and twigs and 2-ton cats
but about the trouble with twilight--
and all the unlighted bows and sterns
that no one could see:
"The nuts aren't all in the trees."
"I'm leaving now,"
the captain would say.
And he left
but not forever.
His crew of nine
expected him back
to tell a story
about mending shirts with one hand.
For the captain had but four fingers,
one thumb and five stubs.
The shark he once sought
was not eager
to spend its days
in front of movie cameras
held by stockbrokers
who make treks to the wilderness
by watching drive-in movies.
The captain:
He took a bite of commerce,
got eaten alive
and went back to making love
to the wind and the waves.
He cared more for the mist
than the must.
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Poetry created in the 1980s. Website maintained by Gary B. Larson of Port Townsend, Washington, garbltoo@gmail.com.
Updated Jan. 19, 2022.