A hippo never went to school
which seems quite the catawampus
tho' he's no fool it's not cool
as there's no hippo campus
and wild is the hippo
while the horse may be tamed
yet both are herbivores
with large teeth to graze or crop
and altho' the hippo has an equine nickname
that's where the similarity stops
as the hippo is the horse of the river
(a horse of a different colour?)
causing him to be conflicted and confused
thus these words of wisdom I deliver
they'll walk trot or run on the sand
but the horse is not the hippo of dry land
so when he did wonder why
to clarify then classify
after several lobotomi
he was heard to query
"What kind of hippopotami?"
I often write about the ocean. I went to see a museum exhibit, yesterday, “Dutch Art in a Global Age.” The paintings of sailboats on the sea caught my attention. Breathtaking and romantic, admired them up closely, then from the center of the room. One artist was Ludolf Bakhuizen and his painting was “Ships in a Gale on the IJ before the City of Amsterdam.”
THE STORM SWEPT THROUGH
the storm swept
through
sails white & gray
clouds
competing
ebb & flow
of catawampus rain
the heave-ho
of the hulls
crashing
on
malevolent waves
the sky falls
squeezes out
thunderous soak
cantankerous whitecaps
like
moon craters
rise & fall
cerulean hope
bleeds through
as
the sun bruises the
hullabaloo
lightning shows
off
a couple more
times
than its lullaby
hushes
and the boats
gently rock
as if the infant
is sound asleep
the sea is smooth
it is a smooth operator
a breathing body
of fickle water
There lived a country mouse
In a catawampus house
With roof aslant
From back to front
And crooked walls as well.
He did not mind at all
Running circles in the hall
He kicked at peas
And nibbled cheese
Then groomed his hair with gel!
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
A Nursery Rhyme 2023
A pill pushing priest
Catawampus and Pious
Sold hell in all forms
Greening trees thatch back
a tattered sky.
The cock-a-hoop of Cardinals,
roosters and cawing crows
all kicking-up patches of sound,
ruddy periods in the catchy sonics,
canorous stops and starts.
all in a catawampus.
I am far from song yet.
my ears are bats hung from chilly temples,
but I do feel a coyote-itch
a hitch and twitch of subliminal nooky,
My springs are unwinding
in the imminent offing.
I do imagine bosky blooms
upon the hairy chops of whistle pigs,
and conjure getaway goslings
gandering, all within a fuzzy feathering
of a new-fluffed season.
I do.
Greening trees thatch a spackled sky.
Cardinals kick up patches of sound,
red periods and full-stops
amid an increasing catawampus.
I am far from song yet.
my ears are bats hung from chill temples,
but I do feel
a coyote-itch in my dreams,
do imagine a splatter of green
on the hairy chops of whistle pigs.
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