Selected Loving Yokel Songs

Loving Yokel collects the Yokel songs written between 2018 and the present and marked rose-red for beloved presence. The Yokel gets into their Shakti Pose and feels the Tree of Life ascend from their Root up.

2018

Villanelle: Words and Stones

The stones they threw at your heart
Grew soft on you and gifted with hearing.
Rilke, Sonnets to Orpheus.

They say I’m nothing but a great big flirt
(Lordy Land-a-Goshen sakes alive!),
but the stones they throw at my heart don’t hurt.

My heart melts to a chocolate torte dessert,
my pulse rate quickens into overdrive,
when I see a likely chance to be a flirt.

You stole my heart, so I'll take off my sh[k]irt!
I’m trained to work my flirt from nine to five.
That's why the stones they throw at my heart don’t hurt.

Only Jesus can the vengeful wrath avert
of them that want to stone the girl alive
who dared one time to be too big a flirt.

And dodging rocks is what jolts me alert
and makes me seize the day and strain and strive,
and keeps it so those heart-aimed stones can’t hurt.

I want to be where you are. I’ll assert
that one who lives apart from love can't thrive.
I’ll say, I’m nothing but a great big flirt,
with my feather-down-soft heart. I can be hurt!!!

Villanelle: ¡Bésame Mucho!

¡Bésame! ¡Bésame mucho!
Kiss me, kiss me a lot,
here in my modesty poncho!

My modesty poncho’s cool,
my modesty poncho’s hot.
¡Bésame! ¡Bésame mucho!

Kiss me! Hold me! Now!
as if tonight were not
just another night. Rip my modesty poncho

off clean over my head and throw
it out of my sight!
¡Bésame! ¡Bésame mucho!

You see, we don’t have long to go
until we’ll rot,
wearing our modesty poncho,

or even a pair of breezy gaucho
culottes, to stir the pot.
What’s time to a modesty poncho?
¡Bésame! Kiss me a lot!

Ain't It Neat!

Grazie, Randy Newman.

Street music
beating our feet
on a busy city street. 

Put our seats
on the curb
and let our wrists beat

in time with our feet!
Let the core of us greet
the faces that we meet

as we beat the street
with our feet
singing—

My dogs are sore,
but it’s so sweet
just to live!

Beating our feet
on a big old wagon bed.
Tragic and sweet
on a busy city street.

Dear Old Golden Rule Days

School kept me in the charmed zone
(Boy, did it!),
never more than a few blocks from home.

There was brain work to be done
(I didn’t always git it),
but school kept me in the charmed zone

because I wasn’t at school alone.
There were lots of other kidlets,
never more than a few blocks from home.

School was where my affections roamed.
I kept losing my fool heart!
School kept me in the charmed zone,

and the enchantingest was brown-haired Kathy from Baton
Rouge. She had bangs and a salty sweet accent,
never more than a few blocks from home.

I never courted Kathy. I was prone
to shyness. But I want to claim full credit
for standing stalwart in the charmed zone,
never less than a few blocks from home!

Villanelle, Jean Passerat, c 1585 

I have lost my turtledove.
—Isn’t that her coo?
I want to fly to her!

—So, you miss your girlfriend?
Alas! that’s what I said.
I have lost my turtledove.

As true as my love is true,
that’s how true my troth shall be.
I want to fly to her!

—You renew your complaint?
I can’t stop crying for my love.
I have lost my turtledove.

Seeing no more her beauty,
her beauty no more I see.
I want to fly to her!

Oh Death, who takes our time away
like a pretty toy,
I have lost my turtledove.
I want to fly to her.

Villanelle (Translations of "J’ay perdu ma tourterelle" | Refrain, Again: The Return of the Villanelle)

Ontological

The poem is about the present moment.
Hmm… Don’t mind if I do.
But to place my stuff, I’ll need an agent.

I experienced a particularly radiant
moment yesterday, thinking of you—
a moment

of tenderness, glimpsing a yarn bracelet
in the grass, wet with dew.
But I was supposed to call my agent

to arrange submissions and readings I’m too distracted
to pay adequate attention to.
The poem is about the present moment—

the eternal now, remembered only as a recent
event. The bird flew!
That was what I needed to tell my agent.

A fairy walked by my camera lens, but I was too fidgety
to wait, and now I've got no clue
what tune to hum about the present moment.
All I know is, got to fire my agent!

2019
Only the Dance (Warm Face, Warm Hands, Warm Feet)

Grazie, Peskie Pixie.

I’m stepping out lively
on this ripe occasion.
Aren’t I lovely?

Sin is behovely
(I have to mention
as I step out lively),

but no depravity
or vile intention—
keeping it lovely.

Nor expecting an unduly
harsh evaluation
of my step-so-lively,

as I click my ruby
slippers for ascension.
Aren’t they lovely?

You step with me—
my spur to pay attention
to the beat, as we step lively.
Aren’t we lovely?!

Out Here in the Stars

How can a rock pass light?
I saw a science article about the brain emitting photons.
OK, which cells is it

that shine? Most animals don’t glow at night
(except from radioactive carbon),
but a rat’s brain is literally alight,

they say, as it goes about its daily fight
for life. Light is presumably emitted in the nucleons
of nerve cells, but WHICH cells is it

that light from YOUR brain causes to ignite
in MINE in happy joy-explosions when the connection
happens? The ancient Greeks believed rays of light,

transmitted from the eyes, made objects bright.
All light comes from the Sun,
originally. But whose eye is it

of all the myriad eyes shining in the night
that makes my neurons fire and lights my crayon?
How can a rock pass light?
OK, whose light is it?

Heart Latin

Remembering language games from way back in my childhood,
if-say ou-yay ease-play.
I could speak Pig Latin, but I couldn’t understand it.

Challenging times demand that
I recall the ange-stray anguages-lay
that I mumbled way back in my childhood.

I think my words were understood
only by my friend Virgin-i-ay.
We shared a secret language, but I couldn’t understand it.

Her brother Steve in the neighborhood
once oldme-tay Virgin-i-a was sweet on me.
Recalling such love felt way back in my childhood,

Steve’s words still strike me like a thunderbolt.
But Steve’s and Virginia’s amily-fay soon moved away.
I felt deep sadness, but I didn't understand it.

So now I sing my elegy-Hosannas
about a love that never can xsist-xsay,
remembering language games from way back in my childhood—
trying to speak Heart Latin, but who could understand it?

No Regrets

Crazy, all the trouble I went to.
But it was really good practice.
I was touched, what else could I do?

There were hospitals I wasn’t sent to.
I was forever setting up rehearsal
schedules, such trouble I went to!

I just wanted to see things through.
Neither you nor I would brook refusal.
I was touched. Maybe you were too.

My work was subject to review,
but I never got annoyed by the red pencil
(in spite of all the trouble it put me to),

because my editor was you,
and you were famous for your clobber edits—
I was ko’d, what else could I do

but hear the count? Now will you fly
away like a hungry seagull
In spite of all the trouble you’ve put me through?—
You’re free, what else can you do?

Aye-Day

for Jane Burnes Leverenz.

My hummingbird is my German-made fiddle.
It barely says a word
but fiddle-aye-riddle-

aye-day. The label
says The Chadwick London
Violin, but it’s a German-made fiddle.

It coos like a turtle
when it speaks from its sprung spruce top,
but it says nothing but fiddle-aye-riddle-

aye-day. It rhymes with pickle
and tipple—words never slurred
when sawed on my German-made fiddle.

No, it thrums paradiddles—
up-down, down-up, it whirrs
like a hummingbird singing fiddle-aye-riddle-

aye-day. My fiddle is my sibyl-in-the-middle,
though what it says is a perfect surd.
My hummingbird is my German-made fiddle
singing fiddle-aye-riddle

Yokel in Love in the Time of COVID

Mending My Sox, or Me and My Limerences

Up here in the attic with only me, my
cat, my notebook,
and my limerences.

Pen sharp to stab a rhyme,
beating time with my mazdo pick,
up here in the attic with only the

glow of my own limbs to see by,
I take a bashful look
at things up near the window of my amorances—

but it’s too dark to read
the forecasts in my almanac
up here in the attic in my

Bālāsana pose, bum over
feet, forsaking and forsook
by dear acquaintances.

Searching for a thought to spot you by—
love neither mistaking nor mistook—
up here in the attic with only me,
my cat, my notebook, and my limerences!

Twelve More Miles to Tucumcari

Just fifty more minutes now till my ride arrives.
I can cool my heels on my new living room couch.
My ride is all about who drives.

Always ready for high fives.
You say, Put ‘er there!, and I say, Ouch!
Still fifty more minutes till my ride arrives.

This won't be the last time I see my ride alive,
I trust, though they drive a foot-pedal clutch—
which definitely decides who drives

because I‘m more of an automatic guy,
so I’ll ride in the passenger seat in my poetic slouch.
But there are still forty-five more minutes till my ride arrives,

and then it’ll be all about what chimes and jives
and who has an empathetic touch.
So it really doesn’t matter who drives—

except that it won’t be this white-
haired queer, fluttering their eyebrows.
Just thirty-seven minutes now till my ride arrives.
I’ll ride shotgun, you drive!

Love in the Time of COVID

I take long separated walks
(receiving phone texts—I’ve been isolating.
Miss you and the music).

How long, how long (may we predict)
must we continue isolating?
I take long separated walks,

and when someone approaches I duck
into an alley so I can keep on isolating
(ears full of our music).

And when friends visit I don’t really want to talk
to them, so fond have I become of isolating!
My long separated walks

do me good, I think,
in my steadfast isolating.
Miss you and the music!

Painting my entire urban district
with my sandal prints as I’m isolating
on my long separated walks—
toes stepping our music.

Yokel in Love in the End Times

I’ve Looked at Life

There’s a River-Goddess-Ganga
pose in yoga—
feet toward the riverside.

Will I know the Goddess when I
meet her?—mother
of the fishes—Ganga

herself, not bashful about her gender—
Cow-face—one fragrant
armpit advanced—feet to both sides

now. When I meet my sister
on the other shore,
I’ll toot some ganga

and do whatever
she wants me to—learn
how to play lap steel

guitar—
why not, long’s life and love remain?
Yup, I’m in my River Goddess Ganga.
pose, feet toward the riverside!

Footsie Antenna 

Who Is that third who walks always beside me?

The Yokel trucks through the snow in their flip-flops,
feeling pinpricks of cold on their snow-glazed feet,
taking the compost out.

And they’re wearing their thin nylon coat and their fox hat,
wondering if their sweetest sweet
friend might be trucking through the snow in their flip-flops

too, doing their yard chores, now the snow has stopped—
driving the car up off the street,
taking their compost out.

Sure sign of how much they think about
their friend, and of how much they love watching their own cute feet
as they truck in their flip-flops!

Is loving their friend just a pretext
for loving themselves, especially their own feet,
walking the compost out?

No, the Yokel’s feet have met their perfect match,
mated right and left, a third waltz beat,
trucking through the snow in OUR flip-flops,
taking the compost out!

Working on My Cheshire Cat Act Again

I can’t be happy unless I hear from you.
But we seldom meet in person,
so I incessantly text you.

I get so much blesséd energy from you!
Your friendship is such a blessing!
Unhappy until I hear from you,

it’s too obvious I’m in love with you,
so I need to ration
my communications and not text you

quite so often. I’m sure you
have lots of other things to spend your attention on,
and other people too. If I don’t hear from you,

I just need to suck it up and bother you
at least a little less. Remembering what Baton-
Rouge Kathy said (third grade) when I vexed her

too much—He just pesters you
right through it!—in her beautiful Louisiana twang.
I can’t be happy unless I hear from you.
OK, now I’ll stop texting.

Are These Cookies for Anybody?

Will nothing do for me
except writing poetry
that I can’t share with anybody?

Sharing’s too risky—
anybody could see
how joyful life is for me,

and I guess they’d be jealous of me.
So, yeah, too risky
to share my poetry with anybody.

Anybody’d be embarrassed for me—
What a fairy! they’d say.
Still, nothing does for me

except writing flirty poetry
(that you, perchance, may someday
read). My poetry’s not for anybody

except Yours truly and me.
Our own scrumptious cookie
magic does for me.
Our name is Anybody.

Let Us Not Speak of It!

Something might not be a problem until you name it—
maybe by calling it a beautiful fantasy,
because now we know we’ll never live it.

But we were living it before I named it.
Anomie—
No Name—I called it, forcing us to see it

for what it (n)ever was(n’t)—not meaning to place blame on
anyone, least of all our dearest friends.
But we can never live it,

now that I’ve proclaimed it
to be a far-cry Odyssey
from the safe Aegean island that it seemed to be before I named it.

What remains is
just our gross, green,

life-teeming planet—
plenty going on in terms of botany and zoology!
No question till I named it!
Like hell we’ll never live it!!!