Splendid Yokel collects the Yokel songs written between 2018 and the present End Times and marked purple for Crowning Spirit: Self as Other, Other as Self. The Yokel fancies themselves at their crowning fay-mystical best.
2018
Villanelle: The Mountain and the Dove
Grazie, Beatrice Kay.
Take a ticket to Tacoma!
And while you’re waiting for the train
think about your sweet paloma!
You won’t contract a melanoma
from standing in the pouring rain
holding a ticket to Tacoma.
You’ll earn your doctoral diploma
if you can tolerate the strain
of disserting on your sweet paloma
in your Valley-of-the-Moon, Sonoma.
Take your shoes off, taste the wine!
Take a ticket to Tacoma!
You must adopt a nice persona
(sexy, fuzzy, and feline)
to epitomize your sweet paloma.
Then go ahead and shout Excelsior!
‘cause you'll have your baby all the time,
advancing upwards to Tacoma.
Riding on your fast paloma!
Always More
If not for you, my sky would fall.
Rain would gather, too.
Less is more is often true.
We don’t want to overburden our friends.
But more is more when it comes to you!
You are the one whom the glass shoe
fits, Love, when we come to the end
of roads where more is less is true.
Because, Love, you’re the barley in the brew!
I’ve felt how far your loving care extends.
More is more when it comes to you—
not less than enough to get me through
life’s daily twists and bends,
where less is lessening seems true.
I came to you, Love, through the foggy dew.
I moved so softly, my feet made no din.
I needed more and more of you!
When it comes to you, rain gathers too.
But we know how to make amends.
Less is more is often true,
but more is always more when it comes to you!
Sailor Come Home
Will the day ever come
when me, myself, and I cease to please?
It’ll be time to go home—
like that woman in the WC Williams poem
who says she’s tired of the trees.
Will the day ever come
when I’m weary of the tunes I hum—
like a dog sick of their fleas?
It’ll be time to go home,
choose my seat and sit down,
relax and take my ease.
Will the day ever come
when I’ll look around and choose my ground
like Byron before the Battle of Missolonghi?
It’ll be time to go home
to my new cell in God’s honeycomb,
like Stevenson home from the sea.
When that day comes,
I’ll be glad to go home!
I'm So Glad I'm Up in Heaven at Last
When I walk, I keep my chin forward
of my feet.
If I don’t, I’ll have a nasty spill.
My feet will be in the air. The birds will tweet.
Walking through each of this most
amazing day’s sweet
opportunities. Opportunities to get killed!!!
When I walk, I keep my chin forward
of my feet.
My chin is made of steel, you know.
When the street
slugs me in the middle of my vaudeville
act, my feet ain’t in the air, at least. The birds
don’t tweet.
Could be I’ll break my wrists, though,
completely
wrecking my fiddle career. Still,
when I walk, I'll keep my chin forward
of my feet.
Don’t know when, but soon, a snow-
white sheet
will cover up my face. What’s left of me will fill
a tight space reft of air, where no birds tweet.
But that’ll be the day when our souls meet,
after we’ve tumbled down the hill, says Jack,
says Jill.
When I walk, I keep my chin forward
of my feet.
My feet will be in the sky. The birds will tweet.
God
Every single word’s an ontology
of rhymes—some words have lots, some few.
What’s the ontology of biology?
Well, cosmology, doxology, ethnology,
garbology, scatology (oh, pew!).
Every single word’s an anthology
of words-within-words—morphology,
tautology (meaningless but true).
So what is the ontology of biology,
then? every word its own mythology,
a regular ontology stew—
typology—
eiolons of cytology, necrology, phrenology.
You can list ‘em till the last shoe
drops, when you’re studyin’ on podology.
But I think the key to biology’s zoology:
processional life of kid, ram, and ewe.
Every single word’s a mammalogy—
androgyny? Well, I’m searching for a Trinity!
2019
Same One
The goldfinches are back, or others like them. Elizabeth Bishop
Chipmunk on the back-porch stair
after it has raided the bird feeder—
same one that was here last year?
Chipmunk, you have such soft, sleek fur!
Chipmunk, you’re such a hearty eater!
chipmunk on the back-porch stair.
Chipmunk, where’s your winter lair?
I believe that you’re a heavy sleeper,
chipmunk that was here last year
awake this bright spring morning fair—
peepers sending from the lake their repeating
inextricable wail, heard from the back-
porch stair
by the chipmunk and me—our four ears
full of the sound of Reality,
same sound that will ring next year
when chipmunks, frogs, and yokels
are no more.
But where there’s a song there will be singers.
Chipmunk on the back-porch stair!
Same one that was here last year.
The King Asked the Queen and the Queen Asked the Dairymaid
Sunlight buttered on the grass. James Schuyler, Morning of the Poem. Grazie, A A Milne.
Why does the bread of poetry
need so much butter on it?
Ask the Alderney!
Heavy calories?
Better just put jelly on it,
the crusty bread of poetry.
Call me fussy,
but (pox upon it!)
please check with the Alderney
one more time, OK?
I need butter for my sonnet.
You ask why poetry
needs butter, eh?
Well (deary me!),
when an Alderney
moo-es plaintively, all she can see
in the meadow is sunlight
buttered on the grass of poetry.
So says the Alderney.
Sam Peabody, Peabody, Peabody
White-throated sparrows do a happy
dance to scratch back the leaves.
Instead of tweet, they say Sam Peabody,
Peabody, Peabody.
Robin points them out there hopping
near the clay
fish. If binoculars didn’t hurt my eyes,
I could see
them better—white-throated sparrows
doing their happy
dance. There are more birds perching
on the fence, but those are just finches
who peeve
us by eating up all the bird seed, only
saying tweet.
You’d think they’d have enough to eat,
but they can’t protect their larders
against thieves,
like the chipmunks that regularly dance
on the feeders,
spilling the seed
on the ground. How we grieve
at the havoc they wreak, while the birds
say tweet!
But the white-throated sparrows are so cute!
Maybe they’ll stay the winter. If not, at least
they’ll leave
the memory of their happy
dance, Sam Peabody, Peabody, Peabody!
The Grasshopper and the Cricket
Grazie, John Keats.
Should I lie here on my soft-swaddled couch
on the north end of the house,
or sit on my sunny south-kitchen bench?
I’m just a light-denying grouch
in a blue terry cloth bathrobe,
lying on their soft-swaddled couch.
True, it’s brighter out there, but much
comfier here—I’m cozy as a mouse.
But does the sunny south-kitchen bench
beckon anyway, though it’d take a winch
to lift me from this snooze,
swaddled like a baby on my couch.
OK, I’ve got a fresh
perspective now, gazing
from my sunny south-kitchen bench.
It’s not quite as cheerful as I expected,
but the sun is shining, and a soft light glows
in a sky that reminds me of my
soft-swaddled couch
as I sit here on my sunny south-kitchen bench.
Inn of the Five Graces
Without divine grace
no one can return to the presence of God.
OR, you can go to the Inn of the Five Graces i
n Santa Fe.
Sight, Sound, Touch, Smell, Taste.
You can listen to a pod-
cast about Grace,
like the Divine Grace
Lutheran Weekly Sermons with a hundred
and thirty episodes.
OR, you can go to the Inn of the Five Graces
in Santa Fe.
But you’ll need just three to find your way—
that’s Aglaia Grace of Brightness, listed
y Hesiod,
along with Thalia Grace
of Blooming, and Euphrosyne Grace
of mirthful Joy—
goddesses who can bring a clod
of earth to life—even the hard clay dirt
of Santa Fe.
Who says there’s hell to pay?
You’ll walk where only elfen feet have trod.
Divine grace
is yours to book a vibrant room in the Five
Graces Inn in Santa Fe!
2020
Pandora at the Beach
Grazie, Peskie Pixie.
I’ll never have to go beauty-dry.
Beauty will always be there for me as long
as I live.
I carry my own beauty with me in my body.
That means, my beauty is duty-free.
If I lovingly water it my beauty thrives,
and I’ll never have to go beauty-dry.
Even if I’m ugly, I’m beautiful in my own eyes!
If these hot selfies may us move—
this beauty we carry with us in our body—
crown, forehead, throat, heart, belly,
sacrum, feet—
come live with me and be my love,
and we’ll never have to go beauty-dry—
preening together in the glass of eternity.
Wherever we happen to cast our gaze,
our beauty abides because we carry
it with us!
We drank all the wine in the sacristy.
And we’ll die, but our beauty never will
because beauty was never ours to get or give,
though we carry it with us in our bodies.
Hop High, My Lindy Lou
It’s an obsession, I can’t stop.
I keep doing it, and I never get tired of it—
my hop!
I should just go clippity-clop
like some lame dray-horse, but
I keep on tripping, I can’t stop.
Do they think they can tie me with a rope?
No, I’ll prance this whole wide desert o’er,
doing my hop
to tune my hoof-soles, traveling with my troop.
There’s hot dust in my nose, but I
put up with it.
It’s an obsession, I can’t stop
roaming these valleys, these hilltops,
these canyon lands—my old-paint-hoss
hide doing the hop
like a jumping bean on a tabletop
(mesa, that is}, to earn my golden spurs.
It’s an obsession, I can’t stop
my hop!
The Opposite of Insomnia
It seems to make a difference to my day
if I sleep well,
but what a difference bad sleep makes!
So, I say my bedtime prayers:
Please don’t send me to hell,
beloved sleep, that I crave all day!
When I'm sleeping, no trace
of sunshine’s welcome.—
Light makes
for bad rest. But I was going to say,
before Phoebus broke in with their handsome
rays: I’d best like to sleep all day,
light creeping past the window shades
but not my eyelids. Well, the windows
could be unshaded and I still wouldn’t wake
up and make hay in the sun’s gaze.
But the sun sees me even when I’m sleeping
like the dead,
dreaming of the difference to my day
my good sleep makes.
Sassy Morning Pose
White-throated sparrow with a moth
in its beak.
Remembering the Teton range,
I view my own skeleton:
the Grand Teton at the point of my chest
(sternum bone the cross expressed in Jesus—
moth in the white-throated sparrow’s beak);
pointed Mt. Owen my crook’d knee;
Teewinot my suspended foot.
My very own skeleton draped
over these gorgeous peaks,
already vested with snowy
feathers—white-throated sparrow with a moth
in its beak.
The very one for whose sake
the mountains fell and sprang anew?—
my fresh morning skeleton
ringing its tuneful bones
on my cedar porch in full view
of everyone. White-throated sparrow
with a moth in its beak.
Cocky skeleton!
Seven Sisters Lindy Hop
De'duke men a' sela'nna kai` Plhï'ades, me'sai de` nu'ktes pa'ra d' e'rxet' w' 'ra, e'gw de mo'na kateu'dw. Sappho
Time slips slowly by
(one hundred and thirty-five thousand dead)—
living on COVID time.
We’re lying high and dry,
the Pleiades are setting,
time slips slowly by.
We can’t meet and say hi,
even with masks on—
living on COVID time.
We aren’t sick and we don’t die
(yet), the fronts are stacking,
as time grinds by
and the low tide
hangs our good love out to dry—
living on COVID time.
The moon is gone from the sky,
the Pleiades are setting,
it’s midnight and the time slips by,
in my lonesome bed I lie—
living on COVID time.
Searching Pinterest
Erotic Hindu icons.
You can meditate before a lovely image.
Google it if you wanna!
The Hindu god of love is Kāma—
firstborn of the primal chaos.
There are Hindu icons
of Kāmadeva riding their parrot Vahana,
with bow and arrows like Eros
themselves. Google it if you wanna!
Whatever prompt you care to write on—
barefoot-waif-poet striking all your matches
(there’s an erotic image
for you!). But you see your lost true lover
in that momentary flash.
Google Lucius Apuleius if you wanna
read the story, which must repeat as Karma—
lime and salt in your erotic shaker—
your own bones your best erotic icon,
as you surf the Google-Dhamma!
The Great Speckled Bird
What a beautiful thought I am thinking Concerning the Great Speckled Bird!
Beautiful is such a beautiful word—
a transcendence when you say it!
The Great Speckled Bird
is a beautiful, beautiful thought
(remember, her name is recorded
in the pages of God’s Holy Word)—
a world-arcing rainbow chord!
I think I first heard my mother say it.
A particular bird
was flying low over the Arkansas
river one day in Pueblo Colorado,
and beautiful was the word
my mother used to describe it.
Beatitude, for sure! Beyond this world,
yet of it. An ordinary bird—
a little gray and homely, even.
Her beauty is in any twangy
voice that sings that Grand Ole Opry song
concerning the Great Speckled Bird.
End Times
Beatniks Out to Make It Rich
Oh, no! Must be the Season of the Witch. Donovan
All the black same I dance my blue head off!
quoth Berryman in a self-righteous mood.
What do I have not to feel joyful about?
Sure, there are the asshole Repunklican scoff-
laws, advocating behaviors that will spread
the Coronavirus. All the sick same I dance
my sore feet off!
I dance right up here on the roof.
I know I’m gauche, I know I’m crude,
but I’ve got nothing not to foot it about!
I’ll strut with my friend HR Pufnstuf—
I believe that they're the world’s
jonesiest dude,
so through the purple haze I’ll dance
my green head off—
hand-rolled for relaxation when the road
gets rough,
getting me a-wailin’ on my goat-y flute!
What do I have not to tootle about?
I can’t toot a little ‘cause I can’t toot enough.
Huh! Pufnstuf’s cool, but my best friend’s
Witchy Poo.
What do we have not to weave magic about?
While life remains, we’ll dance
our doomed heads off!
Where the Sweetness Lies
Why was I not successful in business
or in academia?
Because I had to be true to my Yokelness.
My uncouth nudistness
could be distracting in a seminar,
but it was nobody’s business
but mine what I wore on my tuchus.
Now that I’m in my seventies,
I realize that the core value of Yokelness
is nothing but sexy flirtiness,
plus a nefarious
craving for my own unsanctioned business.
Behold me in my nakedness!—
anointed leader of Freedonia, Rufus
T. Firefly himself? No, life-consigned
to simple Yokelness
by way of diagnosis—it’s everyone’s job to love
themselvesnthe best!
We shake fairy dust
over our own sweet, peacefully-sleeping
business—
glowing with Yokelness!
Ariel the Yokel, or Prospero Frees the Genie
Grazie, Wallace Stevens.
Why did the Yokel [n]ever publish
their poems?
Why would a yokel write poems in the
worst case?
How loud can a yokel crow ‘em?—
their poem cockalorum.
They got egg on their face—
scrambled-egg poem.
But never mind, they don’t own ‘em
anymore, anyway—these songs belong to a
bot in the Ukraine—
that’s how far they managed to throw ‘em
when they put ‘em in the Google bin.
But they can never disappear without a trace—
the Yokel nor their sad ghost-haunted poems,
electrons thrown
into the void. Never will they cease
to exist, porque los tiraron
into the Great Absurdum
from which Their Yokelness emerged in the
first place,
blown out of or sucked into a black poem.
That’s how loud they’ve managed to crow ‘em!
The Yokel-Rooster am at peace.
Ariel was glad they had added their poems
to the world’s low hum.
Grendel the Yokel, or Beowulf Go Home
The Yokel hiked to Lake Solitude in their
Ecco sandals—
fifteen miles round trip.
Grendel's
Mother was there with them on the mountain,
in the guise of
elk, pika, and bear. But the top-
most beast was the Yokel themselves in their
Ecco sandals—
well, that’s how it felt to the Yokel,
leastways. The Yokel’s trippy
feet danced every stone step of that trail
in Grendel's
Mother’s wild domain. Grasping the handle
of their gnarly walking staff, they tapped
a million trail rocks with their sandal
soles. They were a Dane in Denmark,
and their toes danced every line of that
witchy map—
Grendel’s
mother well-trusted to dangle
high-mountain visions before their raptured
eyes—the Yokel’s, that is, as they hiked
to Lake Solitude in their Ecco sandals!
Holy Mother of Grendel!
Yokel Reincarnation
Does the Yokel have an immortal soul?
Will the Yokel be reincarnated?
Yes! They are part of the hole
in nature that keeps having to be filled
in. So, whatever the Yokel was is bound
to be created
anew—call it their soul
if you want. But they won’t be the same old
Yokel as before—they’ll be reworded—
all their old syllables having drained
into the hole
that opened up when they neared their goal—
their well-prepared finé in eternity’s sonata.
There the Yokel’s eternal soul
intermediately floats like a raisin in a bowl
of bran flakes. Whatever merit they rated
accrues to them—neither heaven nor hell,
but nothing not to be joyful
about, when their scratchy socks are traded
for sky. The universal sole!
The gaping whole!
