Friday, July 21, 2017

Three Poems by K.J. Hannah Greenberg

No Need for Chassis

Initially, little was said about the oceanic, rubicund maids, who invested time
In fartlek and gymnastics, no matter the vexatious character of such goings on;
Amidst Potemkin villagers, pulchritudinous others get regularly discounted.

Worldviews changed after Prince Fin swam into the settlement. Rustics, also
Certain “civilized” cousins, i.e. specious, profligate louts, i.e. people of protest,
Weren’t satisfied showcasing him in emerging headlines, photos, video links.

Rather, several times daily, they featured “the invader” as an “item of importance,”
Gave him full consideration for employing reasoning to classifying: parish strengths,
Means for functioning effectively with coworkers, and barters over fungible cargos.

Actually, the foreigner had no idea that local drones interacted when consulting texts,
That gurus fat on regular ignorance, high on frangipani fragrance, sodden by ferment,
Comprehended enough data about dollars/euros/yen, to brashly chide civic industries.

After all, merfolk keep a very low profile, having realized that epistemic semiotics
Slay personal moments, plus that radical orisons, expressly social architecture, fail.
They merely revealed that fish gladly use their free periods to splash inbuilt patterns.

Consequently, popular articulation, in the underwater electoral arena, fossicked
The moral turpitudes of the imported fella (relative to select modern records).
He oughtn’t to have discredited sea anemone, belly dancing, or basket weaving.

Verbiage escaped from his formidable advisors spilled facts on local broadcasting,
Illuminated marine worldbuilding, highlighted effortless defilements by his citizens
(Few of his aquatic fans learned the skills needed to be zamindars or merchants.)

Subsequently, the raider grew anxious when witnessing indigenous, aphotic acts.
His intelligence couldn’t shade most coraz√≥n patterns or imprint new online platforms.
Even interdisciplinary approaches to deep sea fishing couldn’t cull enough changes.

Rather than anchor to windward, the aggressor whirled away, leaving behind sensory
Acuity, moissanite smiles, critical thinking circuses, and proprioception colloquiums.
That stupid, rich other never provided dinkum replies to many old gill-bearers’gripes.

Belonging to a Certain Bovine Manager

In belonging to a certain bovine manager,
Select amounts of housing queries
Demanded our denuded fears, laughed,
Allowed no cenacles at designated agoras,

Even after a passing fashion,
Those “vegetarian meatballs”
Permitted no facet of family life,
Not even mismatched mittens.

The last of those older folks bothered
Latching to no permanent job security;
The demise of their horse whisperer
Issued rainbow, unpublished diatribes.

Still, we ought not, never, not even once,
Neglect matters of character, commerce, sex.
Whereas, currently, such items play as daft,
We to use them to attract students, pay rent.

A life devoted to the care of flexible muskrats
Brings, usually, feelings enthroned on a seat,
Half love at half-mast; full love, infrequently,
Occasional piano concertos in the key of C major.

Remembering to pick up random socks, after all,
Proves most studios or classrooms, by discipline,
Full of volunteers to stretch out on bedroom carpets;
Formerly, time shares used to be plentiful, sufficed.

Dogs were pets when men were universally dependable.
Few viciously hilarious cases surfaced psychologically.
Enough folks survived romantic ordeals to couple.
As well, grownups swam in amusement park lakes.

The Local Toadstool Malt Shop Revisited

Cobwebs confounded Elias’ attempts to mix
Linden leaves, under pressure, with ginger ale.
Hortance, warts, slime, bulging eyes, coughed.
(Gotham dude slurped down flies while waiting.)
Finally, music announces Reginald’s arrival.

On gossamer wings, borrowed permanently,
Attached with wire so fine as to be dangerous,
A pimpled gnome floats in from the canopy,
Bows to budgies, finches, sparrows, shares
Brooklyn Elvyn Symphony’s third disc.

Not just music blasts from his body pack; he oozes.
Tamsina shrugs. Wormwood’s amber arsenic drop,
Also a lidocaine ribbon makes that pretty girl’s mix.
Mostly, the she-dwarf, all betrothal petticoat curtsies,
Waits until Sylvester pushes aside the gateway ferns.

She dreams on sipping like folk half as wide, twice dainty.
The war between King Filigree and The Duke of Arteries
Culls more than horses and men; it magics small people,
Transporting them to where gusts expand rulers’ heads,
Where saltpeter bursts viscera of many valiant soldiers.

Young ogre gents, fairies, perhaps harpies, as well,
Fail to return from those far swords and conjuring.
No rose petal brew, no vials poofed by arachnids,
Can counterbalance cold steel’s somnolent power.
Words, hearts, ardor, too, are helpless to avert loss.

Comely Sylvester knew violent rhymed glamours,
Heaved cudgels too great for most bald-pated men,
But harvested no merriment, no early fastening,
Only lingered watching Alexis drink bitter draughts
To regurgitate them hours later in puddle s of sorrow.

Valentines clandestinely pour staunch nothing.
Limitedly, at best, they cushion her prescience.
Elsewhere, honies bleed the field, are trampled,
Skewered. So, she raises her glass to plutocracy
Somehow, staying herself from anzid’s oath.

Opting amnesia beneath fennel and toadstool,
Forgetting blake, scying, battle, love, death.
Tossing gilded bits, ordering further freezes,
Attempting no purchase of new comrades, not

Dreading dangling blood-crusted vestments.

KJ Hannah Greenberg is the author of more than a dozen books. Her writing has received National Endowment for the Humanities funding and has been nominated for the Pushcart Prize, the Million Writers Award, and The Best of the Net. Hannah's newest books are: The Immediacy of Emotional Kerfuffles, 2nd ed. (Bards and Sages Publishing, 2015), and Dancing with Hedgehogs, (Fowlpox Press, 2014). Hannah lives and creates in Jerusalem.