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Written by Francis Scudellari
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It was my nightly recurring teenage motif:
The cramped room with a stomach-knotting
presence, creaky floorboards and one wickedly
white door looming as ghastly and large as
any bad-movie omen about to play out.
Being poltergeist-gripped, it swayed back an inch
before a sudden but noiseless slam
shut that unhinged me toward hasty shouts
of, "The power of Christ compels thee!"
(It's a silver-bullet phrase packed and ready in
the chamber of all aspiring exorcists.)
The devil scared out of me yet again,
I'd wake up with renewed vows to avoid TV
horror fests, and those sensational stories
my mom brought home in her Weekly World News. |
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Written by Francis Scudellari
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A plume should be a thing lovely and light
dancing violet as it's fanned
at the flanks of the blue
bird-of-paradise
who hangs limberly
to solicit a mate
It should curl
blinding white at the back
of the puffy Samoyed
prancing fancy to please a master
who also preens on the oval
of a sawdust track
It should flop
red at the top of gold-painted tin
helmet awry on the head
of an aspiring actor
who plays centurion for tips
outside a mobbed Colosseum
It should spray
as clear and cooling drops out
the copper mouth of a grass-snake
green hose uncoiled by
the sneaky dad who tickles
giggles from sweaty kids
It should flutter
gray at the tail end of a quill
bouncing to the frenzied
jottings of an anachronistic
frump who takes the pain to outfit
himself far too seriously
A plume should not be a thing of plague
riding currents kissed by taint-
sweet crude blasted from a wound
gouged in the crust
of a frigid deep to feed
our shallow lust for eases
It shouldn't choke
It shouldn't muck
It shouldn't tar
It can't help
poisoning that last pretense
we cared about anything,
be it plumed or not, but
the finality of
a bottom line |
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Written by Francis Scudellari
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It might be the pungent steam from a pot
steeping herbs meant to bend its sippers'
minds to potent effect, or an unanticipated
digestive reckoning from that mawkishly flavored
brand of store-bought paste they pass as butter.
However the dough arises, their collective
recollection of storied events, lengthwise sliced
and ritually rehearsed, hops facilely on the hump
of a bucking and overtly nonsensical wind.
Tea parties with slippery perspectives
have been shown quite clinically to induce
heightened sensitivity in participants,
so it's prudent to set about tidying the facts:
The hatter, it's become clear, shifted one place
too many and disappeared with a trace -- leaving
behind his hat to nobody's great advantage.
Lacking a wearer, the headgear's reputation for
producing madness has rapidly diminished.
The march hare pulls off his change in a very
separate and seasonal way: the bunny's
bottom half somersaults its top to occupy
both his spot and the hatter's vacated seat.
The dormouse upon its latest arousal
is re-visioned to be small, but not much mouse
at all. He's plush with the long-in-the-ear habit
of a pink stuffed rabbit, which the crusading hare
furiously declares is most curious, casting
doubt on the vermin's commitment to "no room."
Alice remains foremost in tact and is given
a bonus of two spare feet complete with slackened
bootstraps. She keeps them and her other luxury
items well-sheltered behind a stout table leg.
The absentee hatter doesn't dare shame her
with a radio-show call-in decrying
the waste. She's generously agreed to
cover the medical expenses from his firm flop. |
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Written by Francis Scudellari
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My miss may not be expensive, but
she's worth this world's unfolding to me
On bitter days and drearier nights,
her apricot smile's always at my side
She's furrier than some may like 'em
yet when her wag drags it takes
me down with its droop, and that's why
I'm missing my Miss Sadie
She's got an easy-and-gone temper.
There's no bit o' bite in her polite bark,
just a fine fondness to be pampered
and I'm happy to indulge all her whims.
She's furrier than some may like 'em
yet when her wag drags it takes
me down with its droop, and that's why
I'm missing my Miss Sadie
She got sick, now it's me that's hurting,
and while she's away doing another
kind of healing, I'm waiting here for her,
my poor missed Sadie, to come on back.
She's furrier than some may like 'em
yet when her wag drags it takes
me down with its droop, and that's why
I'm missing my Miss Sadie
This was a perhaps feeble attempt to write lyrics for a song inspired my friend Alicia's dog, who was pretty seriously sick recently. She's recovering now, but the song needs the helpful hand of a musician willing to find a melody for it. |
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Written by Francis Scudellari
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The Dresden clock continued ticking on the mantelpiece
And the footman sat upon the dining-table
Holding the second housemaid on his knees—
Who had always been so careful while her mistress lived
–From "Aunt Helen" by T.S. Eliot
It's laugh-out-loud funny
how
one death
can change things.
If she were here
I'd blame
it
on a lifelong ill-
fascination with
Charlie McCarthy
or a hang-up
that's lingered since
the bourbon-scented Santa
invited me to sit.
At some point
you've got to
get back on the horse
though my levers
aren't so
easy to work
and, I better get
more
than a stuffed Pooh bear
out of this trip.
It's still-deep
water under the bridge
because
she's not. |
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Written by Francis Scudellari
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Aphrodite's kid
could've handled this
if eons ago
he hadn't wandered off
pining for his precious Psyche.
Where that leaves you and me
today is exploring
the grocery store aisles.
Oysters, sure.
Dark chocolate,
even if it's not.
Saffron would,
at minimum,
put my nose in the mood
for some
hay-scented rolling.
Celery? Really,
it doesn't do much for me,
but whatever
floats your dote, dear.
Treats unsacked, we may grasp
that the chemical boost's
no ha-ha joke
but romantic love could be
based on such practical tricks
to keep our DNA churning. |
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Written by Francis Scudellari
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The mighty Chicago Tribune got hit last night.
Well, its newspaper box did,
only one picked from a sidewalk-consuming
row of four corner mainstays
to suffer that indignity of toppling.
I found it this morning, blue-
and-white face down, fifty feet further on, and
eating pushed-down daisies from
the commuter rail's prairie-grass embankment.
It couldn't tell me those dead-man
tales of daily mischief's end, but graffito-
tagged its side did sigh, "Someone
feels my news ain't got the values it used to." |
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