New Poems by Paul Trachtenberg
Wizard of Oz recycled in
more cynical fashion.
Where-o-where is this lucre
coming from rewarding
people who the Wizard wants?
What does the Wizard want?
He thinks he can do anything
he wants with his cryptic wand?
Must I suspect ill-gotten gains?
I just want to be Red Riding Hood
delivering lunch to sweet grandma.
Why, why must I feel something lurking?
I want to go through the whole day gladly
without being swamped with sinisterism.
Can I drum up my own wand with a chant
making the pack of wolves eat up their
own lucre allowing the white Knight to rule?
The primordial phobia is so pervasive
and that it only can be subjugated by Joan’s
four letter word LOVE coming to be the cure
to realize we all come from Lucy’s womb
long before religion, ethnicity & culture.
Sometimes a poet’s job is to reach into the grab
bag without too much heed to cadence and lyric,,
pull out a hodgepodge of medicinal crazy potion
and feebly dream the elixir will tame all demons
from killing the crops of innocence seeded on earth.
You see a poet just can’t standby without putting
in a word or two: STOP! STOP! In the name of
The Supremes’ LOVE, be tamed from your dastardly
deeds, come back into the folds before chronic phobia
consumes you completely without mercy & grace–. amen.
I can be demure, avoiding
podiums promoting my words.
This is my kind of lollipop not
having to leave home only when
I want to–all so pleasingly sweet.
I was going to lick my envelope
without my obligatory three stanzas–
Ah, why not pledge the day, say more
meeting my sweet nothing to say
without the need of parading profundity
So I take a breath donning a pompadour,
sucking in my stomach while raising
my chest, then releasing a crescendo
sounding out my one & only half octave
quieting the shrilling crickets outside.
I reckon when the final curtain calls,
we’ll doff our costumes and wait for
the ghost riders to take us to the “Spirit
in the Sky” –Hay, Hay, yes not Hey Hey,
We will make wicked love in our private loft.
Well, enough of smokin’ whatever is in
my pipe, let the celestial theatre expand.
This is just a dress rehearsal for now.
I took this silverfish eaten photo off the wall,
unframed it , resurrected in on facebook-so be it.
Speculation on the unknowns
are on the minds of all and not
a single poet can revise it freshly.
“Devil or Angel” Bobby Vee said
it just as well as Walt Whitman
perhaps of course simpler indeed.
But the thing is to dwell until something
unfolds to make one come alive supremely,
then share insights with the next soul who
comes your way, weeping joyously with
an instant of disembodied exchange of words.
The “Constant Craving” is to me actually
blissful yearning forever climaxing whilst
sharing kismet’s encounter:with the being
now with ye and maybe within ye alone.
Your solitude takes solace knowing
you are never alone, it’s insane to forget.
Hit it Ethel Merman! “The music, the spotlights, the people, the towns,
your baggage with the labels pasted on”. New title NOSTALGIA.
What’s all the nuances within nostalgia? It’s in some folk’s DNA
and absent in others. It’s not a matter who is deeper than other.
Emerging the past into the present brings in another whole new
melody either crying a river or floating on river with rich memories.
Oh yea! Fifty years between eighteen and sixty-eight a whole
lot living has been packed with varied valleys living this and that.
The obvious!. Some lost this, some won this, some did this &
some did that. Some lives no doubt out did Hitchcock’s plots
Somes lives ended up kissing many darling babies’ bellies.
Who is to really to say sneaking back to the past lacks depth?
Does new the production of NOSTALGIA deducts from living in now?
No, No, I don’t thinks so. It’s another way of living now mightily replenished.
Sure as there were students there were equal motley futures to behold
Now let’s go back and have another view of a new show NOSTALGIA.
Don’t let fear being a wallflower begrudge a hug from old acquaintance..”
I’m greedy for peace what’s wrong with that?
I want my heart to fond beyond the bone I pick
with ye Creator to answer what’s wrong with that?
I’m plain and simple as an uneaten marred plum.
Intervention, intervention, intervention my lord.
I beckon you timelessly to separate the dross
from humankind and let the world diamond shine
What’s the deal of with your nambypampyness?
Of course I never seen your face but I’m addressing
Sure you can perhaps smite me for my blasphemy,
but why do you enjoy me groveling like a pleading Job?
It’s doe my heart nice to put you on the defense
while you watch me quacking like Donald Duck.
I plead once again within couplet, “Would you please
melt away the dross and let freedom shout Hallelujah?”
All it takes would be 1 billion
out of 7 billion people living now
to say we see you and know you
that your hearts are in the wrong,
lay your arms, machetes & psychoses.
Then let causes and effects naturally
do the biddings to rise a new horizon.
The billion are visionaries and ramblers
“tryin’ to make a living’ and doin’ the best’
they can, so help them Jesus, Buddha or
whatever line of worship or non worship
as long it’s on peacemaking line of business.
So as a rambling maverick I pray, hope
wish and dream on with great fervour–amen.
IT’S DAWN, THE COFFEE MUG ON A TRAY,
THE MORNING NEWS HAS GENTLY THUMPED
OPEN UP SHUTTERS!, BUT I ONLY SEE FOG
WHAT AM I GONNA DO BUT COCK-A-DOODLE
MY FIDDLE WHILE BELTING DOWN MY FIRST CUP.
T’IS INCUMBENT UPON ME TO KICK START MY DAY
“FACE IT WITH A GRIN”, REMEMBER THAT SAYING?
WELL, I’M A PROTOPLASMIC WATERBED YET TO
SHAPE MYSELF UP AND ANOTHER CUP WILL DO.
PERHAPS SOON MY THIRD COCK-A-DOODLE-DO
WILL BE SUNG OUT AND THE FOG CEASES ALONG.
A self anointed avenging angel
is a psychopathic maniac masked
in a cultural or religious garb from
the dawning of a cave person
getting orders from the Sun to club
anyone who does not see its way.
Even at 2015, benevolent might
needs to be until the demonic psychosis
is ridden from our planet once and all.
Omniscience exorcising this angel
needs to be constant and thorough,
to hound it out of its fiendish existence.
Satirists and humorists and children
have the inalienable rights to romp
no manner how impious they may be.
They provide the levity to kick
sanctimony in the arse as it should be.
Be kindly serious not deadly solemn.
A glitter snow-night
a tree strung with diamond bells.
The Carolers at their best
adore her with noels
and lay tinsels at her feet.
Caviar and nog enhance the fete
along with frills and sunset hills.
Not a creature is stirring
when her majesty mellows
her snowflake solo.
There is a halo–
an eternal holiday.
Oh! Don’t let me beckon you
without impunity for you to breathe
down blustery and blizzardy rain
to saturate my winter seeds for spring.
Why are you holding back so earnestly?
With all the low and high atmospheric
pressures swirling and jet streams allowing
diablo winds to wreak smells of parchedness,
why is it my Goddess you don’t intervene?
You don’t love Southern California gardeners?
We are not pleading for rivulets of destruction
but for a modicum of moisture from your
melting Arctic heart-again what will it take
to slay the deviled drought of ruling our mesa?
Nobody wants to pay for the sins of our fathers.
Will this plea go unheeded again and again?
Will you leave Montana and Washington alone
and scythe through with your breath
the adverse meteoric elements impeding
us from having a glorious deluge on
our ubiquitous cracked lips and soils?
Three thousand and five hundred species
of mosquitos, where can I go with that?
It’s not my self-anointed job to break it down.
I heard that the females are the bloodsuckers.
The males are wimps, do the ladies’ biddings.
Rumor has it, if they disappeared, only frogs
would grieve, perhaps some birds and fishes too.
So can person kind tame these pesty vectors?
Two lines in this stanza to come up with something,
having the freedom to add another stanza below.
I will try serenading to the loathsome vectors
“leave me alone and other hosts and hostesses too.
Find other ways to live with us so we can love you all.”
I solemnly swear to serenade you all until you all die.
I’m a weary troubadour trying to make a name.
[Cut off the Track)
It doesn’t hurt to hurt
for a beheaded lady,
letting her family know
we care not to have this
happen to another person,
not caring where on globe.
It’s so easy to deal with
a Disney beast than a humanoid
monster inhabiting volcanic havoc.
What is with twisted neurons
wired so insanely, moving
a body with wicked inexplicably?
Colleen’s mind now separated,
looking down on her transgressor.
I can’t guess what she knows now,
but dear hard working lady, I for one
hope what innocence you left will get
a modicum of solstice mending grief.
The past will pop up
whilst engaging a new pal
Oh, oh! The fast clue may
become unglued when those
bones of contentions rattle.
Then what? Confront it
with friendly persuasion.
It would be seamless
if the instanc embrace
pends nothing on the sins
of yesterday’s low valleys.
Today’s chat & toast to
a whole new page to pen
can let the last chapters go.
The climax can be so willing,
incumbent soundly forgiving
each other’s weighty baggage.
Voila! However, volatile yesterday
has its stronghold of indeterminacy.
So the sincere clean-slate will be
when the rubble clear away by
authentic, benevolent resolve.
I’m stymied in my dilly-dallying about,
not to look up in the sky enough
to see something lurking,
ominous to behold.
I’m not here to frightened
citizens like Freddy Krueger
replete of sharp metal
but I must tell this untold stormy story.
I cough to clear for an articulate narrative,
here it begins reaching like a spider
to a fly nabbing the attention of enrapt ears.
I crack my knuckles without further delay.
Science of quieting the mind harvested well.
The more unisonous beings are to galvanize
hearing a dog tapping Bach on a wooden floor,
viewing a mouse jigging with a stiff whiskered cat,
only then the likelihood of lurking demons will wane.
Weltschmerz dissipates and fey whims come to play.
AM I REACHING TOO FAR?
I take a deep breath
then netting some,
piecing them to see
what my day shall be.
I invite a neuronic
conductor to sync
rhythm with vision
to even out a score
filling the ballroom.
Now I turn on the news
with aromatic java in hand
hoping my leading note
stifles out the following notes
of rape, bomb & earthquake.
MANY FACES OF ROBERT PETERS
Omigosh! Did I live with a guy for forty years
An eminent critic once said,
Peters was “our premier verse-biographer”.
Now I know why I was so vastly entertained.
My baby became Mad King Ludwig of Bavaria
who left palatial castles all over dreamland
My baby became a Cornish Vicar Robert Hawker
who gave proper burials for sea strewn sailors.
My baby became the blood countess Elizabeth Bathory
who bathed in the blood of virgins for maintaining her youth.
My baby became the explorer Elisha Kent Kane
who explored the Arctic with fatalistic results.
My baby became Mother Ann Lee founder of the Shakers
who was believed to be the female version of Jesus Christ.
My baby became 19th century British artist Benjamin Haydon
who is now a forgotten romantic and pitiful aesthete left impoverished.
My baby became Orange County Serial Killer Randy Kraft
who psychotically stolen lives of many lost boys, now walled away.
All these years, he kept the personalities hidden from me reserved
only for his traveling troubadour’s stage performances.
Some of his most darkest characters had some audiences exiting,
I want to say one thing or two his personality reserved for me
was an undying and unconditional loving teddy bear–I feared him not.
PEOPLE AT THE PRECIPICE
This starts off with a doom
not meaning to do but let me
say this about the ominous cliff.
Thelma and Louise knew this bliss.
How is this applicable for me to sing?
Sarcasm is healthy by engendering
endorphins making people
playfully mad, following
the pied-piper over the cliff.
The sparkling resolution to this
all, mind your own music and i
t will resound, expand and you’ll
dance as they say to your own flute.
Let me add this addendum couplet!
Beware of the myth of lemmings!
LET’S DO THE SWING
Can seven billion earthlings keep
upheavals forever at bay?
What do say, lets huff and blow
these forsaken demons to smithereens,
How do you it? Oh, dear, my engine
of ingenuity is cogitating an everlasting
remedy but oh boy I can’t draw
any out of the hat. I have this last stanza
if I ain’t Custer to swing my battle axe into
the abyss and filter out bliss, sprinkle it yep
hoping bits enchant, less will be listless.
THAT KISS (Ode to Glenn McDuffie)
That sealed kiss,
the final knot of
a ribbon packaging
the evils of the past.
That kiss was frozen
euphoria, their entwined
like a white frosted pretzel.
But no, time made
Pandora’s Box leak
through the seams.
Korean War, Vietnam
to the 2014 Crimea brewing
replete with Syrian Mayhem–
on, on, on until galvanized
benevolent wills can seal
the leaky seams like
Cyperspace is dredging up snarks by
nets, hooks, whatnot & doohickeys.
For each new founded snark,
volumes about them follow suit.
Snarks become myths and legends.
How this is relevant to Ukraine or
to the Oscars or the Olympics?
Well, I’m transparent to tell you why.
First of all, I’m keeping the answer down
to a three stanza poem without revision.
The answer is, beat the drums,
that snarks come in many forms,
unknown factors dazzling folks into
the brink of completing themselves.
Albino Flea is what makes Sherlock think.
O Seeing Vladimir puttin’ on the Ritz
with Dancing Queen Cheryl Burke.
O Seeing a U.S. lady prez in 2016,
having tea with Yermany’s Angela Merkel.
O I making a meringue pie,
chatting with Jesus and Theresa on hygienes.
O Let this ditty be as potent as
Beethoven’s 9th symphony.
O Seeing Jiminy Cricket sprinkle
Tinker Bell’s dust on Crimea.
O Taking a peek at Joseph Smith
and Mose’s tablets of their authenticity.
O Having a Norm’s breakfast special
with long ago crow feet’s sweethearts.
O Bobby and McMe continuous junkets
to tribal casinos doing rain dances.
O Waiting for Brad Pitt’s knock,
begging me to massage my feet.
O A bigger bucket keeping the reaper
from harvesting my soul forever more.
A SIMPLETON’S APPLE PIE
Sure I want my pie in the sky,
so I can savor while Ukraine
is gently ironing out kinks of being
on the brink of destruction.
We know about the wise monkeys:
see no evil, speak no evil, & hear no evil
until the cows come over the hills
of the sound of music.
I believe today Putin tane
will be asked again to recede
from the brim,
not to overbake his pie
and come join me for PEACE of mine.
A smooth transition is a place
I want to be & this is how it goes:
I beckon the faceless creator
to switch roles. Ah now, so granted,
I twitch my nose. Ah now, everyone
sees me as an angel without orifices.
Ah now, the power now endowed.
I command no apocalyptic eruptions!
No more nature’s cataclysmic deeds!
Every seven billion beings innately knows
hades from heaven, so let heaven prevail.
So let me keep this role on the premise
my plan is quicker and yours is too suspended.
THE VIRTUES OF LEVITY
I dreamt of Obama having Earl Grey
with the dude of Duck Dynasty
They were snugged together under
my aunt’s motley colored Afghan.
The ghostly fingers of Liberace moving
the keyboard with Mozart.
Lady Godiva consuming her own box
without gaining an ounce.
A whole bunch of one liners
echoed the room with Phyllis saying
“I was arrested for going topless but
I was soon released for insufficient evidence”,
Groucho saying “ I shot elephant in my pajama
but how it got in my pajama” is another story,
“Your money or life?” with Jack Benny taking
a long proverbial pause to answer.
These are just a few of my favorite
levities sung by Julie Andrews.
He had turned turned turned pain
into manna for everyone. His name
was a mantra to exorcise
the devil’s claw into dust
His name was a mandala
for focusing a golden-hued notion
of turning turning turning a nation
colorless in the best sense of the word.
His heroism was his Herculean
stamina and taking on
the role of Sisyphus without
a trace of bitterness.
A slumber of lions derelict on alertness,
awaken by acute foreboding.
They stir, yawn with aghast, frenzy.
All their tails swirl as they fleet.
Amidst their flurry, the jungle’s foliage
and branches uproot abound.
The cats collect the debris, build a fortress
clawing a cliff. The threat retreats.
The Private Life of Robert Peters
He vaguely reads the news.
He knows Barrack is President,
otherwise the day is filled with
his quirky cheeriness.
His thin hairless legs elevate
in his cherished dirty leather recliner.
He opens his wallet,
riffles his dollars, doses, hands fold,
then gazes at his bandaged baby toe.
What’s wrong with it?
Sweetie, it’s a “booboo pad”.
The private life without impiety
is now a bit public.
3 precious critters under the plum tree bewitching me.
As I picked-up one of the darlings, it hissed
fiercely less than a kitten. After my photo-shots,
I went in, the 3 gone forever.
Occurring belatedly, “where was the ma?”
Is she road-kill
or targeted as varmint?
Bliss to my dumbness!
I was spared from her
rabid leap to my jugular.
WAITING FOR DAWN
It’s way past dusk, Robert tucked snugly
whilst hum-chanting fervour serenade for me.
I wrestle with cadences to sooth my concerns
of Robert’s decline. As I pause to mull,
I hear silence of him asleep.
THE LOOKING GLASS
This is it, I flipped out into wonderland,
regaining my thick tousled hair,
not a care of Putin, Ferguson City,
Mogadishu or Syria & Iraq.
Ordinary, I was attempting
to take Frost’s untrodden way
allowing me that afflatus-Leap
but fell into the mirror like Alice,
I shrank with a fervent prayer into
a peculiar realm-smoking in the fume
from the hookah inhaled by Big Tomato worm.
The Clockwork Rabbit whisked me
to the tea table with amenities.
No one can call me to bring me back.
The Mercury Tea so sweet like Nectar,
having no clue madness so beguiling.
CLACKING OF RED SHOES
I’m not a cave dweller
reading hieroglyphs deciphering
how to stuff woes back into
Pandora’s Box but I do share
a galvanizing vision so insanely
“armed to the teeth” to here I speak.
I cannot shake this Mormon fiber of
my being of gathering fellow travelers,
arrogantly anointing them to leap away
from the woes that vexes so many of us.
I cauterize this impasse to remind the public
of their free flowing Will packed with wisdom
to separate ‘”Tare from wheat” to their accord.
The “Ring a Ring o’ Roses” in this nano
second space capsule is a possible panacea
to stretch out where all knowing selves
rightly excel in no falling down friendship–
no bosses, no pains, no subjugation–
pervasive tenderness squelches forebodings,
So today will heal past woes and tomorrow’s too.
I’m always on spending spree
but mundanity keeps me grounded
from sliding into the twilight dimension.
If I can only nimble away humdrum and
get my ossified being shaking fancily,
then I’ll slowly slide into the wise realm.
Then I’ll shop for goodies to give to many.
What in the tarnation will they be?
I have good intentions making them
something for the receivers to leap
when they receive them hand to hand.
I’ll be on the level and I’ll tell what they are.
Imaginary Panacea Boxes up and ready for
powdering your faces for meeting the day
perhaps hugging a stranger without getting
slapped into a regrettable scenario-how’s that?