Dating In Wonderland

Alice, Allison
Elise, Elysium
Champs d’Elysees

As her mind melted
so did the names
of everything around her
including her now-separate self

The evening began simply enough
her date, a cute Polo model with blonde stubble
and she with new blue eye shadow
that matched her dress

After the appetizer course
the Ecstasy (his idea) kicked in
their table got rubbery
her throat tasted metallic

Note to self:
no more sashimi or Vitamin X
on an empty stomach

When Polo guy morphed into a rabbit
(and not a nice one)
he still had cute whiskers
but his tanned ears grew white and long
and he affected this nervous custom
of burrowing her
under the table

Already stressed about
her parents and career
this was a bit much

It saddened Alice
that her life had come to this
a litany of less than stellar choices
fueled by a bad batch of Bliss
culminating in a dreadful date with a lugubrious hare
whose fondness for cruel titillation
was rather queer, indeed

And if that weren’t enough
there was no lemon for her tea

~ J. D. Mackenzie

[Inspired by Rallentanda's Poetry On Wednesday prompt #4 from the Charles Blackman painting Feet Beneath the Table]

Trevor's Epiphany

My young poet friend
is love-struck and high
he wants to tell me
about his new girlfriend:

Dude, he starts to say
because at twenty
everyone is Dude or Babe
except for his parents

he tells me
his new girlfriend is smoking hot
kind of short, like an Epigram
but built like a vigorous Epic

She’s direct as a Cinquain
with a wicked sense of Senryu humor
very old school, Alexandrine kind of class
and not one Cacophonous bone in her body

When they’re alone
she’s as bawdy as a barroom Limerick
yet sensitive and surreal
as a Spenserian sonnet

Their days together
are post-modern Idylls
and like a Canzone
her voice fills his heart with song

Nice to know
in a world that doesn’t get poets
they found each other
she totally gets him

~ J. D. Mackenzie


[Inspired by Rallentanda's Poetry On Wednesday prompt #3 from 'Fulbright Scholars' Birthday Letters by Ted Hughes. Curious? Visit http://rallentanda.blogspot.com]

Deliberate Faults

In the strange, dark world
of priests and boys
the presence or absence of light
depends on your point of view

The holy church proclaims
you can do nothing with children
unless you win their confidence and love
by bringing them into touch with yourself

The extent of the problem
has been overstated
abuse cases have declined
suffer the children unto me

The use of stereotypes
reminds us of the more
shameful aspects
of anti-Semitism

Those who have suffered
deserve loving pastoral attention
some more than others

Pay, pray, obey

What say the lacerated lambs?
when told they’re at fault
their fragile worlds implode
as if all the angels took off

Who then to believe
the weavers of tainted wool
or the dreamers of corrupted dreams
their foundations ground to dust?

A bumper sticker
on my neighbor’s new car
caringly asks me to
Pray for our Priests

From all evil
all impurity of soul and body
all gluttony and sensuality
all hypocrisy and pretense
all imperfections and deliberate faults
everything that displeases Thee

Deliver them
deliver us all

~ J. D. Mackenzie

Exodus Redux

My friend the national socialist
says it’s always the same thing
it’s about economics
when we follow the money
draw circles and connect lines
it all starts to make sense

We argue a lot in a friendly sort of way
and I can’t let this one go

I tell her
your point is flawed
and doesn’t apply to my world
in my world poets don’t think like that
our ghetto is big enough for everyone

Not so fast she says
aren’t there only so many publications
only so many pages in each one?
at any given moment it’s a finite number
the ship sinks when it gets too full
(so not digital thinking!)

She only sees the doors open to the good and the fortunate
which she interprets as the English-speaking and the quirky
this sounds a little too white supremist for my taste
having had a thing for Sandra Cisneros for the past decade

So I try to imagine if my friend is right
what if there are some poets who get ration coupons
and apartments with running water
while others are forced to leave town
carrying everything they own
surrounded by jack-booted thugs
who covet their fillings and don’t read poetry

The ex-adrenalin junkie in me
warms to this dangerous image
a new adventure and maybe a new career
in resistance movements

They may not like my dialect, my misplaced faith
or my distain for convention
but one thing they can’t take away
is my willingness to keep walking
until my feet hurt, until the scenery improves
and someone invites me to stay

~ J. D. Mackenzie