Cor anglais

She is to me as a soprano to the alto
of everything I am and anything you can name
but I am happiest when hearing her distinctive pitch.

Yet I know when it’s time to inhale
and when to find my own part
in this complicated score.

Maybe she’s more suited to solo.
Maybe I am more plaintive and mellow.
I appreciate the differences in our instruments.

How To Be a Total Drama Queen in the Body of a Young Prince

When you think emptying the dishwasher is so commoner and stomp a little to prove your point and when you do that muttering thing that has a high probability of containing the B word but it’s discreet enough to escape certain detection and when you get grounded from those frequent and meaningful conversations you’re having with your hundred and eighty three friends

What’s left but to plan your own death by a cause you can’t name, and to build a coffin with common art supplies like cardboard and poster paint, and craft a cute little headstone with catty little dig to go with your name, and then there’s the soundtrack for your service, and well-written eulogy filled with unflattering references to your parents for your best friend to read, because Man, he’s always been there for you

When the Dad from another century can’t suppress his old guy laugh and tells you to find your one point and move forward, you have to get even more furious and tell him that he can take his aging Zen self and try to be even more clueless

Doesn’t he know you’re the Prince? If he’s your Dad, then that makes him the King, shouldn’t he know that? This is serious

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

More Things I Know About Poets

Nobody is just a poet
even the really good poets
who are just poets.

Poets who favor the first person can be narcissistic.
Poets who write in the third person may have multiple personalities.
Sooner or later, everyone gets mental whether they write poems or not.

Poets who are parents of infants sound optimistic.
Poets with teenagers learn to stop making declarative statements.
Poets who get caught with teenagers are degenerate bastards.

Girl poets have better tattoos in better places.
Some guy poets have colorful tattoos
but only from a distance.

Never show someone your poems
on the first date.
Poets who proclaim their love
using only poetry are spineless.
Never tell your girlfriend’s parents
that you’re a poet, it sounds too much
like a shoe-maker or a barrel-maker.

Poets who break up with someone
using poems are pathetic.
Partners of poets who break up
because of their poems are literary critics.

Villanelles are beautiful but technically hard.
Assonance is illegal is some southern states,
but it’s fairly common in Europe and
readily available in Amsterdam.

Some rock lyrics are poetry, but
some rock lyrics are poetic crap.
Jazz and poetry are soulmates joined at the genitals.

Many poets used to drink Absynthe
but it got expensive and rare.
Now it’s making a comeback.
Some poets are blessedly sober
and for many, we like them better that way.

Anyone can be a poet.
Not everyone can be a poet.

~ J. D. Mackenzie

(inspired by Jill Crammond Wickham's NaPoWriMo prompt for Day 25, Scraps)

Implausible Couplings

Today was huge in the field of vital speeches by major public figures

His Holiness the Dalai Lama addressed the United Nations with a plea to increase the use of land mines

Glen Beck taped a segment of his Fox program based upon verifiable research and facts

CEOs on Wall Street unveiled a new public relations campaign titled Doing What’s Best for America: A New Culture of Responsibility and Caring

Pope Benedict the 16th spoke at the weekly Vatican staff meeting on the importance of hiring and retaining priests who care deeply about the safety and welfare of children

Public policy wonk Sarah Palin held forth at the Hague on an exhaustive list of complex topics ranging from constitutional law and monetary policy to effective parenting

The not quite Reverend Fred Phelps announced that his ministry would now be based upon Christian principles

The Olsen Twins spoke separately and in complete sentences

~ J. D. Mackenzie

(inspired by Sage Cohen’s Day 23 prompt, Unlikely Couples)

Blue- Eyed Squall

You, crowing about
the fierceness of tomorrow

Your rantings about reverberations and rust
have no traction with me

Your heart has become an emporium
for intergenerational fears

A blue-eyed squall whose attempts
to make me dizzy only fail

Do not try to distract me
with your new saffron colored underwear
or tendrils of a new weave

I will remain up
I will not flinch

Hey, nice earrings

~ J. D. Mackenzie

(inspired by Catherine's Day 22 NaPoWriMo prompt, Wordle)

The Curse of Heroes

We place them high on pedestals
tilt back our heads to watch
then gawk without pause

We craft a new mythology
borrowing from the best of the past
projecting our fondest trust

You think your job is stressful?

We get distracted by hero wannabes
mavericks drawn to costumes and perks
but not sacrifices and deeds

That we still have any heroes left
provides hope

~ J. D. Mackenzie

(inspired by Jessica's NaPoWriMo Day 20 prompt, Heroes)

Poem Starting with a Line From Norman Dubie: The Czar's Last Christmas Letter

Now that I am no longer Czar
I can take pleasure
knowing that ours
was the finest hour

Our horses ran the fastest
our armies were the bravest
our women moaned soprano
the world knew none like us

But now these striking peasants
cannot tell clams from caviar
they rape and burn like devils
and cause a wrath of hell

Wishing you and yours a Happy 1918,

Nick

~ J. D. Mackenzie

(inspired by NaPoWriMo Day #13 prompt Poem Starting with a Line From Norman Dubie)