There once was a fellow named Frank
There once was a fellow named Frank
Who grew up in a city quite dank
Fell in love with a girl
By the name of Ann Shirl
Had kids, and turned into a crank
I know that old lady named Shirley
Her grill is all artifi-pearly
She's put up with her Franks
And his fetish for spanks
And loves him good, even when surly
They've been married for forty-five years
Full of laughter and music and tears
Leven kids have they had
And you'd think they'd be dead
But they're just barely getting in gear
So to Spanks and his pearl of a girl
We say never in all the wide world
Have there been better folks
And that ain't no joke:
It's been fun, it's been wind, it's been whirl
Happy Anniversary, Fogies!
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Jean Leon Gerome, 1879
or, Travels With My Giddy Aunt, wherein the authors discuss their adventures, misadventures, shocks, surprises, disappointments, hopes, dreams, nightmares, complexes, successes, environs, travels, gaffes, faux-pas, and hairstyles for the benefit and pleasure of loved ones near and far, and for voyeuristic strangers that make them slightly nervous.
The Call to Prayer
Jean Leon Gerome, 1879
Call To Prayer (Adhan)
Lente, lente currite noctis equii: (Allahu ackbar!)*
Given its head, the night runs faster than a man can breathe
Its nostrils pant, its dusky edges heave,
And I am pulled from sleep too soon:
The yellow tones of morning and the morning song
Too early crowed, but not in the cock’s throat.
The call to prayer comes early:
“Our alarm clock,” quipped a friend,
Indicating the humble mosque at his front door.
We have one, too. We all do in this garden city,
This oasis overrun but not yet ruined,
And the mosque, with its staggered chorus
Of muezzin, fairly owns us, night and day:
There’s hardly time to leave off praying my litany of regrets
From a day spent seeking more help than I had given
Before I’m called back to my knees.
I do not join the sweated worship of the immigrants,
But I think of prayer far more here than ever before,
For God is great indeed, and it is better to pray than sleep,
Even if all one does is pray to sleep a little more
Before the panting night is stabled, brushed, and fed,
And the mu'adhdhin clears his rooster throat.
Its nostrils pant, its dusky edges heave,
And I am pulled from sleep too soon:
The yellow tones of morning and the morning song
Too early crowed, but not in the cock’s throat.
The call to prayer comes early:
“Our alarm clock,” quipped a friend,
Indicating the humble mosque at his front door.
We have one, too. We all do in this garden city,
This oasis overrun but not yet ruined,
And the mosque, with its staggered chorus
Of muezzin, fairly owns us, night and day:
There’s hardly time to leave off praying my litany of regrets
From a day spent seeking more help than I had given
Before I’m called back to my knees.
I do not join the sweated worship of the immigrants,
But I think of prayer far more here than ever before,
For God is great indeed, and it is better to pray than sleep,
Even if all one does is pray to sleep a little more
Before the panting night is stabled, brushed, and fed,
And the mu'adhdhin clears his rooster throat.
Copyright JaPes, 2007
*"Lente, . . . ": "Slowly, run slowly, ye horses of night!" (from Christopher Marlowe's Tragicall Historie of Doctor Faustus); "Allahu ackbar!": "God is great!" (An arresting exclamation these days, but like U2 and that song Charles Manson stole from the Beatles: "we're stealin' it back!").
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2 comments:
love this.
although i think i could have lived my life without knowing about your dad's fetish;)
will you write us a poem someday? 5 years coming up in october ... get thinking.
have the 'rents seen this here bit o' poetry? I see mom hasn't commented on it. might be a bad sign. i think you may be out of the will for good this time...but i liked it. except for the icky visual of mom spankin' dad. pretty sure that has never happened. here's to hoping.
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