The Moping Owl Complains..

[prokopton]

22. A Peak Experience

Clear skies and 20 degrees in Capetown.
Oslo one degree and overcast.
Taipei, sunny and 26 degrees.
What the Hell? It’s summer in Capetown!
Oh. It’s night time there too, I forgot,
and the winds off the sea ameliorate.

Sunny here, but the pollution from China,
blown across the Taiwan strait, obscures
the mountains to the east like mist.
Hazy. Visibility is reduced; it’s like a fog
has crept over the valley, from the torpid
waters of the river below the dam
to the tea-clad slopes two thousand metres above,
where I stand gazing across the peaks.
I climbed here on my bicycle.
The roadsides, steep banks armoured in places
with concrete against torrential rains, line grades
of up to twenty per cent – they don’t have snow plows.

Only the sound of birds in the trees breaks
the silence; it’s just me and the mountains.

[prokopton]

23. Sandmen

Ever so slightly the dune began to heave,
the sky was a dusty shade of yellow
and hard as though it was to believe
the figure next to me was the other fellow.

Wind-blown specks of gritty desert sand
Found their way inside my collar where the sun
Had made my skin not burned but tanned
Though I had hardly moved, the other had begun.

The race would last for five more wearing days,
two hundred fifty kilometres yet, for it had only started.
All were trained and ready though. Beneath the sun’s hot rays,
some had lagged behind while most of them departed.

In familiar backpacks we carried all we needed
Food, water, - first aid supplies, for injuries were many
-maps, creams and sunblock – all warnings had been heeded.
Self-sufficient was the byword for of help there wasn’t any.

True fellowship existed among even hard core entrants
No tricks, just guts, all cards were laid upon the table -
a week to cross a desert of an imposing, goodly distance
in this the toughest race of all – Le Marathon des Sables.

[prokopton]

24. Songbird

In a bistro in the south of France one summer,
I hear a shocking chanteuse from the backstreets
of Marseille. When she opens her mouth and sings
she bares all, gives up so much of herself.

In each ballad she shows her needs and how she aches
for someone with whom to share her needs. So honest.
Each night, on stage, she oozes joy while inside she bleeds,
So vulnerable. I loved Piaf, but this one.. is special.

Her audience applauds, grateful for her talent
while with their cheers hungrily they suck
the soul out of her. She craves the attention,
they want more of her. It’s a symbiosis;
in a way, it’s her style

Like Judy used to do, she uses drugs and booze
to buoy her up to bear the strain
of uttering every achingly silky refrain
And still they clamour for more,
standing ovations demanding a draining encore.

On the surface it seems wonderful, all glamour
and joy and appreciation, but the seedy underside
is a carnal feast. Nightly, she is devoured by her
audience; It is her lover, she its paramour.

[Donner]

Hi, Fefog,

Ah, another Judy Garland. Such talent, so sad what fame can claim over an individual if they allow it to. (I was curious once and googled how many rock stars, etc. died at the age of 27. They call it the 27 Club, there are so many, including Janis Joplin, Jim Morrison, Jimi Hendrix, Kurt Cobain, Amy Winehouse, Brian Jones, Ron McKernan, among about 50.) I think you get a bit telly and predictable here and there - "When she opens her mouth" (how else do you sing unless you're a Tuva throat singer?), "she craves attention", "the seedy underside" are a few places - and "hungrily" is misplaced to modify "suck", but it's a compelling narrative and could be more so with some judicious editing.

Donner

[bop]

Geoff,

'Songbird' reminds me of a Polish animated film I saw one Christmas years ago. The bird sang its heart out in order to make a single rose grow so that a prince could woo his potential bride. The bird died but the prince won his bride. I was in tears by the end! Your poem has a similar feel in that the audience is feeding off the songbird's soul.

I have an 18 year-old cat so 'No Cat Like an Old Cat' resonates with me. He's going deaf and as he does so his meow is getting louder. He too is turning his nose up at kibble.

Best wishes,
bop

[Dunc]

eGffo

double-dactyl — Ahm maybe something like 'wrote on a host of themes' , 'she has reviled God's', 'She'd not have asked for his' to keep those dactyls coming? Then no one wil notice DEhumanEYEzation heh heh. And as you say, she didn't think much of God, but she accepted the old rascal was up there somewhere. A church of one, Bloom called her.

No Cat — Love that tums / thumbs rhyme. An affectionate portrait. (Is that your cat poem for this year?)

Peak Experience — Strange mix of natural beauty and invading pollution. Nice ending too.

Sandmen — You have this awesome appetite for flogging your body! Your CV would make a desk-lubber like me wince. Moroccan Sahara, by golly! Again, most impressive.

Songbird — Gad, another Piaf yet! You draw the picture with emphatic strokes.

And now the April ultramarathon nears its end - just a sandhill or two left to climb.

Yea!

Regards / Dunc

[prokopton]

Hi, Fefog,

Ah, another Judy Garland. Such talent, so sad what fame can claim over an individual if they allow it to. (I was curious once and googled how many rock stars, etc. died at the age of 27. They call it the 27 Club, there are so many, including Janis Joplin, Jim Morrison, Jimi Hendrix, Kurt Cobain, Amy Winehouse, Brian Jones, Ron McKernan, among about 50.) I think you get a bit telly and predictable here and there - "When she opens her mouth" (how else do you sing unless you're a Tuva throat singer?), "she craves attention", "the seedy underside" are a few places - and "hungrily" is misplaced to modify "suck", but it's a compelling narrative and could be more so with some judicious editing.

Donner

yes, quite right Donner deer, judicious, even ruthless editing will commence.. later. When you have to churn out 3-a-day you know they're gonna be just drafts, and you know, the draft in here is terrible!
Thank you so much for reading and commenting.

fGefo

[prokopton]

Geoff,

'Songbird' reminds me of a Polish animated film I saw one Christmas years ago. The bird sang its heart out in order to make a single rose grow so that a prince could woo his potential bride. The bird died but the prince won his bride. I was in tears by the end! Your poem has a similar feel in that the audience is feeding off the songbird's soul.

I have an 18 year-old cat so 'No Cat Like an Old Cat' resonates with me. He's going deaf and as he does so his meow is getting louder. He too is turning his nose up at kibble.

Best wishes,
bop

Hey Boppity-Bop, nice of you to visit and read the Owl's mopes.
Glad that you liked some, and commented.

Goffe

[prokopton]

eGffo

double-dactyl — Ahm maybe something like 'wrote on a host of themes' , 'she has reviled God's', 'She'd not have asked for his' to keep those dactyls coming? Then no one wil notice DEhumanEYEzation heh heh. And as you say, she didn't think much of God, but she accepted the old rascal was up there somewhere. A church of one, Bloom called her.

No Cat — Love that tums / thumbs rhyme. An affectionate portrait. (Is that your cat poem for this year?)

Peak Experience — Strange mix of natural beauty and invading pollution. Nice ending too.

Sandmen — You have this awesome appetite for flogging your body! Your CV would make a desk-lubber like me wince. Moroccan Sahara, by golly! Again, most impressive.

Songbird — Gad, another Piaf yet! You draw the picture with emphatic strokes.

And now the April ultramarathon nears its end - just a sandhill or two left to climb.

Yea!

Regards / Dunc

Ah, Dunc, yes, the 3-a-day quota means the draft quality suffers. Your suggestions for the dactyl are so right on! Thanks a bunch.
yes, that's my kitty-ditty. Ahem, where's yours?
I have not done the Marathon des Sables but have watched it many times trying to visualize myself enduring that test and it seems so vivid. I hope the pome captured some of what I feel about it.
six to go. I think I can, I think I can..

cheers,
Gffoe

[Arlene]

Hi, Grumpuss in Old Cat, Songbird, double-dactyl, Priscilla and Charybdis, which I thought I had -- well, anyhow, excellent, all. Love Wolves and Rain...you carve characters out of poems...Songbird especially. Best, A.

[prokopton]

Hi, Grumpuss in Old Cat, Songbird, double-dactyl, Priscilla and Charybdis, which I thought I had -- well, anyhow, excellent, all. Love Wolves and Rain...you carve characters out of poems...Songbird especially. Best, A.

Hi Arlene, thank you for reading and commenting. I am gratified that you liked some. I appreciate your kind remarks.
cheers,
Gffoe

[prokopton]

25. Something in the Air of Morning

I am aroused by the primitive freshness of the air
in early morning before the city wakes. Every new person
that rises, stamps their way upon the day, their routine,
and so alters the continuum.
No two people do everything alike. Subtle changes occur
at every level, from parking the car to the number of cell
phone calls sending out pulses of microwaves.
But in the waning hours of the night, as stars
are flickering out, a savage, untamed quality
surges in the air, an unsullied candour I enjoy so much.

[prokopton]

26. Gams

Jethro called it the cement pond
and here in Tulum on the Riviera Maya,
critters from far off climes gather to worship
the sun at a five-star, all-inclusive resort,
perfect for showing off your designer beachwear
even if you never get it wet. I admire one such
beauty reclining nearby, sumptuously arrayed,
displaying her Ban de Soleil tan and Chanel looks:
a classic black bikini with a gold ring uniting the cups
and on each hip. Most striking are her legs.
Her skin is smooth and oiled to reflect the light.
The outer and inner lines of her soleus are
two curves parenthesizing her shinbone,
a long convex ridge capped by her knee
then tapering to an ankle of exquisite delicacy
adorned as it is with box-linked gold.
Exotic toxicity, her beauty poisons my mind.

[prokopton]

27. Le Tour

The riders are all skinned in spandex to keep them cool
and to sell stuff. Every breath they take is sponsored
and boy, do they earn it in the race they call Le Grande Boucle.
On top of the Col du Galibier the founder Desgrange is honored.

They cover three to four thousand kilometres in 23 days.
From the start more than a hundred years ago
It’s been a spectacle like no other, designed that way
simply to sell newspapers, L’Auto, don’t you know?

Two hundred riders form a dynamic group called a peloton,
a multi-hued worm contracting and stretching as it moves along
it snakes across the countryside on roads of pa-ve, pave-
ment and even gravel atop Alpine crests, daring only the brave

to race downhill to a finish in some little town with narrow
roads, mobs of tourists, untethered dogs, and slippery streets
during some northern days cold enough to chill the marrow.
A hundred years of racing has seen some wondrous and heroic feats.

[prokopton]

28. Pandora

She sits easily on the dock watching the Redding tide
and her dangling toes barely touch the fleeting water.
She has a cold drink, sun block and a Grisham at her side
She acts as one who hasn’t a care, but she oughter.

Across the world, among all the jangling woes:
Recession, Famine, Trump, climate, and Iraq
It’s hard to find one florid, and sweet-smelling, rose;
It’s been a ceaseless rant and rail ‘round the clock.

News of late across the globe has all been simply horrid:
bombings, births, wars, scandals, epidemics and divorce.
Just like the primaries, the pace of the race has been torrid.
Like the Grisham though, her pregnancy has been a tour de force.

Being self-possessed is something in which you may have pride
And though years of work, travelling and study have taught her,
It’s nothing that she alone should have to decide:
Is this a world in which you would want to raise a daughter?

Fate has told her she hasn’t strength enough to stand the storm
And though a foetus deciding for herself is not the norm,
if Mum could hear it, a little voice from within her womb
with courage in her tiny fists announces, “I am the storm!”