Karmic, Cosmic, Comic?

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If

Beware the pig who can sprout wings

Or sign in semaphore with its coiled tail,

Squeal soprano arias; convert grunts and wails

To grammatical gripes about farm travails;

The elephant who lifts his trunk to hail

The lion in jungle lingo, spreads his ears

To glide birdlike through awed air -

Spins the earth from orbit, makes laws unclear,

Undoes the predicted, reverses fore and rear.

If pigs can fly, then be aware

(Despite the screeching of your fear)

Of all that you may newly do and dare.

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Trashlands

What's the world made of? Of dust and ash,

Rocks or rubble, to its boiling core?

Paper mountains, cities of procedure?

No! Let's be honest - the brash

Admit the world is made of trash!

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Jingle Joy

Breezes raced me to the Jingle-berry tree

Where bronze leaves played in symphonies;

The wind beat its baton to pace

The rhythm of the humming harmonies.

The jingle leaves gleamed as they danced,

And jingle berries glinted as they drummed

For my jingle-joy on the dazzle-dappled grass.

Today, they only tinkle at my glance;

The windchimes were made of brass.

Now none would stay to hear and see

The jingle jangle of a chain-hung tree.

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Karmic Check Book

The sum of wisdom deposited; a final account

Of energy squandered in a futile rage

Or spent in prudent installments; the amount

Still credited or owed from each life stage.

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Transformation

Gonna visit the couth booth

And buy me some social graces;

Gonna visit the ruth booth

And pick up a pint of guile,

They say it's simple; in both cases -

Brush on on that Revlon smile.

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Fixer-Upper

I'm a fixer-upper, a house with rot,

Call all workmen to my weedy lot:

Find a plumber to unclog my guts

Stopped up by clumping "if"s and "but"s;

An electric guy to rewire

My rowdy veins, fiberglass the wayward fire;

A carpenter to drill windows through

Worm-whittled wood encasing musty views.

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Night Thief

Jumping off the mania train

To railside bedding on cement terrain;

Whistles shrill from far and deep;

Night lights are burglars of my sleep.

Sneak thief, sneak peep,

Sneaker squeak, sneak creak;

Sleek beak's trill, startled beep;

Night rhymes brew and slyly seep.

Night songs are burglars of my sleep.

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Greener

The grass is always greener, but who wants green

Sameness end to end, no golden sheen

Of disruptive dandilions, each a rebel star

Blazing against the blandness that looms long and far?

Green infinitudes or a pert pansy's face,

The thistle's hot heart, the shimmering grace

Of daisies bowing to chums, the singing disarray?

Why perfection, doves unsullied by pidgeon gray,

Flat clipped lawns, tulips saluting in a row,

The still eternity where only the select may grow

By the rules, preserved, in a sealed green case?

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Prune

My ego is a dried out prune;

In worldy air, it shrivels more,

Sucked dry of all succulence

By the winds of politics and pestilence.

For the pit and wrinkles at my core

Is there some earthly balmy cure?

If I shrivel here, is there the moon -

Deceptive, pearly?; the poets swoon

At dreams of arid airless dunes

Where no seed or sentiment or man

Blooms or decays on the unshifting sand.

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Soul Sale

Better wry comments on a dried-out age,

The meditative musings of a sage,

Than rantings rhymed in a drunken rage,

Wrists spurting bloodwords from a floodlit stage -

Though they pay fame and glossy royalties

For angst that outdoes last week's agonies.

On every bookshelf, self-help profit-tears;

On every screen, apocalyptic propheteers;

In every city, twinkling tiers -

High rise jewels from wholesale fears.

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High Flyers

If wings could sprout from roller skates

We'd race up rainbow roads to azure fates.

If soap scrubbed darkness from the dimming day

And spring showers rinsed regret away,

Would we cruise on a toytime sailing ship

On a polished glass pond on a prescribed trip?

Or parachute towards the amber ready shore,

Then rise, on the wings of whim, again to soar?

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Cyclicity

When the silence grates and you'd no longer wait

For neon flashes in the lingering white,

Recall how moods and seasons surge and abate,

Full to slight, dim to raging bright.

The pulsing, rhythmic nature of all things

That live and rise and writhe and write -

The poet's inspiration, the frog's lusty croaking,

The moon swelling in an outstretched night.

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all art and writing copyright by cl Frost