greatgrandpadog's Xanga

Monday, February 25, 2008

Mon, 25 Feb 2008 22:40:58 GMT

Wumpita-what?

Early this morning Great Grandpa Wumpitathumpa and I went outside to our lakeside garden, or rather we sped there. Great Grandma Wumpitathumpa had made a particularly reekful batch of gravy for breakfast. Perhaps we could have stood to remain in the house a bit longer if the gravy had been limited to a ladleful on a biscuit. But no; we found that so great was her enthusiasm over this latest lot of glob that she replaced our normal orange juice with glasses of gravy, bafely brown and running over the brim and down the sides and onto the table wheresat slices of gravycakes, with maplegravy syrup. Of course, she could not have considered this complete without a great big bowl of corn flakes drowning in gravy. And who could miss the wonderful large grapefruit rinds beblopped a dollop of the wretched goo. Needless to say, as soon as Great Grandma Wumpitathumpa turned around to douse the small fire issuing forth from a small drop of gravy that had, by some mischance, dribbled its way down the tablecloth and down to the floor, Great Grandpa Wumpitathumpa and I were gone.

As we were scouring the plants for unfrozen Dwizzleberries and grubbing in the ground for some fresh Mufta roots, Great Grandpa Wumpitathumpa started talking about rusty old pickups. No doubt he was anxious, as was I, to retrieve our new rusty old pick. It was due to have repairs completed at the shop today; one of the doors wasn’t rusty enough so we are getting one of those newfangled ultrarustification treatments to make it look more like the rest of the vehicle. Alas, it was put off two more days, but that is another story. Anyway, Great Grandpa Wumpitathumpa got to talking about his fondest memory of rusty old pickup trucks, back in the old country. He said his old friends the GrumpitaJumpitta family owned a wonderful rusty old pickup that could actually fly, on Thursday afternoons, when it was raining, but only indoors and only when driven by a porcupine having the hiccoughs. Great Grandpa Wumpitathumpa was starting to wax nostalgic (and a bit boring if I might be so bold as to say so).

So, in order to snap him out of nostalgia-mode, where he can stick for days on end, I asked him a question of meticulous logic that had been bothering me almost from the beginning of his story. I said, “Why, Great Grandpa Wumpitathumpa, were your friends named GrumpitaJumpitta.

“Ah!” he said, “You noticed the similarity.”

“I noticed rather the difference.” I said, “The names sound familiar but their name has an ‘itta’ at the end of it, but yours doesn’t.”

At this point, Great Grandpa Wumpitathumpa had a look I would almost describe as embracement. “Yes,” he admitted. You have uncovered the great skeleton in our family closet, and yours too.”

“What do you mean?” I queried.

“You see, back when my grandfather came to this fair land from the old country, Itadavittaland, our family name was Wumpitathumpitta. However, in order to assimilate with the culture of this new and fair realm, my grandfather chose to shorten his last name to Wumpitathumpa, thus making it blend in and sound more suitable and be more amenable to the apprehension of the great American dream. Ever since that time our family has had to live with the shame of forsaking the history of our great ancestors for the fame and fortune of a celebrital name: Wumpitathumpa. There is nothing we can do now. What’s done is done.”

I was shocked and quite nonplussed. But he hadn’t told me the worst part yet. It seems that even my fair canine family was not immune to the draw of fame and a mellifluous name. Great Grandpa Wumpitathumpa told me at great pains that the same thing was done by a certain dog when he came here from the old country. Yes, that dog was my grandfather, Great Great Great Grandpa Dogitta.

Wednesday, March 07, 2007

Wed, 07 Mar 2007 18:47:19 GMT

Eat Grass

Eat grass eight years

Cry in moonlit tears

Then whisper the thornèd name

And breathe

Saturday, September 02, 2006

Sat, 02 Sep 2006 02:49:31 GMT

Another Army

Ho, heather bell and hyacinth. The little dog

Eats bread. The lion and the unicorn eat crumbs.

Ho, heather bell and hyacinth. The sound of drums.

Two little kittens eat their cake, and from the bog

The bogy comes.

O what a time to be! I know that I don’t know,

And I can run, and I can hide, and I can climb

Inside the magic myth of milk and nursery rhymes,

And on the infant coos a meaning I bestow

Most of the time.

In fall the maple rainbows shine then crack and peel.

In winter white my mittens stiff the snowballs frame.

In spring the woodland walks are never twice the same.

In summer Momma makes my very favorite meal

Before the game.

The crayon box is dumped out on the floor with zeal

To trim my bike for speed. We must weave silk from rags.

A masterpiece, this crafted scrap of paper bag –

I tape it on – a coat of arms, a simple seal,

A freedom flag.

Another day turns night. Sweet sleep comes floating by

With extra fluffy bread and jam. But something’s wrong.

The twinkle stars are marching past the moon in song;

They carry saws. At dawn I wake with crimson sigh

To cry, “It’s gone!”

A round old man with two glass eyes the book of strings

Unbinds. He saves the first few pages for the zoo,

Then leaves the rest on hooks, for manikins to chew.

He murmurs to me, “Some day soon you’ll see these things

The way I do.”

Now life goes on as life is wont – all wound in acts,

But I fall down a lot. It’s hard to tie my shoes.

I do my chores and read some, when I’m in the mood.

I clean our little room and give to dogs and cats

And shadows food.

They grind me dawn till dark. So close they sheer the lamb!

So sharp they turn the plow! Will twice they break the bough?

With time I yield and sorely heaving take the vow.

It sure is gone forever. Hard, grown-up, I am

A Dexter now.

We’re issued yellow pencils sporting five sharp points,

And if we choose to hate them, we may freely switch

To plastic ball-point pens and scissor blades, and pitch.

We know the whole foundation. We won’t disappoint

Them in the ditch.

The general of the choosing hears that I am coarse.

“Yes, I’m a bit unhappy with my mount, it’s true.

She pulls a little right. Perhaps she’s thrown a shoe.”

He stares at me and bares a bitter brow, “The horse

You drew drew you.”

In secret, Rabbit takes me tip-toe through the snow

To room below with incense and a box bedecked.

He whispers soft, “It holds the jewel we must protect.”

“How do you know it’s really in there?” He says low,

“I never checked.”

Victoria and I and Wyatt Earp on foot

Survey the tulips. Old man mullah builds the fort.

At night I ask, “We know foundation’s every wart,

But who can know sure its foundation?” So they put

Me on report.

The general of the questions rousts me out at dawn.

“These lyrics that you speak – the words, they don’t repeat.

Please bring me a translation, the next time we meet.”

I say, “Man, everything I’m sayin’ is standin’ on

Its own two feet.”

A caravan of buses through the alley pours.

Sweet voices call, “You’re all alone! Be freedom’s bride!

Come out! Switch sides! The fresh air taste, and with us ride!”

This disenchanted Dexter opens cellar door,

And steps outside.

A Sinister I am now. Let the essence bid

The manacles of boundaries farewell and touch

The sky. I am issued four erasers and such

Provisions as I may require, but ever rid

Of its warm clutch.

Magellan, my new friend, says, “Trust me. Listen close,

Meridians I have crossed, and yes I have perhaps

Misnamed an ocean, but foundations can’t be trapped

In specified coordinates on cold erose

Cartesian maps.

We’re glad when Tigger springs for lunch without the bun,

And when he takes the jewel for piercing in his nose

He says that he’ll be careful: if it breaks or blows

Away then we can always sit and watch the sun

Or smell a rose.

I go out on patrol with orders not to miss:

“Erase the enemies of peace.” I breathe the smoke

With some new kind of mullah. Baseballs fill his cloak.

We hear the blood of Dexters hit the drains and kiss

The face of hope.

The kid beside me has a TV for a head.

He plays the evening news then clicks and turns away.

The backup meter maid, between commercial breaks,

Recites tonight the list of everyone who did

Not die today.

I know now all the roads arrive at summit blue,

But hope there is no substance to the rumors odd

Of screaming sounds when highways enter tunnels broad

And dark. I pray to God it never happens to

This path I plod.

With Peter Pan we perch on cliffs above the waves.

He kicks a clump and stones go tumbling to the sea.

He says he set them free. “But friend, you must agree,

Already dead they were and even now the slaves

Of gravity.”

Lieutenant Derrida constructs the wooden crates

To hold our excess cats. The rest play seek-and-hide

With freedom on the mats, and for awhile abide

To solemn take the time to calculate the dates

Of Eastertide.

Unconscious Nefertari left the river dried.

She buys up acreage on the clouds behind our backs.

But skewed without and hollow in, my spirit lacks;

So like the lady floating dead, from side to side

The mirror’s crack’d.

Magellan says he’s thought of changing course. Will I?

“But where?” I pray. Response unspoke, he points. I see

A rusty varicoloured bus on tracks and skis

In old MacDonald’s lot, another army by

The golden key.

Magellan takes a step. I follow with a chill

That steals my breath. If only it were here to nurse

This sudden bode of death. They brazenly converse

With Dexter dross as well as us, my fears fulfilled

And even worse.

We reach the heap, and I anticipate disaster.

Magellan steps inside. Twelve voices call, “Join us!”

“You’re not too careful where you lay the fork,” I fuss.

“We’re ambidextrous. Whip you sore the wrong bad master.”

I board the bus.

The driver hands me a fish sandwich and inquires,

While writing in the ashtray sand, “You hear me, son?”

I understand; I touch the sandwich to my gums.

I’m suddenly filled up with fearful white desire.

“It soon will come.”

A tingling haunts my side. The memories compile.

Then wobbly bus from nesting space sans warning springs

With rattle and lurch. Gray haired children roam and sing

And play hand church, and from each neck a chiral vial

Of Ishik swings.

Young Jimmy’s popping peanuts getting set for camp

Which will begin at seven-thirty on the dot,

And Gumby's back from Zurich, tied up in a knot.

I see so many smiling limber creatures tramp

This bumpy yacht.

As noble Alexander checks the balances

For burrs, I in this fine conveyance ask the crew,

“So fight we fearless now for freedom in the true?”

And Mister Madison replies, “For freedom? Yes,

Indeed we do.”

No Sinisters are left. No Dexters plead their rights.

Instead, Melchizedek and Daedalus agree

To cribbage Tuesday night. Son lacking ancestry,

And father far from son, they find each other quite

Good company.

I say, “So that’s the way. Let Libra write the checks.”

But Themis beams with cheer, “It’s not what you expect.

Don’t think that she could rule here. We’re more circumspect.”

Then Jochebed, confiding soldier dear, elects

To interject:

“Exactly all but one of us were in the wind

Mere drops – a few the stuff of rainbow flesh to see

Unfolding secrets for the dust beyond the tree,

But river irriguous beckoned. Now befinned,

We chase the sea.”

Wise Janus rubs his beards and speaks, “The bane and slip

Within the balance is a global warming theme.

The poles dissolve and thus relinquish in the steam

Their own existence. Whence they coax, with lukewarm sip,

The vomit scream.”

Sophrosyne, dern star of Socrates’ ballet,

Glissades unveiled near. “Dark you drew the lines, then hard

You rubbed them clean. You used to ride your boulevard

In color. Paint again!” She hands to me my gray

New member card.

It faithful grows with pressure Yin is bearing from

Her brother bright – their confrontations never stop,

But bound together always, like the sticks of chop,

They’re casting darts into the shadows, hoping some

Of them will pop.

Enchanted, Robin holds the jewel in covered jar.

I ask him, “Can I see it? Is it without spot?”

“The filter screens but need not certain spoil the pot.

Court not the speck, for save the wind this is by far

The best we’ve got.”

In radius of my view, behind the green sleeved one

Of Ascalon, a newer kind of mullah rees

The mystery, at long last in discovery

Of waters Al-Khidir, uncovered by the son

Of Mister G.

Some fellow fusiliers from perilous straits and seas,

Fair Thetis and the Argonauts clap furiously

For Phineas Barnum’s thumb and electricity

Precisely spinning all the plates on poles of free

Simplicity.

A jumpy armadillo usher makes his bow

Then down the aisle he leads – O how at home inside

This rumbly shandrydan I feel. It seamless glides

With grace as far as suiting socket will allow

To nudge my guide,

Who digs in pockets for the glasses on his brow,

“I used to be a leper – could not swat the beam,

Nor pray nor form an angel, in the frosty cream.

I bore the mark of Watahantowet, but now

I really dream.”

I take a seat in back where Jack is to his fond

Friends reading beads of amethyst – hyaline, numerous.

They laugh throughout his tale of yet another bus.

I smile myself and know we share things quite beyond

The humorous.

It waxes full and strong enough for truth to bear,

Yet I reflect on relics, tares in grain of new

Condition. Now beside me sits in bear skin shoes

That fit just right, a fair haired girl with torch aflare,

“There’s work to do.”

As Goldilocks is melting half my smoke alarms

I gaze, soul’s redevivus symmetry so high,

Upon this recent alar emanation spry

Which well they likewise ardent wear. They have two arms,

And so do I.

Wednesday, June 28, 2006

Wed, 28 Jun 2006 00:40:56 GMT

In the Elms

With snowy season through, I issue forth

From hovel veil for musing as a swain

The lovely ways of rays resiling north:

The swirling swallows voicing off the lane;

A lonesome fawn with wish of mother’s ruth;

Some hoary hare, the slave of summer thrush,

Unlearning now the yearning of his youth;

The voles, suffusing with the sun - they rush

Within the rye – they haver as they leaven;

The holy swans of our theophany

Who sailing slow survey with saffron psalms

Their lily lorn sheer mirror of the heavens.

Near all of earth is warm with euphony

Of sunshine. There is silence in the elms.

Who follows whom, or will I ever know?

They summon: sloth we aim our roaming in

The sylvan vale, where loose the elms will throw

Samaras for their runnel flowing thin

Once eve resumes. The iron of silver mouth

I feel on flesh of my own faces – yours?

I unaware arrive, then view the south:

An ashen enemy in army soars

Resolving as they’re filing over high

A wine horizon, “We shall slay the sun.”

The leaves are rolling over in the realm,

A sign of ave for someone who is nigh,

Of fain receiving favor, though they shun

Me here. Why? There is silence in the elms.

The air smells foul of rain now, hanging low,

With roilings whirling the Aeolian vanes.

The warriors are nearer now their foe,

Their luminescing nemesis who reigns

For only half an hour more – arrows shine.

They’re nearer, nearer, finis. Thor is roaring

Fulmineous woe; the animals resign.

The slashing levin rives in Anu’s warring,

Ere he forthwith is flowing from the veins;

His serum rains in volleys on the leaves,

On earth, on me. The runnel overwhelms

Her usual shore immersing me insane,

In hush. Save! Love! Where are you now? Relieve!

All I hear, save fear, is silence in the elms.

The elms are raising limbs with hymns of mirth

For swarthy aether; some of them are kneeling.

Samaras answer rain. I’m vile with earth,

With sorrow arms, with rouge of manus reeling,

While misery I own ‘neath waves as these;

I roll with rushing river having won,

Arousing memories of sorrel seas,

Of knowing in the sun, the sapphires: one

Within the rose, another of a rare

Hue, then the others on the wing – I hear

They shimmer now, no longing for the alms –

Whereas you heave me as a sigh, mere air

You throw away. Oh why? Am I sincere

A human? There is silence in the elms.

I cease with no full answer for alone,

Though half a reason I uneasy see:

The marrow airy, feathers heavy, shown

With narrow sharing of the frozen knee,

Of anything, of zephyrs on the way.

Oh how for minion others you were there!

Your leaving leaves me one Cimmerian ray:

This hollow mouth has sown a final air;

These eyes will nevermore view homey ferme

Nor swallows on the lea. Some say with ware

The loss of life will leave, when Lethe whelms,

One rather even less than other worms;

Though ne’ertheless, we know the eyes are there

For sealing: there is silence in the elms.

The elms haul in a sarsen – heavy, seals

Me in; I evanesce in myrrh, while yon

I lie among the raisins. E’er so real

The vision rouns anon anon anon:

A yellowhammer flying over slow.

The elms show no arousal as they yawn.

They’re full of fleamy wine, of me, of snow.

He lowering lays the heels in, firmly on

The nemoral floor, then roves my eerie sphere.

He sings a familiar song sashaying through

The humus – there is no one on the helm.

With cinnamon wings unfurling, showing sheer

Unearthly force, he lively rolls a slew

Of sarsens free, a seraph in the elms.

Monday, May 29, 2006

Mon, 29 May 2006 13:08:44 GMT

Hole

A hole in arms with longing fills their sense;

An orison he offers for Elohim immense.

So small rolls in the answer five years hence,

Whence I arrive so slowly ever since.

A hole forlays where nails of fire live.

Arise, small fries; now ferry me my nails.

Sir, we see none, though fishing with a sieve.

I’ve sworn them off, for I shall see your sails.

A hole evolves as meal hour’s mercy reins.

How ever sure his faring vessel shines

So near a hill of yellow maize remains.

Alas, for no fair hole enhances mine.

A hole for offal, will highway ruin solve:

His manhole rims fry heavy on; we’re fine;

However, they fare worse. So we revolve.

O hole receive our sizzly sins, we whine.

A hole of lull allures on lawn fresh mown,

For him a moil, for me a merry heaven.

With high aroma washing away alone

I lay, though rising, when I am eleven.

A hole in health swells worse with every snow,

So southwise he will fly the family u-haul

A million familiar faces away. We know

We’re moving somewhere where everyone says, Hi y’all.

A hole sways rough the home of mourning Maya,

So showing ruth he offers free his service.

He wings away in name of his Messiah,

Our anile Nellie is always fairly nervous.

A hole, his face, in morning shuffle is seen.

Where is he? He lies with menthol on his knees.

He runs a waning race; the months are lean

For meal, for me a memory overseas.

A hole in hull immerses my lowly yawl;

With riven sails, she smashes in the surf.

He throws the line for foiling Scylla’s thrall;

If only aurum knew the aweful worth.

A hole in earth his ashes seal, shalom.

A wraith, his aureole smile I see, a wall;

I see the holes. These lonely halls I roam,

I wear within, a hole – fills, fills them all.

Saturday, May 20, 2006

Sat, 20 May 2006 22:47:58 GMT

Princess Oliviabliv

O pilgrim of pathways unlit and inert

Consider my song as you step through the dirt:

The tale of a princess both venust and vexed,

A lovely young maiden but rather perplexed,

Her Highness the Princess Oliviabliv

Of Blothinghamshire which is near where I live.

I cherish a pendant resplendent and blest,

Delightfully shining, but searching for rest.

My pendant must purchase its niche before night.

O where shall I shelter my dearest delight?

In pathos of poets a promise I’ve heard;

I’ll tie it up tight to the wings of a bird.

Now don’t be absurd, said the king in a heave;

Unlike me it flutters, and so it will leave.

My pendant must purchase its niche before night.

O where shall I shelter my dearest delight?

In persons of presence a pattern I see;

I’ll hang it up high in the branch of a tree.

You’ve swallowed a flea, said the king with a shake;

Unlike me it withers, and so it will break.

My pendant must purchase its niche before night.

O where shall I shelter my dearest delight?

In annals of knowledge for answers I look;

I’ll fasten it sure to the page of a book.

A feather you cook, said the king turning red;

Though like me it utters, my dear it is dead.

My pendant must purchase its niche before night.

O where shall I shelter my dearest delight?

O daughter most favored, come show me your face;

Your king and your father, I am the place.

Monday, May 15, 2006

Mon, 15 May 2006 19:48:24 GMT

Suddenly Surprised

I am suddenly surprised

How vast

My heart regards

The chasm

Between the nigh impossible

And the most assuredly so.

Saturday, May 13, 2006

Sat, 13 May 2006 13:11:14 GMT

Inapplicable

It’s been a little lonely for the last couple of days out in the lakeside garden. Great Grandpa Wumpitathumpa has been in New Jersey. He went to Princeton for a week-long seminar on ‘The Intertextual Analysis of Nonconsecutive Prime Digits of Pi". I’ve been eating Dwizzleberries and Mufta roots all by myself, contemplating the early morning mists that hover over the surface of Lake Rhu as I eat in silence.

Great Grandma Wumpitathumpa has been particularly aggressive in her culinary assaults as of late. She has acquired an inordinate penchant for cooking hot dogs. She’s been saying that hot dogs are the healthiest food on the planet, next to her biscuits and gravy, of course. The other day I was sitting in the rocker in the living room when she snuck up on me with a very frightening looking frankfurter. When I promptly refused it she became cross and said she had proof that her food was good for me. Then she shoved a newspaper article in front of my face. It was from the previous day's edition of the Grand County Daily Phlebotomy. Sure enough, the title read ‘Hot Dogs Proven Healthiest Food (next to Great Grandma Wumpitathumpa’s biscuits and gravy, of course)’. It was a very interesting article. One particularly captivating bit said that nine out of ten Scandinavian soccer moms who consumed 12 large hot dogs per day for 37½ years suffered a lower incidence of diabetes, kidney failure, hyperactivity, paper cuts, and fits of wild screaming than did four out of three thirteenth century Mongolian war lords who consumed instead 12 large placebodogs per day (placebodogs are hot dog shaped packages of sugar combined with small amounts of spam substitute for flavor and texture).

This morning, for a change of pace, I went over to Malfred Moostus’ Bread and Breakfast for a bagel and a cup of coffee, and some reading time. As I took a sip of coffee and turned another page in Jalvron’s Hare Combing Made Easy I stared out the front window and mediated on my latest gleanings. I beheld before my eyes a man dressed in an ant suit running down the middle of the street with a green Volkswagen on his back. He was groaning as he ran, and the people inside the Volkswagen were yelling “Turn left! Turn left!” Sometimes, it all just makes me wonder…

Saturday, May 06, 2006

Sat, 06 May 2006 17:34:08 GMT

Children from the Sea

Alone I walk till evening’s dawn

Engaging twilight’s hue,

The shore by Luna’s beams illumed,

The sea by something new.

Beneath the waves Poseidon plays,

Upon them a dappled slew.

O surface of you waters blurred

What mottled on you floats?

‘Tis neither ice nor flotsam bedamned

That bleeds these golden notes.

Then all at once I know the forms:

A band of little boats.

With shallow draft and sharpened stern

The dories glitter bright.

Beside each wooden craft comes forth

A child from water’s night.

Emerged, the infants whole embark

With grace and wondrous might.

They drift to me with inquiry.

Can now you hear our suites?

You thought the sea his sole domain,

His palace of deceits,

But air he also spans and spins

And often misrepeats.

To think that I’d been drowned even then

When curt I penned their log,

And now I stand engaging here

Their sweet music in the fog.

How right peculiar is the sight,

Each prow inscribed dood Bog.

This was inspired by fishtree's recent post regarding Stevie Smith’s poem Our Bog is Dood.

Saturday, May 06, 2006

Sat, 06 May 2006 00:26:19 GMT

Re-Waxed

I thought that by now I would have found other non-waxy wares at my Wax-Mart. No such luck. All is wax. You may tell me that I have not ventured into the furthest aisles, that I have not untiringly looked behind every candle and under every scrap of debris. I suppose that you would be right, but I am growing weary. Forty miles to Wax-Mart. Every day, almost. When will I find the wooden pencils? How long must I wait until discovering the plastic tubs or the kettles of copper shimmering in the light of the flickering wicks? And it is no longer the coating of wax from the air conditioning that I fear most. It seems that the longer I patronize my necessary Wax-Mart I find that I myself in my own body am being transformed into wax. The other day the sun was shining on me brightly and warmly, streaming intently into my upstairs window. A little bit of the fur on my left ear melted.