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All poems © 1995 Blake Steele
May be copied and used freely.
Please identify author as is normal.
For publication rights please contact author.
All Paintings © 2003 Blake Steele
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I had a crooked apple tree and nothing would it bear but ruby cherries, oh so sweet, and a little golden pear. That crooked tree was my delight, I watched it grow both day and night. And many an evening, I'd sit alone with cherry juice upon my chin till children came to tease and moan until I asked them in; then we would dance and laugh and play until the golden break of day.
And in the morning, when a bright dewdrop would shimmer on that golden pear, which sat like a crown at the tree's tip top, then we would lie and stare up into the mystery of my little crooked apple tree. |
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THERE WAS AN OLD MAN OF LASATE
There was an old man of Lasate who always danced as he ate, he went spinning around to the musical sound of his knife and his fork on his plate.
And when his stew boiled on the heat, or his oven was baking a sweet, or his spit was roasting some meat, he danced on his hands and his feet.
He never sat still at the table, he never learned to as a child, but being so quick and so able with strawberry jam he was wild.
He plastered it over the sofa, then spread it out on his bed sheets, so after he'd danced up a polka he could lie down and rest on the sweets.
He danced from morning 'till noontime, he danced until it grew late, he danced from midnight to sunrise, for those were the times that he ate.
Yes, those were the times that he ate, this curious man from Lasate, who went spinning around to the musical sound of his knife and his fork on his plate.
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Cows, cows, audacious and wild, undaunted, intrepid, unafraid of a child. Their brains are as clear of all fear as blue skies when a child swaggers up to stare straight in their eyes. Cows, cows so valiant and game, worthy to bear that auspicious cow name: Mooooo Cow! IT'S SUCH FUN TO MAKE UP WORDS THAT REALLY OUGHT TO BE
Sitting on his doffle a Floggel floxed a flea-- it's such fun to make up words that really ought to be. Not like those dry disphosfories that flaunt the funless air and cause the little worpple worms to mindless mop and stare. If a wondrous wazzel of a musical man should hallupp his wupples and wees with a scumphly toonful of balefully biffles and fingers whenever he please, then who could but tintifully waft in the wiffles if a musical man should but dazzle your diffles and wipplely wordify windward and wise and mup and electrify you to the skies? Not I! I'll not sit on my saplupzing rump or thonk on my thinkle or drump on the sump for that would be worst that a maleful of mush and a slight to the windward, a blight and a blush to the ringing and singing of swimply delight. So down on our diffles let's dwip and recite this much mentioned flutz all throughout the long night, till when in that morning... we'll lipple with light!
WHY I HAD TO DISCIPLINE OUR UNRULY COW
I balanced once upon the back of our purebred Gurnsey Cow, and twenty seven chickens the farmyard horse, a sow, all gathered round to watch me strut, do a cartwheel, show my stuff. I spun upon her slippery ribs and pranced up on her spine then swung out on her twisted horns did a back flip, (of a kind) and landed by her feet with ease, to stare into her placid eyes. She didn't seem to mind, you know, her eyes showed not a care, she mooed and with her lumpy tongue licked my face, my hair, until I hollered, "That enough, don't you know your tongue is rough?" And so I kicked her in the rump and locked her in a stall until she learns some manners-- I can't stand rude cows at all! OH THOSE BLOOD BLASTING RED POPPIES!
Poppies boom blasting in a back yard, crackling blam like red jam; smack dab and dabbed back till the rubied snickle snackle clicked and clacked, rattatat, rattatat... Then those blooming Bolshevicks fisst and fust (as they must) like lightning rust!
WHEN A COW GOES SHOPPING IN THE MALL When a cow goes shopping in the mall she must beware of fragile things, for though she saunters fashionably her milk-filled udder often swings and knocks the merchandise askew, which makes her blush... as it would you. BASEBALL AT OUR DIAMOND DAIRY Our cows play baseball in a field and wear a pitcher for a shield, one upon each milk-filled udder as around the bags they scutter. And if a pitcher often balks or throwing balls, 5 cows she walks: they pass that pitcher to the team to fill it up with milk and cream. Yet if she still can't put cows out they know we'll stall the game, no doubt, and so that pitcher they implore to pour it on some more and more until she gets in licks or two and heckles batters with her moo. Our milking hands then clap with glee right up until the time of three when by those hands the play is stalled and both teams have their milk recalled. And thus our cows play very merry baseball at the diamond dairy.
SPRING'S SPRUNG HE SUNG
In the spring the blue birds sing and the rich red robins bip and bop, and hip and hop looking for that wibbly worm. The little lambs and goats and calves spin in turn and bip and bop, and hip and hop through the green grown field; and the spring sprung trees yield cotton soft buds and those light lime leaves. The winter sky no longer grieves the earth with brittle cold but the pale sun grows bold and gold and spanks the earth with his high hot hand until she brawls and dances, shouts and prances through bird and beast and bud; then from her mud, where the sun's gold hands dig deep, she shakes her flowers from their sleep till they riot in color and upward sweep! * So it is that all the spring shows her seasonal ravishing!
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