Poems With Odd Or Rare Words (1) : rue, requite, tripe,cacoepy, extravasate, and other defenestrated excesses thrown under the bus

Poems With Odd Or Rare Words (1)

Upper Mingle
[rue, tête à tête, cudgel, curmudgeon]

She spent long nights
in underclass places,
rued the pitiful chatter
of crude bar cattle,
went home to a hovel

In her rabbit pelt
murmuring French phrases
she tried to infiltrate the
chic crowd at the ballet

When the puzzling prancing ensued
the music hammered confusion into her head
though she needed to picture
a conversation piece
for intermission, when she would
entice those rich in culture
to let her immerse in their elites
or even to engage in a tête à têtê
with a gentleman

Carrying the rolled-up program like a cudgel
her cane like a club
she flitted in a fashion
over the carpet
flirted with elegant men, but
only one engaged her, he
a mere curmudgeon. With her
money gone to tickets, she
went home to her dungeon
late at night without
pumpkin or palace, only shooed
by “Zawmb’yee Nuje”

A bouquet of you has arrived and
you make me gush and blush
and dance across the world. I am

a spendthrift of sanguine love who will
extravasate the rose petals into the wind
Extravasation In the Field
by “Zawmb’yee”

Whenever fields of day are parched,
the nightly river flows for me
and pleases all my fantasies

In day
my sheep are gone and all
my parchments written.

But there’s a river in my dreams
and I do see
my captain drenched, though

All my fields are barren now
I will dig my trenches.

By day I build an irrigation ditch
and thirst for him to fill it

He’ll be my only river guest
who has me on his manifest.

If tomorrow he will be with me
nightly river flow for me

for if I wake in flooded fields
in gush of conversation

his swim to me
I know will be
a grand extravasation
Window Dressing
[defenestrate, defervescence]

Waiting out winter here where
rose petals have long since
swirled upon winds
like naked sweet flakes

Too many cold dreams froze the day.

You could’ve hung around
waiting ’til snow flakes
melted on your tongue

I can’t believe your
hot flakiness is gone
way out and far beyond
and I’ve

been chipping at a sorrow stone
like a flint rock without kindling,
cold slivers and flakes

You could’ve hung around
past winter’s blue tongue end
waited for the equinox
to knock us into Spring

But layers of your patience
seemed to flake off

you couldn’t wait
and cooled

Oh it
would’ve made us warm
that eternal vernal word on
the tip of my tongue
that winter day
looking out the window with you

Oh to wait for the ring
and the equinox

but you defenestrated my love
and from passion fever
in abandonment snow

I can’t believe your
hot flakiness is gone
way out away far beyond
while snow flakes are
melting on my tongue

Is there a vernal venal groundhog
you’ve bribed with flowers
to look through glass, not
see snow flakes falling
this frigid Spring equinox, when
we ought to sing and pop up?

But I’ve been jumping and unraveling
like an unwinding spring
snow flakes melting on my tongue

I hope flowers are coming back
dressed in red flakes

Foamy Dream

There is an ocean at dawn
that skirts the night tides
crashing swirls and sea birds

There is a froth to morning dreams.

I’ve been staring at foam in my coffee
remembering the ocean starring in ending rain
a conjured dream of frothy us, stars
beneath an oceanic drink of dawn

It was
coffee boiling hot for
the exigency of a dream, and

when from the freezer I plunged
an ice berg scoop of ice cream in it
the titanic foam made giggle bubbles
that speak of the dream when
you laughed your dainty blessing,
so pretty your voice, your smile in
the swirl of your skirt like a current
or maybe I just imagine such formality
like the majestic blue of the ocean at sunrise
because you know I don’t mind your bikini too,
love the virtues of shallow laughter-water,
know that the splash and the play
do pull tides from the deep imagination

I can be hot
to be cool

and we sat on the white sand
under the silly white umbrella we had borrowed
not imagining rain on our white beach, where we thought
if only sunshine would be in the heart then joy rises

for sunrise at the beach is
a glistening foam
silver crests
deep blues
an orange glow
and ice cream foam

and I dream of you
with fireworks in the sky

maybe I imagine love
blue and foamy
silvery crested
[cacoethes loquendi, cacoepy, tripe,dictum,basso profundo]

I knew her in the protest days
when she had the cacoethes loquendi

Oh the sadness of cacoepy when
she mumbles tripe into the belly of a text message
never speaking in a sentence that would echo
through the empty speakers’ square

where birds and I
could hear some rhetorical question
that I profoundly would, with chalice aforethought,

mischievously answer in basso profundo
“Share my wine of fictional dictum in a cup”
and she would pronounce us “Huh whaa?”
Quirky From Afar
[requite, catbird seat, crow’s nest, dirge]
Sadly waving on
wonder why there’s no endless splash

The water seems shallow
the music seems cool

Oh sorrow drowning girl
wonder why she’d die
shed her feathers in the waves

So many young song birds crash
and fame’s not much of a crumb

Guess she’s a bye-bye
pretty song bird up a stage tree
who’s never seen an ocean wave hi

Oh that sad lady
sitting in the catbird seat
wonder why she’s
never seen the sunrise smile

To me, I’ve
heard a mournful lady,
wonder why she’d die

’cause flattering and fluttering
fan cats purr and fan chicks peep

and no I’m not
exactly a fan, no not exactly, even though
she makes showy new arrangements,
makes a scene without a melody, upscale
variations and inversions on the sorrow sparrow

wonder why
she’s never seen an ocean wave hi

I mourn the fallen
song birds at dawn
with oatmeal, but sometimes

lunch is best
at breakfast time
with appetizers at sunrise
by the ocean

Birdies in the dawn
have worldly songs I know,
choreographed for the video

The trouble with the quirky world
is few singers will have an
elegant soup for breakfast,
will not take my silly advice for
the morning lunch of desire

pizza with me, and
anchovies for seagulls
opus no. 4, symphony 2,

won’t minister to the minestrone
and are left with a cereal for the showy birds

I make soup for breakfast sometimes
just to watch the mist fog up the
window glass of dawn
where nothing can be a scene

I have a showy tablespoon
with a fancy engraved handle
for my lonely soups, for sometimes
it’s better to sip carefully than
be scorched with hot sorrow

better to look out the window at
feathers and upper blue cool dawn,
better not listen to orange songs
and be juiced

Screeching birds in the dawn
have angry tears in the rain, secretly
curling up with a soupy turmoil
a noodle that no one is willing
to unravel, and many unwilling
to spoon out comfort to them

These are the famous agonies
I think I know, though
being nobody of renown,
such unseen sorrow has
no publicity value, has no way
to monetize a cry, can not
get this tune on the charts, but
she has a beautiful way
to monetize sorrow

Seen that young beautiful girl
who might have been near
where I could have praised
her feathers of flight
her perfume of happiness,
could have spooned out
a dollop and a dabble in magic
like I once thought I had.

I’ve seen her dance
in the bubble and cage
of the obscene show-biz scene
seen many be too serious about trivia

Oh magnificent party girl, don’t die young again,
young girl with the band and groupies

If she’d leave her toady agent and her dreams
and let me be a non-toxic chatty drug, ha
I’d sing nonsense with her
because I am profoundly silly, and
I wonder why she’d die even with the
praise of her fans, and no I’m not
exactly a fan, no not exactly, no it’s

just that I’ve heard her scream famously
and I’ve screamed alone, because
I can’t seem to compose the song of my heart
as well as she who is talented, lonely, and sad

Maybe I could’ve been her odd high
the quirky no one who’s not hip
and hears her secret silent cries
that fans and agents never hear
when they feed her any drug of the day
she thinks she wants, and if in a haze
she keeps on chirping
I’ll pray for her, because
she is so beautiful and
of course, sexy, but
that’s not the point
though they say it is

Oh hey, I know about loneliness
and when she dies young
I will wonder why talent doesn’t matter
and why I never met her

Can’t say if I would have mattered at all
can’t say if I would have been more than a quirk
or a mere jerk, but she will die young probably, and
maybe I would have given her an hour

an hour is all I need
to love being with a song
a rhapsody in grace
so blue toned, but I’ve

seen her on
a stage tree perch
in the catbird seat

and though she
lets the fawning cats meow
she can not requite the clawing

Still I wonder why
beautiful girls die young
though they can sing
sorrowful chirps and dirges on key

And I wonder if
I could have sailed to her
an admirer in a crow’s nest
who loved her more than a fan

— Douglas Gilbert


4 thoughts on “Poems With Odd Or Rare Words (1) : rue, requite, tripe,cacoepy, extravasate, and other defenestrated excesses thrown under the bus

  1. I love it when you use big words – It makes me all excited or something along those lines (hehe). Those are all wonderful poems, I had forgotten about a couple of those, it’s nice to read them again especially the Zawmb’yee poems, sounds like she knows my excited feeling in the “Extravasation In the Field” poem. Maybe i’ll find my own Captain sometime soon…
    I like this collection…very nice

    1. Thanks very much. Yeah, I should re-read my Fog thing and try to pick up on the Zawmb’yee character. It is incredible how much freedom there can be in taking different points of view. I guess that’s why so many playwrights are happy (yeah, I know, some are not). It can be weird though when Zawmb’yee likes Doug and I forget for a moment that it’s a fictional character. Well, I guess it’s not that weird because people write romantic songs about fictional people all the time and have emotional reactions to fiction. Part of the creative force — creation and nurture. Hmm, there’s the “Mother of Invention”. I wonder who the Father is. Oh I forgot what the cliché was: “Necessity is the Mother of Invention.” Oh never mind then, in the present context, that makes no sense at all, actually. Giving birth to an independent soul who invents for joy and for its own creative process: to express its je ne sais quoi [OK, I cheated: instead of putting a blank ____ , I just said,”I don’t know what” in French. Yeah, it’s odd how so many unknown things are given labels. And yet it’s useful to manipulate unknown symbols — like now they talk about “Dark Matter” or “Dark Energy”; eventually they’ll add characteristics to it and do something with it.] [??Love is the Mother of the Mother of the Inventor?]

      1. je ne sais quoi huh? Everything sounds so beautiful and romantic in French, I wish I could speak it. I used to want to visit France and was going to take a language course or something but then I realized that it was probably never going to happen in my lifetime. Hey, I have a fictional boyfriend. When men ask me out that I don’t want to go out with I just tell them I’m taken already. Then if they come back in to my work again and start asking if i’m still taken, I’ll make up some date details from the previous amazing weekend. I’ll be like “Oh yeah, we’re still together, he showed up with flowers and then cooked dinner for me and we ate by candle light. Then we made ice cream sundaes for dessert. It was the best night ever…(sigh)” giggling…yes, i am a mess at times huh? But the whole fictional boyfriend started because some of these men are so persistent it weirded me out a little and it was just easier to tell them I was taken so they’d back off. ok, enough about my fictional romance – I’m giggling about you needing a philosophy scholarship, a slice of pizza with anchovies, a Viking hat, and a partridge in a pear tree. That’s quite an odd array of different things to need. The viking hat is like the icing on the cake. I really can’t even believe that english was your worst subject…you’re such a beautiful writer. But that does make sense that the characters are his children. Very nice concept indeed.

    2. Oh wait, I think I see the concept: the author’s characters are his children. Oh gee, now I see how far behind I am. I think in the past I heard that kind of discussion but at the time couldn’t relate to it… I guess I just thought, Ugg all those literature philosophy people being all abstract and snobbish… Hmm, that’s a shame that they didn’t take the time to explain it to me at the level I was at at the time — they just made me hate reading, literature, philosophy, and I just felt very stupid and English was my worst subject.. and now the old dog can barely bark. Yeah, I need a philosophy scholarship, a slice of pizza with anchovies, a
      Viking hat, and a partridge in a pear tree…

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