Category Archives: humorous poem

Ode to His Rudeness, Monsieur the Raccoon (With Backstory)

Found Art Sculpture and Photo by jdb

The Backstory

                  The magnetically locked cat door was our attempt to block his nightly visits. Once he’d pried off all the magnets and entered anyway, we foiled him for awhile with an uninstalled door propped up like a fort against the opening at the top of the stairwell. The night he knocked down the seven-foot-high door and the sculpture which held it in place, toppling my jewelry display cabinets that stood next to it like dominoes, he frightened himself into a rapid retreat down the stairs, leaving the trail of feces he’d scared out of himself.
                     Having propped the door up with heavier reinforcements, we have been deprived of his company for weeks. Our cat food has gone unmolested. No muddy footprints mar the pedestals. No trails of cat food crisscross the kitchen floor. Imagine my surprise, then, when I awoke this morning and, believing myself to be walking into the kitchen, walked instead into chaos: Red chilies strewn across the counter like dead soldiers, one of them with its head bitten off. My Chinese porcelain teapot shattered in the sink. His muddy handprints all over the tiles and sink corners.
                  I move around the kitchen, finding further devastation: all of the baskets pulled down from their window hooks, my cookbooks spilled like shuffled cards. And, the final indignity: on top of my Cuisine of Colorado Cookbook, the pile of excrement––his revenge for the head of that red chili he ate?
                  In the living room, he has cleared the windowsills of the black Egyptian fish from the Louvre gift shop, of the Ethiopian wooden coffee jar, of the Lombok wooden and coconut shell implements, of the four yarn spool candlesticks. The steel-tipped African arrows and the wooden-tipped bamboo New Guinean arrows are spilled like pick-up-sticks on the floor, except for one rammed point first into the wood surrounding the hearth. This is raccoon terrorism of the worst sort: devastation, feces, and barely veiled threats.
                  In the den, the four-foot-high West African Spirit carving lies toppled over onto its face, feather epaulets now horizontal, horned forehead still blessedly intact. Now I remember finding the Kalimantan dragon lying on the bed in the guest bedroom when, coughing, I’d moved to the guest room half way through the night. I’d blamed the cats for knocking it off the window ledge, thankful for the bed beneath to cushion it. Now I know it was Monsieur bandit, moving out into new territory. Now I know that already he had been here and gone.
                  I move to the computer room, not expecting the devastation I find: the cover spilled off the printer, poetry spilled like leaves over the floor, a basket of family pictures distributed randomly in front of the file cabinet, the aluminum blinds tilted at crazy angles at the windows, the phone knocked off the hook. Then, finally, I hear the front door open––Bob home from his early Friday morning foray to the flea market. Together we examine the evidence, find more feces on the kitchen window frame, far up next to a perfect raccoon handprint on the glass. In the hall, we see the impossible: the door still in place with only a ten-inch opening at the top. The only possibility is that Monsieur raccoon has climbed the vertical batts of the redwood wall of the stairwell up to the door top and jumped over the door to wreak his revenge––to display his superiority over our greatest security measures. Then, when he sought to leave, there being no walls rough enough to climb on this side of the door, he tried each window in the house before climbing the large iron sculpture to the hanging lighting track, walking the track like a tightrope walker across the room to the huge Bobo butterfly mask which now hangs crookedly high up in the hall, then onto the top of the door and down the stairs again, through the cat door now flapping easily, devoid of magnets that formerly kept it closed to all but our own cats with their magnetic collars.
                  Again, Monsieur raccoon, you have bested us. Thus this ode to you––for all the clay flowerpots you’ve sent careening off our porch railings to shatter on the railroad ties below; for all the bushels of cat food you’ve managed to purloin from their storage place in the locked garbage can by wrestling it sideways and reaching one small black hand up to pull the plastic bag out by the hem, spilling cat food by the handful until you’d emptied the whole can; for all the leftover wet cat food you have licked from the cat dish and the kitchen floor; for all of the cat doors we’ve replaced, only to have you find a new way to circumvent them; for all of the handprints we’ve 409’d from our pedestals after one of your midnight art tours; for all of the leavings of yourself you have left for me to clean up, I construct this ode:

To his Rudeness, Monsieur the Raccoon,
Winner of Last Night’s Battle,
This Ode to Mark the Resumption of our Warfare.

Bob has brought the sheet of plywood to measure.
I have marked off the proper size and shape,
sawed it on the band saw.
Now, Bob brings the wire and the hand drill.
We are boarding up l’avenue de chat,
more recently l’avenue de Monsieur Coon.
No more will you dine in our bistro.
No longer will our cat door be your Arche De Triomphe
No longer will our studio gallery be your Louvre.
You, masked traveler, will need to find fresh boulevards to roam
at midnight when our household rests.
We have scrubbed your hand prints from the face of our house,
boarded over your only hopes of entry,
cut you off from your free meal ticket.
Had you have been a polite guest,
we might not have been driven to these extreme measures,
but Frenchmen will be Frenchmen and coons will be coons­­––
neither one of them with the manners to survive in polite company.

And so adieu, Monsieur Coon and bon voyage
into new avenues.
I leave you to the night owls
and the cougars
and the other dark prowlers
that we close our doors against each night.
May you dwell with each other more sociably
than you have lived with us.
May you find a tree hollow for the winter
and sleep peaceably throughout the rains.
May you have the best of coon lives without ever again
darkening our doorstep.
May you defecate in the woods and eat in the woods and sleep in the woods.
May a mantle of trees be your gallery, the bottom of a rotten log your table.
May your hand prints remain on your fingers,
may my flowerpots remain on my railings
and may never the twain meet.
Adieu, Monsieur the Coon. Adieu.

(Note: Less than a week after boarding and wiring up the door, we found the four boards and wire with which we had closed it removed and piled in a neat pile outside the door. The cat door swung freely, but there was no evidence that the raccoon had entered the house.)

for https://dversepoets.com/

Almost Ready to Stand-in

Almost Ready to Stand-in

If I had a bit more moxie,
I’d be Kardashian by proxy.
I’d be less studious, more frocksie
and trade these garments long and boxy
for a mini dress that’s foxy,
wear heels less Oxfordy and soxy,
hang out with girls named Tess or Roxie,
more cool and definitely less poxy.
I’d be a cockette of the walksie!

 

 

The prompt today is proxy.

Ghoulish Stew

The neighbor’s goulash party was a yearly hit,
but as the new guy on the block, he’d never been to it.
And though he was a clothes horse—stylish, svelt and cool,
he wasn’t very good at spelling, as a rule.

So when he was invited for a goulash blast,
he didn’t know the party was for a mere repast.
Now here he was, dressed in his sheet, feeling pretty foolish
when no other party-goers showed up looking ghoulish.

 

 

The prompt today was ghoulish.

CFFC Challenge: The Letter “J”

Judith

IMG_0002

Cee’s Fun Foto Challenge this week directs us to post a photo of something beginning with the letter “J” that contains at least six letters. Believe it or not, it took me a good ten minutes to come up with such a word!  I was about to resort to the dictionary when I spied this photo on my desktop. I had used it just a few days ago, but earlier, when I went to put it away, my eyes fell on the purse and I started to wonder what I would have carried in a purse when I was three years old. It seemed like a good subject for a poem, so I left the photo there to remind me to try to do so after I did Cee’s “Fun Foto” post. It didn’t occur to me for a long time, that since my name is Judith and it was a photo of me, that I could do both at the same time. 

Cee’s “J” Challenge.

 

Church Purse

What does a three-year-old put in a purse she takes to church?
Held primly on her lap as legs swing freely from their perch.
Feet dangling from the pew above the varnished floorboards where
fifty years of townsfolk have walked enroute to prayer.
Small straw purse grasped tightly in two nail-bitten fists,
too little for a lipstick or store receipts or lists.

If perhaps the sermon stretches on too long,
what can she find inside this purse that she has brought along?
Black plastic strap she’s twisted securely ‘round a finger—
once she has unwound it, how long will the marks linger
pressed into her chubby flesh, like four little rings
she surveys as she unsnaps her purse to view her “things?”

A single piece of Juicy Fruit in case she gets a cough.
A snap bead and a single bud that happened to fall off
the rosebush of that big house as she ran ahead to linger
on their way to church and squeezed it with her finger
(and perhaps her thumbnail) until it finally snapped.
She’d peel off its petals later as she napped.

She knew she shouldn’t do this. They’d told her this before,
but her parents walked so slowly, and those naps were such a bore.
God may have seen even the smallest sparrow fall,
but were single rosebuds seen by him at all?
That lady they belonged to was so bossy and so haughty
that she provoked the saintliest children to be naughty!

A single plastic wrapped-up toy she worries to and fro
from her last night’s Cracker Jacks bought before the show.
She softly rustles cellophane between her restless fingers,
then sniffs them to determine if the caramel smell still lingers.
Mama gently elbows her to say she should desist––
fluttering her hand a bit, loosely from the wrist.

She looks for things much quieter in her little purse.
Her snap pistol is noisier. This marble would be worse,
dropped upon the church floor where it would roll away.
If she caused such a ruckus, what would the preacher say?
Something at the bottom feels so round and sticky.
Probably a Lifesaver gone all soft and icky.

A little lace-edged hanky that Grandma tatted for her.
She said that she would show her how, but she’s sure it would bore her.
A folded piece of paper. Crayons––one blue, one red.
If the sermon goes too long, she can color instead.
Mama will not mind and neither will her Dad.
Sister will be embarrassed, but she cares not a tad.

Later on her Daddy’s eyes will start to close,
but she’s sure her mom will nudge him before he starts to doze.
That’s why she is sitting right there in the middle
to correct his snoozes and her daughter’s every fiddle.
Sister is so perfect she needs no reprimand,
so she sits on the outside, removed from Mama’s hand.

After the sermon’s over, the collection plate
passes here before her, certain of its fate.
She’ll unsnap the little purse and reach down far inside it
to try to find the quarter where she chose to hide it
stuck in her silly putty in a little ball.
Now she wonders whether she can remove it all.

The people farther down the pew look in her direction
to try to see the cause of the collection plate’s deflection,
so her quarter is surrendered to join the coins and bills
piled there around it in green and silver hills.
It is the only quarter blanketed in blue.
It is a nice addition, this unexpected hue.

Sister looks disgusted, but her parents do not see,
That quarter cannot be traced back to her now, luckily.
Church will soon be ended with a prayer and song,
and when the music starts up, she will gladly sing along.
 She still dreads church but she gives thanks, for it could be worse.
She could be forced to live through it without her Sunday purse!

I.D.

Identification

When Freud talked about the ego, super-ego and the id—
all the different parts of us within which humans hid,
(all the things that made you “you” and things that made me “me”)
he thought that he’d identified all that there could be.

But if he were living, he would add a chapter or two
to say that id, ego and super-ego wouldn’t do.
There’s a punctuation omission I fear he failed to see.
It is that vital part of us that’s labeled the i.d.!

It used to be that I possessed my own identity
and showing up was proof enough that I was really me,
but now “me” is not me enough, and I find it hard
to face that I am only me when carrying a card.

 


The prompt word today is
identity.

Trademark Quality

Trademark Quality

My smile is not my trademark and neither is my hair.
If you check my waistline, you’ll find it isn’t there.
My clothes are not distinctive. I don’t drive a fancy car,
and if you rate my cooking, you’ll find it under par.
My figure is too stocky. My dogs are ill-behaved.
When I sang karaoke, nobody ever raved.
So my defining quality, now that you’ve thought to query,
is that I am perfect—perfectly ordinary!

 

The prompt today is Trademark.

2:39 A.M.: Insomnia

Insomnia

I’m lying awake when I should be snoring,
but falling asleep is simply too boring.
Lying here quiet with nothing to do
with nothing to listen to, nothing to view
just makes me restless, unable to snooze.
I need some amusement, a snifter of booze—
something to make me forget to recall
that falling asleep’s not the end of it all.
I cannot help but resent this time wasted
when things could be written or looked at or tasted
instead of just lying inert in my bed
with my eyes shut but images filling my head
that tend to confuse and to fill and encumber
this time that good sense says should be spent in slumber.