Poetry

Frantz Fernandas von Anoplura,
A grandiose name for a louse,
He lived in the hairs of a callous old dame,
And often reclined on her blouse
In search of a dwelling befitting his name,
A filthy yet classier house.

He witnessed the innocent act of a thief
That brought his unsavory mistress
A child, for the want of a rampion leaf,
A beautiful creature in distress
Confined to a tower, much to his relief.
But Frantz had his eye upon this tress

For here in the forests of sunshine and gold,
There thrived a louse nation of splendor,
Amongst them a creature of beauty untold,
A lausmaid of opposite gender,
Who captured the fancy of Frantz by the fold
Of her palpus attractive and tender.

And thus he left witch for golden-haired wench
And traveled for long on that head,
Till came he to face in all of that stench
The lausmaid he wanted to wed,
The sweet Morgen Myna, oh nothing could wrench
Him ‘way from the charms that she spread.

So Morgen and Frantz, they married and had
The happiest moments together
And how they rejoiced, especially glad
For times when Rapunzel sent nether
Her tresses to help that most elegant lad
To climb up in every weather.

But one afternoon, on the edge of a hush,
Frantz scoured a follicle bare
When voices in anger preceded the rush
Of a shear that cut through the hair,
To send Frantz Fernandas down into the brush
On the face of a mighty king’s heir.

But what shocked poor Frantz was the prince’s dull wit
To up and just wander away,
“The tower, good fellow,” he sucked and he bit,
“Oh, at least you can manage to stay.”
But the prince wandered off in his blindness to sit
In the shade of an ash on the way.

They mourned, man and louse, for the loss of their love,
Sweet Rapunzel and fair Morgen Myna,
While fragrances princely that fell from above
Obligated poor Frantz to divine a
Grand means of escape, but a flutter of dove
And the gentlest of breezes were sign of

Love returning. The voice of Rapunzel they heard,
The prince ran toward it with glee
They met; how she cradled his head with a word
Bearing grief that her man couldn’t see,
As her tears fell, Frantz clambered up undeterred
On a lock of her hair by her knee.

The prince found his sight, as Frantz madly sought
Morgen Myna, and found her indeed
By the follicle whence he had left, she had brought
Forth their nits, Anoplura of breed.
Then they all lived together and died at the spot
Where Rapunzel’s first bath was decreed.

My Epistle entry at the June 12 Pentathlon.

My Dear Friend,

Tell me: can you see that keen bumble bee
Alighting itself on a flower,
And pray, do you see the flower when she
Looks up in that early dawn hour;

Yes, you’ve seen the skies through your weary eyes,
How clear and blue they come bowing
To kiss well the trees and the edges of seas
Whenever the weather’s allowing.

Well, forget all that!

You’ll be married in a fortnight, it will never be the same,
So be merry now and let your heart to sing,
When you see that blasted bee, trust me, all that you will see
Is a buzzing blob of yellow with a sting.

And each flower that is born is a reason for a thorn,
And the early morning air won’t be so still
When you see your day is planned, you’ll be putty in her hand,
Losing every day a kilo of your will.

When you look up at the sky, you’ll invariably spy
Clouds of grey and every other darkness form,
And the trees, they will (it’s true) be those things that block the view
While the seas become an omen for a storm.

Then you’ll tell yourself it’s love that takes all of the above
And just blends it all into one toxic smoothie.
Drink it up, you poor fool; do it while it is still cool,
Every drop you drink will die proclaiming you the

JACKASS!

But now, if you hang in there, you will see the day you swear
That the jackass in you is a broadway act,
For there comes to every man that approaches half his span
Knowledge of this one invaluable fact:

Be her destiny, her love, be her “all of the above”,
All it costs you is one stinkin’ ounce of tact.

Kindest Regards,
Khalid

P.S. CONGRATULATIONS!!

I went up against some sharp competition Friday night at the Highland Park Annual Poetry Pentathlon. Shout out to Bryce Johnson on a well-deserved victory.

There were five events in all (hence ‘pentathlon’):

• The Pantoum (just google it)
• The Epistle (letter in verse)
• Poetry Potluck (perform another contestant’s entry)
• Fairy Tale Poem (written from the viewpoint of a minor character in a fairy tale)
• On the spot (prompt provided when you walk in)

I’ll publish my entries in separate posts now. Tell me what you think.

I think that a thought is an arrow that springs
From the bow of an intellect grand
By the coincidence of a number of things,
All crafted in destiny’s hand.

The tenser the bowstring, the farther it goes
To land in a sea of a plan,
A hilltop of action, a field of repose,
Or a swamp of the words of a man.

There is a time when you need to be
Returning, repentant and still,
For times were when you went cold like the sea
And drowned everything in a swill.

There is a place where you need to be
To fix all the damage you’d done
To bodies and minds and hearts couldn’t see
Impaired by the blindness of fun.

The time here is now, the place now is here,
It’s all you have got, and yourself to fear.

To return where life begins, and learn
To breathe. And let breathe.