Full Circle

One star in the early night, rising
In a straight line high above the moon.

Thunderous across balmy air,
The constant repetitive boom of waves.

Sharp morning, with a promise
Of heat increasing over the hours.

The market ground under surface dew
Hard for my tent pegs, drying out already.

Two babies in their mothers’ arms
Bounce and laugh, holding my gaze.

The skirt seller suddenly, casually,
Tells me her whole life story.

I bring home two bottles of red
captured, held by the necks.

Sitting in front of bright yellow flowers
She describes white lace and ruffles.

One of the cats complains of her food
But lies in my lap, purring.

With my wand, I draw down the light;
The moon is one hundred percent full.

She touched her foot to the computer chassis,
Not knowing quite what to write this time
Life dripped away like wet paint
Keeping a beat to the steady passing of time
Her fingertips pounded over random keys
She looked back at past successes
Life kept twinkling in front of her
While she kept passing opportunity by

The calendar screamed at her
Pay attention to experience you won’t find
The day that you can repeat
After all, Groundhog’s Day was just a movie
And Bill Murray’s character wasn’t one
You’d like to meet
She grasps at the right words
The perfect meter
A rhyme that will drop everyone from his or her feet

She leaned back in her chair, studying
Degrees and awards
Remembered what it was like to be honored
When the faculty and students praised her
She recalls her nickname, “logic goddess”
And her fingertips pound decisively
Bringing together every random letter
Bringing together every planned word
She smiles at the past successes
And has security in the future.
After all, all her brilliances are recorded from
The certificates that hang steadily on the wall

The Literature teacher that everyone dislikes
Does appear to like him more
An extra point, here and there
Never allowing him to fail any test
She always does it, just like that

The stray cat that stays near his house
Evidently keeps her love for him
Every day, when he walks back from school
She waits there like a faithful pet
She never meows at anyone else

Nobody else can understand
Why he smiles at the auntie
even when she scowls
and gives him less
Why he doesn’t hate the teacher
curse her for making him
fail every test
Why he is so very fond of the cat
that hisses at him every day
glaring at him, like he’s a lowly rat

Because they don’t know that
His hallucinations make him giggle

Purple clouds
Pink elephants
Dancing on pins

Flutes of champagne
Bubbling creeks
Along the pathways

Threads of moonlight
Shimmering silver
Graying shadows

Silhouette against the dark
Splashes of light
Suggestive vagueness

A lovely dress
Sleek and sensual
A lovely you without

In a dream
His hallucinations
make him giggle.

I chose to use the suggested ending… “His hallucinations make him giggle”
To be certain, it is different working from the end forward…
or was it more a steering effort?

I should note that Trochaic pentameter (the meter of the suggested line) is not my normal meter… (if it can be said that I have a normal meter, or any meter at all!) Nevertheless, the poem is largely in Trochaic Pentameter. I hope you enjoy it.

John’s Tale…

Once there was a boy named John MacArthur,
(to protect the innocent the name was changed)
who went laughing and giggling from his birth.
Being frank, he suffered unceasing mirth.

Thinking John was just was a happy child,
his folks ignored the laughing giggling bouts,
Then, they thought: it never stopped. Never.
Boys must laugh, but they must also cry.

Stressed by John’s unceasing mirth, his Parents
Hauled him everywhere to be checked out by
Medics, doctors, Dermatologists,
and Gastrointerologists, too!

After tests and needles and pokes and prods,
None could tell them why their lovely boy would
wiggling, giggling, laugh inceasantly.
Even through the painful tests: he giggled.

Then one day a simple kindly nurse asked him,
“John, dear, what’s so funny all the time?”
John said, “to the nether world I see,
Demons, angels, ferries, talking beasts.”

“Always mubbling, jumbling,” he said, “they speak,
often telling me what I should do.
More”, he said, “they just amuse me with their
Silly little jokes that make me giggle.”

“Dear, oh dear” the kindly nurse then whispered,
Then they came, with lab coats, charts and pencils,
the psycho-therapists and psychologists
who asked John about ‘hallucinations”

Scribbling, furiusly annotating,
the Pyshco-therapists and psychologists
tried but failed to ‘break’ him of the giggles;
giving up, they all proclaimed: He’s insame!

Now, dear John, lives in a padded room.
By the door, there hangs a sterile clipboard.
On the board, the exuce for his confinement:
“His hallucinations make him giggle.”