Sounds like a – HOOPLAHHH
Sounds li- HOOPLAHHHHHH
Sounds like a lot o- HOOPLAHHHHH
*tiny little brick*
Here’s some hoopla:
Poetry by Jacquie Burckley in the style of Kenneth Koch:
If Pluto Kissed the Sky
If Pluto kissed the sky
Cloaked his arms around the black,
Would she leave him out to dry
Or would she hug him back?
He could share all his gold
From the stars and from the earth;
Loyal ally by his side
Praising his grace and worth.
If one kiss it did take
To allow the clouds to cry,
Our fickle hearts sure would ache
If Pluto kissed the sky.
Send Me a Star
Send me a star
Wrapped in a ribbon like the one that binds me
To you
Cinched from my veins
To the moon
As she orbits around
The earth pulling me
Around with her.
I call to you, O sun
For you a brother to she
Snip the ties that strangle me
Smother me
Restrain me from growing
Shall I call you Atropos
Unturnable mother of thread
Hinged and fearless.
Untitled
I became the x, so can I ask you Y?
How could you not meet me at the Midpoint?
This downward Slope, you caused the spiral.
Maybe one day, our lives will once again
Intersect
Poetry by Chrissy Schreiber in the style of Peter Pereira:
Aumakua’s Saimin Recipe
Makuahine stirs saimin –
dash broth, green onions, kimchi,
sausage, Spam. The bitter cabbage,
Ma’s cryptic ingredient, dulcifies
with the extra kamaboko, carnation
swirling to aught.
Ma says the Josang
would scoff at me but I riposte:
the Sosen would be unbothered –
unlike Pele’s ash,
the pungent loaf still nourishes.
Trippers never know Elysium until they see it.
They think they know,
but it is misperception.
This pristine moment is not.
Ma says to take some manapua-
I acquiesce because Tadeo’s ma bakes them
and then the wooly spheres are too
bald, so Ma’s steamed mountains
are a shrewd selection. I will amble
to Wailea, bursting with
dough and repletion.
A small note for our listeners and readers – Chrissy is not Hawaiian and does not mean to lay claim to the Hawaiian culture. This poem was an attempt to learn more about a place and a people she had never encountered. If you are Hawaiian and would like to share your story, please send us an email, we would love to hear from you!
Rituals and Rhythm
The water beats a familiar pattern
on the porcelain. Drip… drip… drip…
hits the chrome that closes us in.
It strikes a neighborly chord, one we
know well. Hear the gentle rip of pads peeling
off the enamel like dermal velcro; graze.
Skin, smooth and soft as velvet. Slips, slides,
suds, steam. Rituals and rhythm. Pressure
in my gnarls, tactual and exquisites. The water
burns away, purifies, cleanses, sanctifies.
His fingertips trailing between
my scapulae, drawing
nothing of note.
Pluviophilia
Love of rain
I love a good sudden downpour: a plash.
Where’s my mist? My pour? My thunder buddy?
Men. Mizzle. Morange. Monsoon. Give me:
cats and dogs, no rain: no snores.
Sprinkle, squall, storm, shower.
Whopper, whirlwind, gullywasher, goose drowner.
Where is the fun in a sunny day?
Burns and blazes? What about noodlers and Naders?
I want doozy, dump, drip, drizzle.
Rainbow birther. Rush. Cell. Cane.
The sun can kiss my ass: the sparkler.
Give me fog, frog choker, twister, tempest.
(Read) Between the Vines 