The Dray Horse

He gave the last full measure of devotion
without receiving recognition or promotion.
Living on the muted end of a video call
a dray horse working quietly in his stall
until found back turned to a virtual door,
glued to his chair, feet fixed to the floor,
staring searchingly into the electric blue
as if it could tell him what is true.
A conch squeezed tightly in his shell
bothering no one until he started to smell.

His cramped cubicle was in the last row.
It was a long way away so I would not go.
Instead I sent work to him by email
which he would respond to without fail
but then there were unusual delays.
To be fair, he'd been dead for two days
staring into the vast electric blue
as his work lined up in a virtual queue.

Now the accountants have correctly said
he shouldn't be paid for the days he was dead.
So I hope his family won't give me flak
when I call to get that money back.

Accountants - they're not virtual or new. 
That's what I see inside the electric blue.

Luvgood Carp, Editor-in-Chief

Chicken Pol Pot

We were in Cambodia YumYum when Karen asked 
if they serve General Tso.  Laughingly I said no, 
but they do have Chicken Pol Pot, which is to die for.

It starts out sweet but then the heat hits like a bullet 
to the head.  And though I doubt this is true, Karen swears 
I told her to get the Khmer Rouge dumplings too.

My Cheshire grin should have been a clue but when the waiter 
walked over Karen gave her order and onto the sidewalk I flew.

It was just a silly genocide joke, but some people spurn humor like others malign salt.  Then they pretend to be offended and act as if it's my fault.

Hey, I'm the one who left before I could finish my beer.  Seems to me -
I'm the victim here.

Luvgood Carp, Editor-in-Chief 

Reading to My Son’s Class on Dead Poets Day

Mind you, most parents would pick
a stupid Seuss story and read it quick,
but those were things read long ago
when TVs had rabbit ears and winters snow.
Now kids understand the value of time
and their tastes for entertainment are far more refined.

Kids love poetry; they love to tell jokes,
and since this is about them, I've decided to do both.
So in honor of the day, I say
we must find a poet to put in a grave.

The kids look up, startled a bit,
but I assure them it's easy because poets aren't fit
so the odds of one winning a fight are slim
and I wink at the teacher as there's a bit of the poet in him.

I then recite The Walrus and the Buffalo
because kids love aged men who are full of woe,
which brings me next to Sylvia Plath
because that crazy bitch always makes me laugh.

Then I get an idea that's so sublime.
But would it be indulgent to read one of mine?
I could because I've written quite a few
and it would only be indulgent if I read them two.

Once I have finished speaking my lines
I realize fifty minutes wasn't enough time.
But the teacher jumps saying I must be on my way
and I leave to the acclaim only silence can convey.

Luvgood Carp, Editor-in-Chief


Each Spring Beckons Me Out the Door

A fuzzy pink sweater adorns the cherry tree
and all the ladies half my age are smiling at me.

Or so it seems -
maybe they're just smiling near me.
It's hard to see with such watery eyes,
as if I'm looking through melting ice.

Each spring beckons me out the door,
but I'm moving slower than the year before
and can't keep up as the ladies walk past.
When did these women get so fast? 
 
Luvgood Carp, Editor-in-Chief

Dr. Emoji

My wife was making coffee
when the beast flopped on her head
so she screamed and she shook
and I jumped out of bed
to find a leather-clad succubus
spread-eagle on the floor
so I quickly grabbed my broom
and swept it out the door.

Then I gave my wife a tactful kiss, 
before recalling that's a mistake
because every time I touch her lips
my stomach starts to ache.

In the bathroom brushing my teeth
foam gushed down my chin.
It made a frothy bubble beard,
and my head started to spin.

So I hurried to the computer,
went to WhatsWrongWithMeMD,
typed all my ails in a tiny box 
and clicked on the medic emoji
who quickly appeared to look at my face,
and without pausing for thought
said I have herpes, rickets, or rabies
and atrophy in a private spot.

So here I am at urgent who cares
answering why, what, and where
when Dr. Emoji has already seen me
and says I have no time to spare.

Luvgood Carp, Editor-in-Chief

A Best Man Before the Toast

Love did not win today.
It's only one for three.
So what should I say
as everyone stares at me?
And him.

Can we both be best?
Should not I
(or he - more likely)
be a wedding guest?

What an oxymoronic surprise!
A lovely wedding jest -
best becomes a pity prize
awarded at an inquest.

So what do you do
when the woman you crave
doesn't crave you?
She will love no boy
yet she is loved by two.

Put us Don Quixote's employ - 
two donkeys on an impossible quest.
Dress us in tuxedos of corduroy
and tell everyone we are best.

Kindness is the best
way to condescend.
You are the best
but you're just a friend.
A best friend - just like him.

So what do I say
as you stare at me?
A slack-jawed caveman
in a glass display.

Love acts with wicked glee -
in pursuit of its own perverse fun.
To one, Love gives three.
To two, Love gives none.

Love doesn't give a crap
about love, who's best,
or what I need.
So when will I stop
shaking salt into the sea?

Lovegood Carp, Editor-in-Chief

Union Street

Let's go down to Union Street
where all the impoverished people meet
around barrels brimming with green despair.
They'll fidget nervously while we stare
as each in turn will dip a cup
lift to trembling lips and drink it up.

On Union Street the barrels overflow
so we'll see many rounds before we go
and when they've drunk themselves blind
we'll leave through a door they'll never find.

Luvgood Carp, Editor-in-Chief

Darwin’s Prophet Published in Edge of Humanity Magazine

We sincerely thank Edge of Humanity Magazine for publishing our poem Darwin’s Prophet. Edge of Humanity is a wonderful magazine that publishes all kinds of writers and artists.

A link to the poem is here. https://edgeofhumanity.com/2022/01/09/darwins-prophet/

Or, if you like, you can read the poem below.

Darwin’s Prophet

Is this a fist I see which approaches my face
with steroid-assisted velocity?
Or is this a fist of the mind, an immaculate conception, 
gestating in a beer-soaked brain.

If real, that news report now rings true:
we are indeed evolving into crabs
because the fist is truly crustacean-like
huge as a Caribbean conch shell
with blue enameled calluses;
spikey ridges serving as knuckles.

Having now considered the fist close-up
perhaps it was wrong of me to so freely
and so loudly share my concerns about
your too obvious and too intimate
relations with your mother.
After all, you are simply ensuring 
your odd traits will be inherited.

So, good for you, Darwin's Prophet!

Managing to crawl all by yourself
through the septic foam fringing the shoreline
and learning to adapt in a new environment.
Your flat head and crooked legs 
proclaim that you are the pathfinder
in evolution's wilderness.

And well done, too, Darwin's Pharmacist!

Opting for an unnatural selection of supplements
to enhance bulk and brawn over brains.
Your scrunched brow crusted with barnacles
and those black pebbles passing as eyes
affirm that in the future only mutants
will be fit to survive.

Luvgood Carp, Editor-in-Chief
  

A Daughter Leaves for College

For eons or mere minutes on the clock
among marble mansions on a cliffside walk
or sewage-filled streets in a shantytown,
if you shimmer in silk or wear a paper crown -
110 degrees or snow sideways blowing -
should you be lost or know where you're going,
whether friends are plenty or few,
I will walk with you.

Luvgood Carp, Editor-in-Chief