Search This Blog

Thursday, July 28, 2016

Word Perfect

Sometimes it's hard to find just the right word. 


Word Perfect

A plethora of Words enpeople my brain
Clamoring and crying an ancient refrain,
“Pick me, choose me, I am the one”
A quotidian word? Nah, that’s just no fun.

No ifs ands or buts, for this is the day
To pick Words packed with drama, yet small in their way
Like quest, lust, and prowl or love, tryst and star
One syllable Words that transport you afar
No time for Words that take up much space
They mean very little, but show a good face
You know what I mean, those exsufflicate boors
Pulchritudinous, brobdingnagian, sartorial whores

Words that can dance and never confuse,
Those are the ones that we humans should use
Or Words wrapped in senses and plush vibrant hues:
Like periwinkle, lavender, azure and chartreuse.

Languorous Words which are dusky and hazy
Stroll through the brain and make you feel lazy
Whimsical fripperies engendering tongue-tickles
Like when you say gewgaw, kerfuffle or pickles

But the Word for today, that one that I choose:
With yearning and hope and romance infused:
Casts Iridescent shadows and hearts free of strife:
Quixotically tilting at the windmills of life.

Quixotic

Sunday, March 6, 2016

Bella and Coco: A Plaintive Plea and Most Reasonable Response


 
We, Bella and Coco, humbly and respectfully ask that you write a poem for us:
We have been quite patient
But you've been complacent
We have asked you nicely
We won't ask thricely

We will do whatever you ask;
Any mundane quotidian task
Fetch your sock; fetch your shoes
Wash the dishes, if you choose.
 
Only just a simple verse--
Things could get a whole lot worse--
Pee on the carpet; despoil the rugs!
But seriously, we aren't thugs.

Coco and I are reasonable dogs
We don't want to act like hogs.
For other curs you've penned an ode,
Do it now or hit the road.

 
Gentledogs,  please see below response to your plaintive plea:
 
Sweet ragamuffins, I will comply
With your request, and shall reply.
Snaggle-tooth and lazy tongue
Odes to you are barely sung
 
Perhaps there’s a reason, have you thunk?
Look at the depths to which you’ve sunk.
Rude, obnoxious little foundlings
Throwing dirt like nasty groundlings.
 
But alas, you love my friend
To her feelings you do attend
You coddle her when she is down
Cheer her up when you see her frown
 
Leap and bark at her every word
Make her laugh when you chase a bird
You come from the street like a broken toy
Into her life you bring true joy


Thank you both for your love and care
I have to say it… I must be fair.
 
But, now it is my deepest wish
That next time Dorothy find a fish.

 

 

Friday, March 4, 2016

Minions' Lament


Thanks to a writers' workshop and some excellent feedback from my fantatstic husband, below I present the lovingly polished poem about those hapless twins, Cecily and Gwendolyn:

Minions' Lament

“Psst, Gwendolyn, what is the deal?
Neglected and ignored I’m beginning to feel.”

“I’ve tried mewing and winking and wriggling my rear
but, Cecily, I think, no one cares that we're here.”

There's a new cat in town; nothing's the same
He makes us so mad; Punim's his name
They kiss him and coddle him and bedeck him with jewels
They fĂȘte him with sushi; he follows no rules.

We owned this house before he arrived
We strutted and feasted and both of us thrived
Now, no more kisses, no more creamed caviar
Punim, the prince, is the one shining star

“Cecily, my dear, a plan must be hatched
In which Punim, the prince, is forthwith dispatched” 
“Gwendolyn, my twin, do you have a plot?
'Cause, my tiny brain has not any got.”

“At midnight on Tuesday while Punim relaxes
In the crook of an arm that is working on taxes
We will creep o’er the ceiling in paws covered with ink
From his bed up the walls until reaching the sink
 
All in the house will think Punim’s gone mad.
When he’s tossed in the street, who could feel bad?”
“A genius you are, my Gwendolyn girl
I can’t wait til the night when the plan will unfurl…”
 
***
 
A midnight home, quiet and still.
A nefarious plot unfolding at will.
But, a furtive sentinel guards his house
Ready to pounce on the twins (or a mouse).
 
***
 
Screech, splat, slurgle, sproing; cats in a heap
Did someone yell “Catnip” while Gweny did creep?
Ink on the curtains and ink on the ground
Snickering was heard, but there was no sound…

 
Now, Gwendolyn and Cecily, felines so fair
Can be found every day combing Punim’s soft hair
The new cat in town is a most regal beast
He has two mewing minions that lead him to feast.

Monday, February 29, 2016

The Mean Streets of Shadow Hills

Bailey is a tough street dog who was tired of the stray life. Through the animal grapevine, he found Koni and Nick; teachers, whose motto is: no dog left behind. Bailey became one of the regular crew and fit in with the many other happy residents of chez Dalton-Pawle. One day, poor Bailey was attacked by a pit-bull. He survived with no long-term damage. But, he has a story to tell. Here in his own words is the story of his salvation and redemption.


The Mean Streets of Shadow Hills,
by Bailey Dalton-Paw
As told to Penelope Artenian
And Written down by Rachel Artenian


I’ll admit it, I’m cute. Which really comes in handy when you’re out in the big wide world lookin’ for a place to hang your hat. I’ve got some choices. Not like those poor mangy curs that get hauled off to the farm, if you know what I mean. Anyhoooo, I was scouting out some suckers, ahem, proper kindly folk, if you see what I’m sayin’. I spy this couple-- goodness just oozin’ out of ‘em. They work with human puppies, for chrissake—you can’t get gooder than that.

I got a nose… I sniff around.  I find out they’ve got a friggin menagerie at their crib.

And just like that, I’m in. I get the lay of the land:  several hundred critters of all varieties hangin’ about. I got no beef with any of ‘em. Except for this one feline. Things don’t start out so good between us. This cat’s kinda mangy and gnarly and he’s got this one enormous fang stickin’ out. That’s it, no teeth, just a fang. Kinda creepy if you ask me. I stay clear of that dude for a piece. Then one day, some prissy skirt comes to visit. I sit on my butt all cute-like, hoping she’ll toss me a scrap or two. Nothing. Fang, doesn’t like to take no for an answer. Just as I’m settin’ there, tongue hangin’ out, Fang bursts out of the night and attacks that high n’mighty lady. She sees that tooth and runs screamin’ and I got to say, I was so happy, I had to chase my tail for a bit. Fang and I been fast friends ever since.

Life is all sunshine and roses for a good long spell. We have servants to cater to our every whim. We take walks, we hunt, we beg, we roll over. I’m no lazy thug, I like to walk—stretch my paws, strut my stuff, the whole shebang.

Until one day this thing happened. Man ‘o man, I was scared outta my mind. I gotta give a shout out:  we got some rockin’ servants… saved my sorry ass that day.

Walkin’ and talkin’ and winkin’ at the ladies, as I’m wont to do, we took a bad turn down a wrong street. I seen that goon before. He and I’ve swapped snarls. All of a sudden, like a bat outta hell, this punk runs at me, grabs me by the neck and starts making a 3-bark sandwich outta me. Just like that… I may be a badass, but this is too much. There was screamin’, there was blood—holy crap, my blood! That’s it, I’m out-- a goner, for sure.

I never been so glad to open my peepers. Battered and bruised, but still king o’the heap. I got some major street cred now. Everywhere I go, I gotta posse following behind. Special steak and some real good drugs. Everyone cryin’ and goin’ on about me. That’s what I’m talkin’ about.


It’s good to be alive.

Sunday, February 14, 2016

Joyeux Jeudi

Day #4 in the week of Anna Samsa: Thursday
A valentine story for my Valentines, Thomas and Leah
February 14, 2016

Anna awoke. She was sitting in a miniature chair, her cheek resting on something cool and smooth.  She opened her left eyeand stared at an ancient coffered ceiling. The smell of cafĂ© au lait wafted in and out of her unusually large-feeling nostrils. In the corner an ancient boom box played “Crocodile Rock.” The only sounds were the steam from the espresso machine, the traffic outside and Elton John. Slowly she lifted her head. It was odd: She couldn’t see straight ahead. She could see everything to the right of her and everything to the left—at the same time. Her body felt large, and well, kind of green.

“Oh no, I hope I didn’t turn into a monstrous cabbage!”

“I wonder what I ate yesterday.”

“WaitWhat???… why is everyone staring at me?”

A sign on the wall read “CafĂ© Michelle prĂšs St Chapelle.“   The small cafĂ© seemed to be the size of a play box and it was filled with tiny people backed against the walls. It had black and white tiled checkerboard floors, marble-topped tables and a carved wooden coffee bar. When she imagined a cafĂ© in France, this would be it-- except normal-sized, of course. A gilt-edged mirror reflected the image of an elaborate gothic chapel outside. Anna looked around, which was easier than expected, because of her intensely acute peripheral vision.  

She opened her huge eyes wide. She could see the fringe of her long dark-green eye-lashes.
She looked at her arm. It was emerald green...  It was bedazzled... It was a wing!
She looked at her feet… three-toed, shoe-less, red rubies wheretoenails should have been. “OMG” she thought, “I’m probably a size 24EEEEE shoe.”
Her belly—big… emerald-encrusted... diamond belly button
“I wanted to ride a bedazzled dragon, not be one,” she tried to explain. Instead of words, tiny bursts of flame sputtered. 

The people gasped. They all started speaking and exclaiming and crying—in French (sounding like aardvarks eating brie). Elton John continued to sing. And then silence. The song ended, the steam sputtered, the people stopped.  Just for a moment “an air pocket of total silence.”  During the silence, Anna clumsily tugged at one of her jewels. Her plan: bribe the people with rubies, diamonds and emeralds. But as she plucked at an unusually sparkly aquamarine, it broke free, turned into a mite-sized blue butterfly and flew away. The silence was broken by a gnuffle (the people) and a gulp (Anna).  

“New plan” thought Anna.

“It was a teenage wedding and the old folks wished them well…” Chuck Berry warbled.

Anna had to think fast. 

She started toe-tapping her size 24 foot in time to the music. She stood up slowly. Being short for a dragon, her head barely grazed the 8 foot coffered ceiling.  The people gasped. She twisted her right foot in time to the music. She shifted her weight and twisted her left foot. The building shook; the people recoiled. She raised her wings and as Chuck sang, “C’est la vie, say the old folks,” she twisted her entire body and raised her head in joy. Then gently, oh so carefully, she extended her pinky claw to the young barista and twirled him round the bar. A synchronous intake of breath…Then pandemonium.

The people were whooping and clapping and laughing in French—(sounding like hippos eating camembert).

Anna started a conga line toward the door: right, left, wiggle, wiggle… right left wiggle, wiggle... The delighted patrons grabbed on and followed. Until they all reached the door. UhOh…Anna was too big to fit through the door. 

No problem, this is France. Magically, vats and vats of Nutella appeared from under the coffee bar. The people, singing and laughing, slathered Anna with Nutella. She slid through the door, down the Boulevard du Palais, over the Quai, under the Pont and SPLASH, into the Seine.

The crowd cheered. Anna floated up to the surface, the people following along the bank as she drifted down the river. She felt like, and looked like, a sea monster. But her bling glittered in the sun. The air was warm, the water cool. Anna was content. She waved to the bateaux full of tourists and, shading their eyes and with mouths agape, they waved back. 

Soon she saw a sign for the Louvre. “My mother always told me that the Louvre was the greatest museum filled with the greatest plunder on earth. I think I should like to visit.” 

Finding an empty spot by the bank, Anna heaved herself out of the water. Several of her jewels fell off and colorful micro butterflies flew away. Her fans and admirers led her to the museum, and spoke to the guards very quickly and loudly in French (sounding like giraffes eating gruyere). The guards quietly escorted her to a secret entrance for extraordinarily large works of art. Before she knew it, Anna was stooping and stretching and twisting her neck as far down as she could, and staring Mona Lisa in the eyes. Anna was careful not to speak, not wanting to scorch the most famous painting on earth. Thequickly growing group visited Vermeer’s Lacemaker, Georges de la Tour’s “The Fortune Teller” and shuffled quickly past Raphael’s “St George and the Dragon.”

Out the secret door, through the Tuileries Garden, around the Place de la Concorde and down the Champs Elysee; Anna shining brighter than the jewelry stores on the boulevard. By the time Anna reached the Arc de Triomphe, the Conga line behind her was a mile long.  Anna was tired. She didn’t think that she could make it up all 284 stairs to the top-- “But wait, I have wings!” 

The littlest dancers and their mamas hopped on her back, she spread her wings and, “Squeeeeeeeee” exclaimed the children, who could barely be heard over their mothers’ screams. 
The small group reached the top just as the sun was setting behind the Tour Eiffel. Anna had never seen a more beautiful sunset.

“I want to go there,” pointed a young English girl, one of Anna’s passengers. Anna indicated that the dragon taxi was leaving and all who wanted could jump aboard. 3 children and 3 mamas held on and Anna flew to the very top of the Eiffel Tower. All of Paris was at their feet. Precariously, they did a little dance and sang a little song (Anna hummed with her mouth closed). 

The day was done. Night had fallen. Anna took the children and their mamas back to the Arc de Triomphe. 

“There is one more place for me to visit” she thought. She spread her wings as wide as possible and soared over the city of light. As she flew, Anna felt small pinches as her jewels poppedoff. Parisians looking at the sky that night believed they had glimpsed the Northern Lights—when in truth they had seen a cloud of emerald, ruby-red and sapphire butterflies. 

Anna soared past Sainte-Chapelle where the adventure had begun. She alit atop Notre Dame Cathedral. It was late; the Cathedral was empty and dark. She wandered around looking at the gargoyles, wondering if she looked as scary as they did. 

All of a sudden, a voice sang out, “Walk this way, talk this way…” Rounding a corner on the roof, she spied the ancient boom box balancing on a spire. 

Peeking over the roof edge and between the flying buttresses was a most unusual sight. Gargoyles boogying all over the place.Dancing and jumping and jitter-bugging.  Some of them doing the hop perpendicular to the sky, suckered feet grasping the sides of the ancient building!

“This is my kind of party” thought Anna and before she could think another thought, a 2-horned, mustachioed, winged gargoyle took hold of her claw and spun her around. The party went strong until the bells struck midnight. At the first bell, all the gargoyles returned to their posts and resumed evil-looking visages. 

The boom box played “Mr. Sandman”

At that moment, Anna was afraid, but the music soothed her.She tucked her head beneath her wing and by the end of the song was fast asleep.

When her eye peeped open, it was morning, her cheek rested on a soft and downy surface and when she opened her left eye she saw Karen staring down at her. 

“Walk this way,” said Anna. She took Karen to the kitchen, made a Nutella sandwich and told of her wonderful adventure. Karen was never surprised at anything Anna said. 


Joyeux Jeudi​​2/11/2016​​

Friday, February 12, 2016

STAY TUNED... ALMOST TIME...

DEBUTING VALENTINE'S DAY 2016!

4th installment of Millennial Metamorphoses! 

The 4th day in the unusual week of Anna Samsa 
(yes, she is a distant relation).

What happened on days 1 - 3? check out the website:



Thursday, November 19, 2015

Dapper Date With 48

In honor of  Mathematician Nat's 48th Birthday


No longer Prime*,
Not yet Square**
And yet...
it is Abundantly clear
That Nathaniel
Is a Composite 
of 
Many wonderful Factors!

*47 so prime
**49 so square

Saturday, November 14, 2015

In Which a Plethora of Sex Dolls is Used Metaphorically

Measure for Measure at the Young Vic
October 19, 2015

300 sex dolls litter the stage…
Bi-polar duke in a bit of a rage:
“Angelo you are now head of the state,”
Morality is no longer up for debate.

Licentiousness and lust: forcibly restrained,
Juliet with child and Claudio detained.
A writ has been issued; the crime? copulating,
Death to them who are lawlessly populating.

Isabella importunes: “my brother you can free,”
Lord Angelo replies: “I will...if you lie with me”
The hypocrisy, the horror, the abuse of power
What this play needs is a Duke who’s a Friar.

A Deus ex Machina can save the day!
A rejected lover enters the fray.
Trickery, diversion, sleight of hand…
Brings Act V to its “happy” end.


Tuesday, September 22, 2015


Does This Dog Exist? 
Kevin's Dogs
By Rachel Artenian

Monday, August 24, 2015

SILKEN PLUNDER


SILKEN PLUNDER
Buddy and Bigsy squared off on the bed
Each eying the pillow for his own furry head.
World-renowned Buddy, dog of wonder
Longed to own that silken plunder.
The pillow is mine hissed Bigsy the cat
With eyes that spoke about things like that.

Face to face, tensions mounted
Whiskers twitched, minutes counted…

Then: yelping, snarling, sniping and, growling;
Neighbors were quite sure they heard yowling
Tempers flared
Teeth were bared…

“Where are my sweeties? “sang a voice from the hall
“Treats in the kitchen for one and for all!”
A rumble and tumble of dog and of cat
Out they came running—yes, just like that.
Jumping and playing as feisty pets do…

Tired heads on a pillow-- perfect for two.

RTA, 8/24/2015

MUTIK'S EPISTLE 2.0

The anticipated response from Mutik, the dog, is herewith published below. I met Mutik at a rockin' dance party. She was quite offended by the poem I had written for her (see previous post: "Brave Heart"). Her name means "sweet," not brave and she is a "gal" not a "feller." As I was leaving the party, Mutik nuzzled me with her wet nose. I realized later that she had slipped a note into my pocket:

Mutik's Epistle:
I would like to request that you don’t come back.
As a poet, you are quite a hack.
You indicate that I’m a boy
And treat me like I’m just a toy.

Mutik means sweet, not brave you see
You got it wrong, so let me be.
But then again on the other paw
During the party, stuff got raw:

With clamorous sounds some vigorous beasts
Were cackling and gorging on gluttonous feasts.
I ran through the door and saved my brood
(And also managed to scoop some food).

So, I guess I really am quite brave
Like those dogs of yore whose families they save.

Ok, my dear, you have one more chance
Come back next year; perhaps we’ll dance.


Mutik, the dog 8/9/15

Thursday, August 6, 2015

Brave Heart: A poem about a dog I never met

Mutik means brave in Yidish

Brave Heart

Mutik the dog, we have never met,
But of my friend you are the pet.
I hear you are brave, strong and true,
A well-bred beast through and through.

Dogs of legend are few and rare…
Let’s discover if you compare:

If:
Little Charlie fell into the well
Would you yelp and run and tell?

Do:
Barrels of brandy surround your neck
To save frostbit travelers on a dangerous trek?

Can you:
Pull the curtain, exposing the Wizard
As nothing more than a low-down lizard?

The Thin Man questions: if you has-ta,
Could you solve some crimes like Asta?

Would you:
Rescue your family as did Old Yeller?
Of course you would, you’re a gallant feller!

“Arf, yip, slobber, grrrr, slurp, bark,”
Mutik, the brave, has left his mark!