The sunlight dances on the window sill
forming rainbows that begin to spin by
during the late afternoon of summer.
The rare black lion awakes from slumber,
with a wide yawn mimicking a harsh roar.
One paw at a time she reaches them out
elongating her slim figure with ease.
Looking out the window to see what’s on,
disappointed that birds were not programmed.
She had picked this window for the TV,
for which her minions will feel her great rath.
No effort is shown as she bounds on down,
to the earth below, her dominant land.
She struts through her kingdom with style and grace,
eyes on the watch for her minions at bay.
From the corner of the room, free from sight,
a quiver of a tail avoiding her.
The wolf had been prisoner so long,
that he knew his punishment would be big.
He scurried along the ground to the wall,
heading towards his usual spot.
As he dragged his belly along the floor,
he checked from all angles to be secure.
With a sigh of relief his guard came down,
for he reached his spot, no lion around.
Circling in place, nestled in the dark,
appeared two great eyes of neon yellow.
With one last effort, the wolf tried to flee
But the lion swatted, and out came a yelp.
A win for the queen, her kingdom now back.
__________________________________________________
BY FRANK O'HARA
The white chocolate jar
full of petals
swills odds and ends
around in a dizzying eye
of four o’clocks now and
to come. The tiger,
marvellously striped and
irritable, leaps
on the table and without
disturbing a hair
of the flowers’
breathless attention, pisses
into the pot, right down
its delicate spout.
A whisper of steam goes
up from that porcelain
urethra. “Saint-SaĆ«ns!”
it seems to be whispering,
curling unerringly
around the furry nuts
of the terrible puss,
who is mentally flexing.
Ah be with me always,
spirit of noisy
contemplation in the
studio, the Garden
of Zoos, the eternally
fixed afternoons!
There, while music
scratches its scrofulous
stomach, the brute beast
emerges and stands,
clear and careful,
knowing always the exact peril
at this moment caressing
his fangs with
a tongue given wholly to
luxurious usages;
which only a moment
before dropped aspirin
in this sunset of roses,
and now throws a chair
in the air to aggravate
the truly menacing.
I like the idea that the lion is a queen that controls her kingdom and that she has "minions". Also, the lead up to the death of the wolf is both exciting and sad at the same time. Great poem!
ReplyDelete-Kimberly Coverly