Poems – Page 46 – Joe Spring writes

Once, me mets a calico and piebald, patchy pig,

(her brown body brindled brown, with brown upon her brow)

and leanin’ ‘gainst the sty, me notice: she lay rather big,

this mono-pigment piggy queen, this porky, tubby sow.

Then roll she over – on third try – by trotters in to dig,

and land so lardly with a squelch, and face me, saying “Now!

you spindly man, it’s rude to stand there oglin’ like a twig!

Do throw some pods, or off with you, I’m not some red-light Frau!”

Well, red me turns and, bets you sure, me fumbles for a twig

to make as like me hasn’t stared, and’s only seen her now.

But dids she buy it? Not one bit! Oh, what a hole to dig,

(when all me meants was wond’rin’ at this solid skewbald sow

with patches matchin’ brown to brown – and never mind she’s big.)

Well anyways, me legs it quick t’pub and wipes me brow

and ends up drinkin’ pints and preachin’ ’bout yon… talkin’ pig!

Perhaps the Northern climes, Decembers cold with snow

show lesser conflict in their celebrations

but in our nations, our Southerbrations

(how’s that for a portmanteau!)

are odd,

with songs not so apropos

to the, well, you know…

the general theme

of sweating on the beaches

that, while sing-song jingling,

post-church caroling,

we’re

sand-castling, skin ting-tingling –

beneath kite-strings and a glaring, singly-ringed sun.

With song-streams of Lapland winter wonderlands,

we’ve

sand in our mandibles,

and a grand blue watergleam offland

which washes waves which wet the strand and

tumble the black, white and red festive resters under.

Yet all the while,

we are dashing through the snow,

deep and crisp and even over scorching pan-hot sand and

it feels like snow & bells and sun & sand

lose their ampersands. Yet we withstand

and still sing, because – you must understand, that –

stripping, baking, fire-skipping to the freezing surf,

amphibians in the crashing cool,

singing fa-la-la-la-la and riding waves, ah! This

is how we do it.

Category: Poems