Sunday, June 24, 2018

A Ballad of Annie Oakley

August thirteenth, AD 1860
A sweet baby girl, Phoebe Ann Mosey
Born on a farm in Darke County, Ohio
Eight children, two bedrooms, a farmhouse quite cozy

By age seven Annie hunted to help bring in money
This child was a natural with her firearm
Taking her kill to the general store dealer
Eight years, she’d paid off the mortgage on the farm

Spring Eighty-One, to the south in Cincinnati
Marksman Frank Butler arrived with his act
He bet fifty dollars with hotelman Jack Frost
“I’ll beat any shooter, and that, Sir’s, a fact!”

Jack Frost and Frank Butler rode up to Darke County
To Frank’s amazement, a five-foot female
His opponent in shooting live birds 
They took turns, each targeting twenty-five quail

Twenty-four rounds and the two were dead even  
Neither marksman had missed even one single shot
On his twenty-fifth bird, Frank made his sole error 
And Annie then won the whole fifty-dollar pot

Frank later admitted, “She took me fair and square”
Head over heels, he thought Annie so dear  
Adoring his poodle, she gave Frank a chance
The stars were aligned, they were wed in one year

They moved to Cincinnati, found a house in Oakley
That’s where Annie obtained her famous stage name
She joined Frank’s act in Over-the-Rhine
The start of her journey to world-wide fame

Several years later, Frank and Annie moved on
Joining Buffalo Bill Cody’s Wild West Show
Seventeen years, North America and Europe
Queen Victoria, the Kaiser, and King Umberto

Annie’s marksmanship was other-worldly
She shot dimes and playing cards tossed in the air
Hit targets behind her while looking in a mirror
Snuffed a burning candle and put out its glare

Annie Oakley left the show in Nineteen-O-Two         
She fought for women’s rights, for daughters and sons        
Gave money to orphanages and charities
Taught fifteen thousand women how best to use guns

Annie died in Darke County at age sixty-six 
Pernicious anemia, that was her lot
Frank stopped eating food, died eighteen days later
Darke County, still together in their family plot



Monday, June 18, 2018

Father's Day

Oh Father’s Day, you foolish scalawag
Barely one step ahead of Columbus Day 
But lagging miles behind 
Groundhog Day
or Fat Tuesday or National Pizza Day 
Mothers Day, of course, is another matter 
Mothers deserve their own special day
since the rest of their year is 
such a raw deal 
My thinking, of course, might be
out of date 
since it was formed in the nineteen-forties 
The dads in our crowd, 
just back from the war, 
turned their families into military platoons
Dad were three-star generals
Moms, second lieutenants 
The children, buck privates at best
Just one rule obtained:
Obey every command from on high
Do it quickly and perfectly 
Never ask why
Never talk back
The dads had jobs in the factory or the firm
Bringing home the money 
Thus excused from the menial household tasks 
Moms did the cooking, the cleaning,
the bringing up of the children, 
changing their diapers, washing behind the ears 
Although fathers were in charge of discipline
At least the bodily sort 
Usually with a belt or a ruler
Things we learned from our fathers:
Rich people are superior 
Never show weakness
Stand up, don't slouch 
But here I exaggerate
My father did have a fun side 
He took me along 
to chop down our Christmas trees
and pulled the toboggan behind the car 
Best of all, we went to my uncle’s
drugstore after hours
and created whatever 
we wanted at the soda fountain 
Butterscotch, peppermint, fudge ripple
But I can’t remember 
if I ever got a hug  
Those, of course, were the bygone days
Thirty years later
My dad became a grandfather
I give him credit
He grew to be a much better 
grandfather than a father
Engaged with his grandkids
Interested, affectionate, chummy
Times change 
People change with them
Nowadays there are many more reasons
     to celebrate Father's Day 



Saturday, June 9, 2018

Murder in the Swiss Alps: An Ekphrastic Poem

RenĂ© Magritte, “The Menaced Assassin”


The scene: The Swiss Alps chalet of 
  Mademoiselle Camille Gautier 
  heiress to the Marchand Deschamps winery fortune
Newly occupied, the rooms remain sparse 
Mademoiselle, age 29, unclothed, 
lies motionless on her red chaise lounge
Her limbs, relaxed, akimbo 
Her scarf draped casually across her shoulders
Mademoiselle’s throat, severed to the spine, 
     blood oozing from her lips

Her lover, her killer, Valentin Lacroix, is about to depart
At ease, nonchalant, impeccably dressed
Bag packed, hat and coat resting neatly on the chair 
He pauses at the gramophone
And listens one last time to a favorite aria
Unruffled, Lacroix shows no remorse
Having falsely imagined Camille’s infidelity,
He has extracted the ultimate revenge
Hand in pocket, gripping the weapon, he listens nostalgically 
To the song that the lovers once shared

Three brothers, the triplets Girard from the village,
Peer in from the balcony
Have witnessed the entire tragedy
Impassive, unblinking, they remind us that evil deeds
never escape the public’s unrelenting eye

Unknown to the assassin, Mademoiselle’s father
  doubting Lacroix’s character and intentions 
has hired two St. Moritz detectives, 
the twin brothers Gaspard and Gabin Fournier
to follow Lacroix and gather the facts
Lurking in the foyer, Gaspard has his club, Gabin his net  
At song’s end, the Fourniers will entrap the assassin 
Perhaps clubbing him to unconsciousness or worse 

The violent death of Camille Gautier 
offers many truths to young and old 
Life is a precarious, unpredictable affair
Momentous behaviors result from folly and delusion
Men act with violence, brutal men murder women
Love and hate, seeming opposites, are inseparably intertwined


Saturday, June 2, 2018

Dicey Discourse: A Triolet

She says my hearing’s getting worse 
It’s true I miss a thing or two  
But still this makes me feel perverse 
She says my hearing’s getting worse
Which makes it slodgy to converse 
I hear most parts (I’d say that’s true)  
She says my hearing’s getting worse
It’s true I miss a thing or two