Thomas Schuelke's Passport to Poetry

I won’t post poems for a while because I am going into the hospital for an operation. I have cancer and the tumor needs to be cut out. Sorry about the inconvenience.

I will resume again at a later time after my surgery. Thomas

Welcome to my posted poem for Friday, September 3, 2021.

THE FLOORS DON’T FORGET:

Two Sonnets in the Form of a Conversation Between the Floors of a House and Its Owner

1)

The tiled kitchen floor speaks to the owner:

How like a soft cloth that smoothly shines a silver plate

When walking have your socks many times polished me.

You first crawled baby-like on each little hand and knee.

My checkered tiles had smooth smiles to see you ambulate.

The wooden high school gymnasium floor speaks to the student:

How shy you were that day at the high school dance.

An awkward guy wearing western boots for Valentine’s.

With your hat and jeans and buckle you were dressed to the nines.

Your high heels with pointed toes ready to romance the girl and prance.

The recreation room floor speaks to its owner:

I felt the weight and saw your left knee that day in May,

When you the engagement ring onto her finger slid.

Then you forgot to remove your bike’s skid lid, [a motorcycle helmet]

Now that you got back from your honeymoon holiday.

The bedroom floor speaks to its owner:

I watched you use your right boot toe to shut the door,

Then you carried her over the thresh hold across me, your floor.

2)

The tiled kitchen floor speaks to its owner:

I saw you happily feed your new son, as in his high chair he sat.

Then you grabbed a cloth to wipe up the mess he made

On me, when he spit up the food he sprayed.

Then grinning, on your head, you tipped back your cowboy hat.

The recreation room floor speaks to its owner:

I laughed as you bent over to pick up his toys on me,

So that nobody would trip over them and fall,

And then your wolf-whistling wife checked out your butt, as I recall.

Your tight leather pants were a sight that filled her with glee.

The wooden living room floor speaks to its owner:

I watched that blanket of blue land on me that time.

It just fell off from where you sat in your rocking chair.

I saw you reach for the quilt because now your lap was bare.

Then I heard the hour strike with your grandfather clock’s chime.

I felt your body fall on me and remembered how sadly I cried.

For in my arms open wide, I cradled you like a babe that day you died.

Even floors have feelings.

Until tomorrow,

Thomas

Let us listen to my poem for Thursday, September 2, 2021.

GRAND CANYON CONCERT

“The world is charged with the grandeur of God.”

By Gerald Manley Hopkins (1844 – 1889) from his poem God’s Grandeur.

A raging river rapidly runs like a rushing rhapsody on the canyon floor.

The wild water passionately plays a rising scale on piano keys of black and white.

Steep sides of rugged rock reverently reach toward God’s hands in a bright blue sky filled with majestic morning light,

And each towering cliff on either side is a concert contributor.

The long line of tall trees on the left bank are virtuoso violins with breezy bows,

And on the right bank are the other sighing strings with double basses; violas and cellos.

The west wind waggishly whistles through the autumn leaves like obstreperous oboes,

While the long limbs are like flexible fingers playfully plucking the strumming strings of buoyant banjos.

To the stone cliff walls, musical moss and lyrical lichens cleverly cling to life,

And warbling woodwinds are the sweet songbirds perfectly in pitch and tune.

Each cuckoo call and flirty flute: every clear clarinet and bubbly bassoon,

And each waltzing whirlpool in the icy water is like a whimsical fife.

The canyon’s concert is a congenial conversation between Mother Earth and Father Time

With a fluttering flute to toot; Spanish castanets to rattle; and brass bells that ring and chime.

A baby grand concert piano for a Grand Canyon. Mother Nature’s magical music.

Join me again for another poem tomorrow.

Thomas

It is the first day of September, 2021 and I will start the month with a brand-new poem.

BY ANY OTHER NAME: A Semantic Sonnet

“What’s in a name? That which we call a rose

By any other name would smell as sweet.”

By William Shakespeare from his play Romeo and Juliet, Act II, Scene ii, Line 43.

When rabbits romantically embrace, do they do a little bunny hug?

When cottontails kiss, do their whiskers rub against each other’s touch?

When bears rapturously wrap their big arms around each other, do they do a bear hug?

Do Belgian hares have arm strong heaters, but what if these Rotterdam rabbits were Dutch?

Doing the grizzly bear becomes abbreviated to just doing the bear.

Going into a clinch lock gets shortened to only going into a clinch,

But what name does one give to a porcupine that hugs a cactus like a prickly pear?

Would we call this a quill thrill or a needle wheedle or a spike like in a naming pinch?

Then we have the alliteration on a love lock that gets reduced to just a plain old lock,

And the phrase h.m.t. gets exponentially expanded to hold me tight, please!

Does each ardent chicken hawk stupidly start to squeak and squawk,

When they lovingly go into what terminology calls a squeeze?

In a thesaurus or dictionary, there are different definitions for each name,

But the basic idea for doing a bear or a bunny hug really stays much the same.

I would love to reach out my arms through my computer screen and give you a big hug, but COVID-19 is a party pooper when people embrace. Have a good day and see you tomorrow,

Thomas

Welcome to the end of the month and my poem for Tuesday, August 31, 2021.

A CRETACEOUS PERIOD PLAY

“Tragedy tomorrow; comedy tonight.”

By Zero Mostel in the movie musical A Funny Thing Happened on the Way to the Roman Forum.

The high school dinosaur drama class was religiously rehearsing,

But the cranky Cretaceous Ceratosaurus was still swearing and cursing:

“What part do You want me to play in your divine drama, director?”

The Mussaurus mumbled his lines, and the Triceratops became his speech corrector.

“Where do You want me?” the Allosaurus actor began to boldly ask.

“You enter from stage right,” said God, for directing this play was a hard task.

The shy Saltasaurus had a seventy-line long soliloquy in scene three,

And since all the dinosaurs die at the end, it was a speech of “to be or not to be?”

As usual, the touchy and testy T-Rex was having his typical temper tantrum today,

And Plateosaurus just didn’t like being cast in the drama class play.

The catastrophic meteor was waiting for his cue and signal to come on,

By the end of the Cretaceous Period play, all the dinosaurs were dead and gone.

Not only did the massive meteor’s impact in Mexico cause a major mass extinction,

But its entertainment impact on the audience was not one of Hollywood distinction.

Dinosaurs act like prima donnas and make poor actors/actresses. Make no “dinosaur bones” about it!

See everyone in September!

Thomas

Here is my poem for Monday, August 30, 2021.

FELINE FELICITATIONS: A Puss Poem,

Or, A Cat Conversation: Rhyming Couplets

“The Naming of cats is a difficult matter,

It isn’t just one of your holiday games;

At first you may think I’m as mad as a hatter

When I feel a cat must have THREE DIFFERENT NAMES.”

By T.S. Eliot (1888 – 1965) from his poem The Naming of Cats.

I couldn’t have said that any better

Than that.

So, I’ll string a ball of yarn together with each letter

To name my cat!

I totally agree with that,

And here are my three names for a cat:

Puss Pooper Scooper.

A name most super-duper!

I completely concur with your cat comments about feline fur.

While I presently preach and protest, all that pampered puss does is purr…

ME:

“Hey there, curious cat!

Whatcha lookin’ at?

Don’tcha know that curiosity can kill?

But since you have nine lives anyway…but still?”

An Aside from MY CAT:

“If you wanna know the scoop:

It’s just a wee wee bit of puppy poop.”

ME:

“The great grin on your Cheshire face lookin’ down at the floors

Tells me that cat scat just might be yours!”

An Aside from MY CAT:

“Out, out, damn spot!

Thou art such a blatant blot!”

ME:

“Save your breath,

Lady Macbeth!”

MY CAT:

“Okay, I confess, so I didn’t quite make it to my litter pan,

But I do try to do the very best that a cat can.”

An Aside from MY CAT:

“Too bad I can’t blame the cat log

On that patsy, stool-pigeon, frame-up puppy dog!”

ME:

“Hey cat, I’ll go get some soapy water to clean up the floor,

But you better come clean and tell the truth ’cause you are feline fibbin’ once more.”

MY CAT:

“I would watch you get down on your hands and knees with your scrub bucket, sponge and paper towels like a little old washer woman janitor lady,”

ME:

“Hey cat, that again sounds really shady.

So, what’s really on your mouse-catchin’ mind?

Thatcha just wanna leave your mess behind?”

MY CAT:

“Hey Sherlock Holmes, that’s a mouse mystery,

And as for me, I’m outta here, I’m ancient history!

To repeat, I’m out of here,

But when I come back to where I had my little bathroom accident, that floor had better be shiny and clear.”

ME:

“Instead, I would say you did that accidentally on purpose, my feline friend.

Correction, make that on p…u…r…r…r…r…r…r…r…pose, so let me amend.”

MY CAT:

“Then I will leave you to your housekeeping and clean-up chore,

For I am off for mouse-leaping and rat-pouncing, for watching you work would be such a big bore.”

And after our catty conversation, my ratter ran away

To do what cat’s do best, play.

I was left to clean-up the poop from the floor of the kitchen,

Even if my cat was laughing at me and I was bitchin’.

My dog felt sorry for me and gave my cat the evil eye,

My pet bird was in her cage, so she had an alibi.

Meow…bow wow…tweet-tweet.

From my cat; my puppy dog and my parakeet.

Now, I must wax my kitchen floor. This will take me all day, so I’ll see you tomorrow.

Thomas

Here is my poetic post for Sunday, August 29, 2021.

AN OPEN LETTER TO HOMO SAPIENS SAPIENS WITH UNIVERSITY DEGREES:

A Poem for Proud Professors Printed for Probing Ph.D.s

(For COVID-19, 20, 21, 22, 23, etc.; bacteria; bacteriologists; viruses and virologists.).

“All things bright and beautiful,

All creatures great and small,

All things wise and wonderful,

The Lord God made them all.”

By Mrs. Alexander (1848).

Dear DNA doctors with a diploma and a degree:

RE: Your lab coat lecture on viruses viz-a-viz.

As the Viscount of Viruses, I address this open letter to our lecture hosts,

On behalf of my bacteria colleagues from all continental coasts.

Every good host should be an even greater tour guide,

And take pride in pointing out cities and countries world wide.

We might be small compared with the Eiffel Tower in the city of romance.

We might be parasites hoping for a host with the most

To escort us to the dance in that city of lights in France.

We might be parasites under a microscope to your eyes at first glance.

We are visiting viruses that need a helpful host,

And not an invading horde of red army ants.

So show us parasites all the Paris sites,

And loosen the purse strings on all your research grants.

Polio Virus Type One had fun on his guided Paris helicopter tour,

Since he could not resist the skyline panoramic view’s allure.

Tuberculosis took pictures from the top of the Eiffel Tower,

Where the tour troop had spent the greater part of an hour.

Shigella dysenteriae slowly sipped coffee at the sidewalk cafes.

“Pardon, s’il vous plais, parlais vous Francais?”

At the opera house, Proteus mirablis enjoyed Carmen at the matinee,

But the Salmonella sisters, enteria and typhi cruised the River Seine that day.

Listeria monocytogenes loved the walking tour of the Left Bank,

But Candida albincansi found the catacombs and sewers quite dank.

Norovirus stared at the stately stained glass windows in Notre Dame,

And at the plentiful Parisian parks, Aspergilus niger took his aim.

With Burkolderia aureus, the historical Bastille was a big hit,

And Rotavirus found the fancy fashion shows and houses a fine fit.

Klebsiella pneumoniae cavorted with the can can dancers at a cabaret,

And he stayed at the famous Moulin Rouge nightclub all day.

The Influenza pair of lip-locking lovers “A” and “B”

Kissed. then carved their initials into the bark on the trunk of a park tree.

Swine Iowa (15/30) swooned over the Island of the Swans,

And COVID-19 soaked up several colorful sunsets and dawns.

Avian (Bird) Strain “A” shopped at every store on the boulevard Champs Elysee,

And Rhinovirus had a ticket to see a Moliere comic play.

The twin sisters Herpes simplex Type One and Two

Insisted on sight-seeing both something old and new.

In the cemetery at Fredric Chopin’s granite grave,

E-coli behaved like a nuisance and a nasty knave.

In the Latin Quarter, Hepatitus “A” had his lunch,

But at the Louvre Museum, Pseudomonas aeruginosa had her brunch.

Streptococcus pyrogenes grinned at the guillotines from past time.

The cousins Staphyloccus aureus and epidermis found French food sublime.

Rudolph Virchow was the tour guide for each virus at the Palace of Versailles,

Where the ghost of Louis XIV, the Sun King gave the group his evil eyes.

“We might be ultramicroscopic,” Papovavirus proclaimed,

“And metabolically inert, too,! Epstein-Barr virus exclaimed.

“We can only reproduce in a host cell,” a plant virus confessed,

“But we are partially independent,” an animal virus stressed.

“We consist of a nucleic acid,” a pair of parasites explained,

“Which is enclosed in a protein coat,” Parvovirus declaimed.

“In taxonomy, we don’t fit into any of the kingdoms five,

And we are always told by biologists that we aren’t even alive!”

“We are classified by what we infect: bacteria; animals, people or plants,

But we parasites have enjoyed the Paris sites and our trip to France.”

On an outing, bacteriophages sat at the back of the bus to City Hall,

When the Vaccina virus said: “we are all creatures great and small.”

“Across the centuries from the Black Plague on, we have been much maligned,

But in this pretty city, we have danced, wined and dined.”

“So, come on, dear doctors and do give us a bit of a break,

Because we viruses are here on vacation for goodness sake!”

Several selfies photos and plenty of postcards of Paris galore,

Who else on a bacteria holiday could or would want anything more?”

A rose is still called a rose to the sniffing nose by any other name,

So should not a virus infecting a rock garden iris be just the same?

COVID-19 waited for his train at the railway station,

Along with his sibling, a COVID mutation.

Signed, Yours truly,

A big bunch of viruses rather unruly.

Let us send COVID-19 on an all-expense paid holiday to a black hole in the Milky Way galaxy never to bother Earth anymore. I’ve already packed the luggage and suitcases I left by the door. The “Yellow” taxi cab should be here, but it is a hearse that has been painted gray, so COVID-19, you’ve outlived your welcome here and GO AWAY!

See you for another poem tomorrow,

Thomas

Welcome to my posted poem for Saturday, August 28, 2021. There is an old saying: “your first wealth is your health!”

A LITTLE LIQUID LIBATION: Four Liqueur Limericks in a Local Cantina

1)

The lovely, but lonely lady flirtatiously flashed me her waggish wink

Across the bar counter, where as the apron, I poured each drink.

“Have some Madeira, my dear?

Its taste as a liqueur is without peer.”

Then she began to blissfully blink, as I filled her glass to the brink.

2)

On her napkin, she wrote her name and number with ink.

Then let her wine glass against my beer stein musically clink.

“This little liquid libation will leave you with cheer.”

A smooth smile spread over her lips from ear-to-ear.

“If German, I’ll toast you with gesundheit!, now we drink!”

3)

Her classy, but very brassy and sassy cocktail dress was pink.

The fur stole draped across her shapely shoulders was mink.

“My apartment is very near.

Shall we get out of here?”

I wiped my hands on my apron, then put the glasses into the sink.

4)

Her bartender pick up line was my weakest link.

The slippery sidewalks were like an ice hockey rink.

She had a mirror above her bed with a chandelier.

Now, her nightgown negligee was lacy and sheer.

So, how did we spend the night, do you think?

Words and poetry can only say so much. We all need a little touch of mystery as to what was left unsaid. So, I will leave the rest of my poem to your excellent imagination for you to finish on the movie screen in the back of your mind.

Until tomorrow,

Thomas

My poem(s) for Friday, August 27, 2021 follow.

Before I began on June 26, I was in the hospital. While there, two dogs with their handler paid me several visits. The purpose was to make patients feel better by allowing animals into the hospital. I wrote these poems to thank their owner for the many visits. Many seniors’ lodges; old age homes and long-term care facilities, as well as children’s hospitals now permit canine companions on a regular basis. These verses were later published in the local hospital newsletter.

A DOGGY DUET: Three Little Limericks

(To Monte and Sam, my canine friends at the Grey Nuns’ Hospital. Thanks for the many visits!)

“I am His Majesty’s royal dog at Kew (a palace),

Praytell me, sir, whose dog are you!”

By Alexander Pope (1725) from his poem Lines Enscribed on a Jeweled Dog Collar.

1)

There once was a pooch named Sam,

Who liked to eat toast with jam,

But he was a moaner

Because his doggy owner

Keeps feeding him French toast with Spam! (a can of cheap lunch meat).

2)

Monte is my four-footed friend,

Who helps this poor patient mend.

He lights up my day,

But then he must go away,

And I’m sad when the visits do end.

3)

Together, they make a perfect poochy pair

With big brown eyes and the softest furry hair,

And I muttered my curses,

For neither my doctors nor nurses

Could give me such warm, tender-loving care! (TLC)

P.S. They are a pair of Pekingese pups.

While cats rule the night, dogs own the day. Enjoy it! Until tomorrow,

Thomas

This is my poem for Thursday, August 26, 2021.

THE OX

Mine is the stabilizing force

That sustains the cycle of life’s source.

I stand motionless against adversary’s test,

And righteous is my ultimate noble quest.

In determination and dignity,

I seek to serve simplicity,

With a sincere sake to bear the big burdens of balance

In all that I undertake.

By the laws of nature do I abide.

My back is strong and my shoulders are wide.

I don’t grab a thing by the horns, but take everything in stride.

I am a humble hauler, but I have my pulling pride.

For each rodeo cowboy, I provide a challenging ride,

When he comes like a shotgun bullet shooting out of the bucking chute gate.

Patiently, I can push the whirling wheel of fate,

I plough the farmer’s fields

To help increase his harvest yields,

And haul the heavy freight.

Thus on the large loom of fickle fortune, my quilted destiny I weave.

To get down to the job of heavy work, I rapidly roll up each shirt sleeve.

For I will always give much more than I will ever receive.

I’m not as sly as a fiery red fox.

At length, sheer strength and tenacity and veracity are my building blocks.

I do not primp or preen , as do the strutting proud peacocks.

My ship is set on an even keel like an even Steven equinox,

And my personality is no Freudian puzzling paradox.

I come from practicality’s and pragmatism’s school of hard knocks.

I have hoofs, but don’t wear socks.

I can move mountains made from rocks.

I don’t care to fly in the air like chicken or sparrow hawks.

I don’t dress in artist’s smocks or lady’s fine frocks.

I work hard all day and night no matter the kinds of clocks,

For I am the long-suffering and strong-buffering ox…

See you all for another poem tomorrow.

Thomas

P.S. By the way, I’m not an ox, but a sheep. Baa!