The Limerick Laureate

With Apologies to The Eagles

2007-11-07T18:44:00.000-07:00

On a long, empty highway, the old Number Two,
Cold wind slicing into leather, hot Pennzoil burning
The engine roars; on the distant horizon, a shimmering light.
My head grows heavy; my eyes dim.
My bones ache and ache and ache
From the vibration.
I gotta stop for the night. Phew, pay for just one night.

We rattle and roll into the parking lot,
The engine stalls, my joy dissipates
And this world comes flooding in.
Vincent Bates, in the doorway,
There he stands, lean and tall.

Welcome to the Trailblazing Motel
Such a lovely, lovely place
Bikers always welcome, any time, any year
Pay your dollar, buy a lover
At the Trailblazing Motel, any time of the year.

That’s a mighty fine bike you have there, young fella
Just like mine, a ’73 650.
I traded her for a Hog, a slab of pig iron, rusting over there.
And I couldn’t pay the bill. I hit this wall and couldn't move on.
Now all I’ve got is this garage—of parts, the Trailblazing Motel
And a snooker table that won’t let me win
Will never let me win.

Cordelia’s her name I reply,
Deafened from the headers, straight piped and blue
For the daughter I never had. The daughter I wish I had.
I shut her petcocks off, thumbed the master and saved the electrics
Ready for another day’s hard ride; it’s been a hard day’s ride
On my vintage motorcycle. Cordelia, sweet Cordelia
She's daughter I never had. A daughter I wish I had.

In the shadow, black as night, Mr. Bates the hotel man
Proffers me a proposition, which he scarcely mumbles.
First, let me show you to your room, he plies.
The Biker’s Special, a suite built for three
A room for you and yours to be.
Then one for the little lady decked out in chrome,
Sweetly decked out in chrome.
This was an offer I couldn’t refuse.
Sweet Cordelia! Safe and sound, in a room of her own,
Locked away from prying eyes, my vintage motorcycle
And me in the deep purchase of love, entwined.
That proposition Bates refused to tell in the dark evening light.
Let’s not talk business, he pled, offering instead
A mission bell with the prospect of heaven in hell.

There are pickled eggs, beans and hand-made hamburdogs in the fridge.
I ran out of patties. The buns I had fit Brats.
And I had to make do. Do.
I had to roll do.
Part of the Biker’s Night-time Special, I roll for thee.
And you’ll toll for them. Oh man, you’ll toll for them.
He laughed, walked out the door and I
Settled down to a midnight Feast for Fools.
I started to tell. I had to tell. Man, I've just got to tell.

Welcome to the Trailblazing Motel
Such a lovely, lovely place
Bikers always welcome, any time, any year
At the Trailblazing Motel, any time through the year.

Early bright shone the morning sun, making my body groan
Crotch sprocket sore at 65 miles per hour
Straight up, no windshield, buffeting the wind takes its toll
You have to pay your toll—you gonna pay a toll.
Yesterday’s gain is this day’s pain.
The knife-edged shower cuts through my soul.
I moan and struggle to put my Levi’s on
And pull my red bandana low. And gash my red bandana low.

There Cordelia waits for me, shiny bright, Pennzoil glistening on the floor
Sheltered from the star-blackened night, covered from the frost-rimed light.
Some gas, a little more oil, loose nuts tightened to the notch
Chain checked, tire pressure—sure—some choke, a short kick, the engine roar
Down one, up two, three, four then five. And I’m outta here; I fondly dream.

Goodbye this most capital city
Such a lovely, lovely place
Plenty of room for bikers, any time, any year
Except when you come, you have to pay your toll.
You have to pay your bill.

I roll Cordelia into the sun, savouring the Bikers’ Morning Special
Included in the price at the Trailblazing Motel
Such a lovely, lovely place
Plenty of room for bikers, any time at this time of year.

Mr Bates reaches out beckoning, his smile as broad as he stands slim.
Thought about my proposition?
I tuck into my food piled high as Mt Sigh-nay-eye.
No, you didn’t say. You didn’t e-lab-or-ate, the fine print magnify.
I enjoyed the room though and will surely come again, I sigh,
Will surely come again. The shower’s a bit of a killer, though.

Here’s the deal, he whispers sweetly in my ear
His long, lean back bends over the chrome-topped counter,
The gleaming chrome-topped counter.
The room’s for free, the meal’s on me; and the lady?
Well, just let me take a little ride on your Cordelia
That cute little ’73, like the one I had to sell
But couldn’t pay the toll, just couldn’t face the bill.
Now all I’ve got is this garage—of parts, the Trailblazing Motel
And a snooker table that won’t let me win
Will never let me win.

My heart was broken when first I heard this tale of woe
Of Vincent Bates from the shadow black as night.
Sure I was a little leery, and what is love?
No-thing is free at the Trailblazing Motel.
Lightning struck as we shook hands, the kick was short, the fool engine roared.
That’s a Yammy for you, I now fondly rue
She’ll fire every time you foot the starter. Every time you kick the starter.

Down one, up two, three, four then five
And Vincent with a throttle twist
Weaves off toward the sun in the southbound lane.
Smoking Pennzoil hangs in the air—fills my breast with fear—
And I have miles to ride before I sleep. Miles to ride. . .
I cry,
Too late. Too late. Too late.
For sweet Cordelia, the daughter I'll never know,
I weep and weep and weep.

Now I’m the owner of this garage—of parts, the Trailblazing Motel
And a snooker table that won’t let me win, will never let me win.
This place that’s programmed to receive
You can check out any time you like,
But you can never leave. You can never leave.
Unless, of course, you’re tripping on a Nineteen Seventy-Three

Six Fifty

1972 CB 350 Honda

2007-06-12T19:45:00.000-06:00

Hades 6

2007-05-31T20:33:00.000-06:00

Today,
I buried
My uncle,
Held the shovel
In my own hands,
Scooped the fertile
Prairie soil, heaped it
High, dug black, cool damp by
Gravediggers, now
Growing grey in
The dry wind
And hot
Summer
Sun.

I
let
The
Dust
Fall like
Rain on the
Urn that held
His ashes. There
Was too much man
For that finely turned
Piece of lathed woodwork
To hold. You'd need the
Hands of God to
contain all that
Norman
Was.

He
Didn't
Deserve
Any of that
Which he endured,
What this often bitter,
Black world offered him.
That mighty man, God's child,
This Norman loved the life he was
Living. He declared it good. For
We who are the strongest on
This earth are its weakest.
And Norman was indeed
Mighty, a conquering
Victorious king.
He spent most
Of this life
Happy in his
Small kingdom
at the
Sally
Ann.

A
Poor
Man's
Banker.
He loaned
Money without
Interest. On trust.
Only the rich ask for
Collateral. Micro-bankrolling
Poverty on the street. Norman
Should have won the Nobel Prize
For his innovation. Yet nobody knew.
No wonder he was so poor, this rich uncle
Of mine. His friends needed some
Spare change, so they went to him,
And he, out of his storehouse,
Gave them his mite. His faith
In them paid out. In trust.
They didn't rob him blind,
Fail Him. Default on their
Payments. For the most
Part. And if they did?
That was the cost of
Doing business. If
You can't trust the
Poor who can you
Trust? Not the
Suits. As Dylan
Says, they'll
Rob you blind
With a
Fountain
Pen.

He
Who
Had next
To nothing
Helped those
Who had nothing
At all. Generous-hearted
Man. Addled. Brain bing-bangled.
Norman was innocent, devoid of guile,
A little simple minded. Yet he would always
Remember who owed him what. More like a
Savant. He couldn't put two and two together.
Yet brought it all together. More than most
Of us. He was complicated like a sentence
That holds more meaning than its
Structure can bear. A tough read,
Yet Norman was easy to read.
Accepting. His pages reached
Into the hearts of those who
Cared. Pressed down,
Shaken together and
Over-flowing. He
Returned more
Love than he
Received. He
Who asked for
Nothing
Continually
Gave away
The little he
Had.

Norman
Was always
There when
Someone needed
Him. He gave and we
Received. Then he rode
To his grave in a fine black
Jaguar. This man of all cars.
He loved them all, but never
Owned one. Cut their pictures
Out of magazines, glued
Them into scrapbooks.
Couldn't get a license.
Couldn't pass the test,
Afford the gas,
Maintenance,
Insurance,
But rode to
His grave
In a black
Jaguar,
anyway.

He
Passed
Out one
Winter's
Night in
A snow bank
And fell into the
Sleep of the dead. Frost
Bit his fingers off. Someone
Called 911 and woke Him up.
Thawed him out, hypothermic
And incoherent. Gradually
Brought him back to life.
He lived another ten
Years or so. Blessed
Us all Uncle
Norman
did.

I
Still
Didn't
Get to
Know him,
Didn't cherish
The opportunity
The extra time gave me,
So my heart brims with
Deep regret. Shame.
His unexpected
Passing has left
Us (Me!)
bereft.

I
Got
To fill
In my
Uncle's
Grave today.
Clumps of earth
Falling into that
Auger-dug hole, four
Feet deep. Precious Norman
Dead to this world. His veil
Of suffering is finally, torn
Asunder. Now I know his worth.
But it is too late, too late, too late
To speak words of kindness,
Affection. To put my
Humanity into
Action the way
He did his,
Helping
those less
Fortunate
Than
He.

To
Him
Who is
Given much,
Much is expected. Your
Burden, Norman, you bore,
Manfully. You were a good
And faithful servant. You
Made do with the life
You were given,
Uncomplaining,
Grateful.

I
Covered
Your ashes
With prairie
Soil saw you
Set you free while
The Earth welcomed
You back into your ever
Loving mother's arms. Both
You and she suffered, were
Despised and cast off, but
You continued. Your body
Held you back, but your
Spirit didn't quit. Now
You are a prince among
Princes, your
mother a
Queen.

All
Fingered
One, with
Heart, soul
And mind,
Drive yourself
Down that long
Four-lane highway,
Negotiate mountain
Curves with your own
Six-Speed, super-charged,
8 cylinder, Imperial wonder
Of British engineering
Daimler
Vanden
Plas

I'm
Standing
Here, waving
You off. My
Chauffeur's
Cap and this
Shovel rest
In your
Peace.

To My Daughter Jill on her 22nd Birthday

2007-05-18T01:46:00.000-06:00

There now is a German Club President
Who was acclaimed. This is no accident.
Those who dared run against her were removed
Though nothing on her could ever be proved
She dispatched at Stammtisch the dissident.

To Sophie

2007-05-13T21:54:00.000-06:00

There is a gal from Dar, Tanzania.
Music she loves from Scandinavia.
Her fav is that pop group, you know, ABBA.
To buy their records, she asked her Baba,
Who gave her the money, Mama Mia!

The Lotus Eaters 5

2007-05-12T23:34:00.000-06:00

The hero breaks away from their embraces.
He sees staged plays writ by Akeephrases
Writes detailed notes on the star lit Yidnes
And scrutinizes the text of de Percnes
But crown'd as King--love sea lost Ilcydas.

______________________________________

Weary had he grown a little lately
Then plump he read Buck Mulligan stately
Bearing aloft a shaving bowl of lather
His cue aside, read bloom in Joyce, he'd rather
This thought invigorated him greatly.

______________________________________

He languished in the stacks, earned his degrees
For years his due he paid in debt his fees
From his subconcious arose that old quest.
My cue I forgot. This must be redressed.
Enchained to books, I must escape from these!

Calypso 4

2007-05-10T06:52:00.000-06:00

The unsung hero saunters down the street
His snooker cue and case, a "Sneaky Pete."
Unsheathed, its action brings uncommon delight.
A dream come true, best hid, kept out of sight.
Improbable? But true! He is discrete.

_____________________________________

It is no weapon of mass destruction
Just an instrument for love in action.
Lovely seaside girls call him from the beach
Teach us some jazz, they giggle each to each.
And so to him they while, love's distraction.

______________________________________

The hero goes on his solitary quest
To those gals on the beach, he sings his best.
They listen; their cotton flowing dresses--
Tempting him with their mouths, legs, tresses.
His hope, his life a gape, at all their rest.

____________________________________

His song from Brazil, a bossa nova
Astrud Gilberto's air "Ipanema."
Seductive Getz on the high saxaphone
The girls draw in tight to that sweet fine tone
Calling, "Hey, handsome, you're hot! Come over!"

Proteus 3

2007-05-09T15:41:00.000-06:00

For Heaven's sake, its gate, the prize, I'll win!
Vanquish those who do so futilely spin!
To the hall, I'll hie; not turn back from there.
My heart is set, the purse, my arm will bear.
Doughty I go to face that snook djinn.

So Many Dreams and So Much Time

2007-05-08T21:32:00.000-06:00

At 51, After Surviving Cancer

2007-05-08T21:28:00.000-06:00

Telemachus 1

2007-05-08T21:17:00.001-06:00

Oh, dear, he cried, it's not concomitant!
It is only snooker, a tournament!
Shots I will pocket down the long green baize
And all my opponents sore, them amaze.
But best of all, I'll win, not lose a cent.

Nestor 2

2007-05-08T21:16:00.001-06:00

The prize, you see, is power, precious love.
Its purse will fit like this inside your glove.
Of course there's risk, sadly, I am aware.
But with such prospect, must you take good care.
So hit the pocket, Heaven's gate above!

2007-05-08T21:15:00.001-06:00

What I especially like about publishing a Blog and hate about it, too, is that I can forever indulge the editor within. Nothing is ever cast in eternal type, nothing finished. I am contantly changing a vowel here and adding a syllable there, completely altering the effect of the limerick.

When I tell my readers the good news of my latest emendation, they couldn't care less. They remember my limericks the way they remember yesterday's lunch; it was good while it lasted. Then, they move on; they change the subject. A limerick has as much staying power as its punch line, and jokes, as everyone knows, have the shelf life of a piece of naan. It's measured in hours.

This is rather dispiriting, but marshall on, I will. The lot of the artist is to remain committed to his/her craft. I will write on, MacDuff; I will not flag in my calling--one limerick a day, or so, is my goal.

For those of you who follow the developments of this blog in breathless anticipation, let me assure you. Though my posts are irregular at the moment, I am writing every day. In fact, I am writing an epic in limerick form. If Shakespeare, Sidney and Spenser can write their sonnet sequences, I can write a series of linked limericks, justifying the ways of men to broads.

2007-05-08T20:54:00.001-06:00

Wednesday, May 02, 2007
Sleepers awake! Sleep leads to destruction
Of society, civilization.
What's its essence: ethics, capitalism
Global free trade, fiscal socialism?
Early birds get the worm. Life is action!

____________________________________________________
Tuesday, May 01, 2007
Around the globe, people of all nations
Depend for transport on gas power'd engines.
The oil companies are not in a cabal.
Our emptied wallets they want; that is all.
The transaction's cancelled. Insufficient funds.

_________________________________________________
"Nancy! A wolf's around every corner!"
Her mother, wistfully, tried to warn her.
"Mum I, too, would like a German dragoon!
You can't have all the fun! a sordid boon!"
A Wolf of her own, single Nan's dream--er!

___________________________________________
Saturday, April 28, 2007
There was a husband Ev'rett who inquired
Of Edith, his wife. In their RAV, he desired
A trip out west on roads quite contorted.
On one condition, she then retorted,
"Come home before YOUR warranty's expired!"

_______________________________________________
Friday, April 27, 2007
I, too, once drove through a bright rainbow base.
With a Swede, my friend, I hadn’t seen his face
For seventeen years. We kept in touch through mail.
Christmas and Easter, sporadic with some fail.
And the years vanished quickly, without trace.

Then one year at my door, arrived Lars, this friend.
We drove to Jasper for a long weekend.
Four nights in the mountains, we hiked the whole way.
At breakfast ate omelettes that lasted all day,
An unhealthy way to eat without end.

Then one pourin' rain even, the year’s short night,
Lightning shot cross the highway. What a flight!
From Jasper to Edmonton, a gal was singin’
A heart-torn tune, Bob James’ “Storm Warnin.’”
It caused us to take note and take delight!

The wipers slapping, the downpour astral;
Overhead right in front astronomical,
Charged with ions, unleashed electricity.
Stars fused broke forth, we faced eternity.
If we survived to our God we'd be thrall.

Up ahead we could not believe our eyes
Storm clouds recoiling there in the dark skies,
A shaft of light, divine toward us drew
The rainbow’s end, its colours we drove through.
What a thing to wow, two middle-aged guys.

A pot of gold certainly we did find
A life memory remains in the mind.
Many years after, we recall this yet.
My friend and I this trip, we can’t forget.
A thirst for God in our two hearts designed.

___________________________________________
Wednesday, April 25, 2007
There's a new planet for suburban liv'n.
At twentyfive light years, you're flow'n not driv'n.
The speed's incredible, thousands of Gee's.
Remove watches, empty all pockets please!
It's cold commut'n; you're crygenically frizzen!

2007-05-08T20:52:00.001-06:00

Tuesday, April 24, 2007
There is an Arctic fowl a shy white bird
A Ptarmigan, the P is spelled, not heard.
As in Psychology, C. Jung you know
The placement initial is just for show,
Like Knight, or ptake, a breathbegun word.

__________________________________________________________

Sunday, April 15, 2007
A man with a piano, and some friends in a truck
His wife he told her, how this'd save her a buck.
She coldly him watched, as they rounded the bend
And slowly, her piano, it tumbled, end over end.
When finally, she exploded, out ran his bed luck.

__________________________________________________________
Thursday, April 12, 2007
There once was a bonsai, Loretta Choi
Who loved water and sun, but hated all soy.
The guy who bought her, she eyed him askance.
I sure hope you know the Log Driver's dance!
For I love fast waltzes and all that, oh boy!

________________________________________________________
Friday, March 30, 2007
There is a brave, bonny colleen, Paigerella
Whose name, like Bushmills, rolls off the tongue, tra la
When she threatened to quit reading her Bloo
Me. Blood. Abandon our host. Third most famous Jew,
A die-grrr-o-type went straight to my heart. Selah.

_________________________________________________________
Monday, March 26, 2007
There once was a guy who used Blamires
When he read James Joyce to dispel his fears.
Without his Harry, he couldn't make sense
Of Ulysses. It is so long and dense
He now prefers neat whiskey to all beers.

__________________________________________________
Tuesday, March 13, 2007
There once was an expat-trieste, James Joyce
Who wrote prosetry; it suited his voice.
His stream of thought sense so replete, entangles
The reader, these artful words she bing-bangles
And now pulled Guinness is her drink of choice.

______________________________________________________
Monday, March 05, 2007
I haven't visited my blog for quite awhile, but then my Muse for writing limericks was no more. My daughters had returned from their tour of Austria, the Canary Islands and Germany. However, I started to listen to a podcast of Jame Joyce's _Ulysses_ at www.jamesjoyce.altervista.org and was challenged to write a poem about _Ulysses_. I rewrote my Imperial Guy limerick to make it more rejoycean:

In Canada, there's an Imper real Guy
Born before metric came the measure by
In this new age, he's no metri-sexual
A Leo Bloom, moderate and textual.
Doesn't eat kidney though; that's sure no lie.

My goal now is to learn how to rhyme, get some rhythm and read through Joyce. This blog is my training ground. I have a new Muse, listening to Ulysses read out loud. Besides, Paigerella's voice is quite fetching, her comments intelligent and her enthusiasm infectious. I love when she's surprised by Joyce. Not that she's my only muse; there are others, as my more recent limericks show.
www.jamesjoyce.altervista.org

_________________________________________________________
Thursday, March 30, 2006
A man once said, "Go to my Alma Mater!
Son Saskatchewan is so much greater."
While the lad his application made out
The old grad his encouragement did shout
The poet kept his keep, a real tater.

_________________________________________________________
Sunday, March 26, 2006
A middle-aged guy with mid-winter blues
Once spoke to his friends, then read the bleak news.
A ferry sinks in cold Canadian waters
A cruise ship's on fire and that's just for starters
Now he's just thinking, I'll take a long snooze.

_________________________________________________________
A witty young man once came for a visit.
We served him his supper. He wondered what is it?
Coconut curry, chicken and rice
And stir fried veggies served up real nice.
After the meal, he smiled, your company's exquisite.

__________________________________________________________
There once was a friend on holiday
He went to Cuba, a land far away.
He smoked a Romeo y Julieta, a comedy.
Because he inhaled that became his tragedy.
Only Shakespeare on stage, he vowed from that day.

_________________________________________________________
Tuesday, March 21, 2006
In Canada, there was born an Imperial Guy
Before metric became the standard to measure by
In this new century, he's no metri-sexual
Though he's weighty, he's fine and textual
Just his hair is thinning and that's no lie.

_________________________________________________________
Monday, March 20, 2006
There once was a guy who went a courtin'
He met loads of women while riding his Norton
When they saw that Commando
They wondered "What else does that man know?"
Now they all want him, just for the sportin'.

_________________________________________________________
Sunday, March 19, 2006
There once was a couple of sisters
Who toured Wien so much they got blisters
Eating torte, drinking beer, taking pictures
They ignored their parents' strictures
Now all they yearn for is the arms of some Misters

________________________________________________________
There once was a couple of Sis's
Who toured Austria, hoping for kisses
They thought the land beautiful
But found not one Herr suitable
So they came home, just Misses, not Mrs.

________________________________________________________
A couple young ladies went to the beach
And coyly they wondered, each one to each,
Who are those nice men in very tight jeans?
On the set of those Brokeback mountain scenes?
Such love, they concluded we cannot reach.

________________________________________________________
When two sisters went walking
Along the beach they were talking
They saw many a bare derriere there
Women without any of their swim wear
"My goodness,"they thought. "This is quite shocking!"

__________________________________________________________
There once were two sisters who loved ice cream
Three scoops each, not two was their highest dream.
So they went on a pilgrimage everyday
To the coldest of parlours made their way
And loved mocha chocolate it would seem.

2007-05-08T20:50:00.001-06:00

Sunday, March 19, 2006
Two sisters once wore shoes of fine leather
And toured Marburg in spite of the weather.
They stopped for a strong dark cappuccino
Then took the short cut home through ice and snow.
They swore next time to share a cab together.

____________________________________________________
There once was a girl with lovely brown hair
If it were longer, would she be more fair?
What forward, thoughtless impertinence!
Such a thought doesn't make a bit of sense.
It's the heart, what's in it that truly counts,
Not the long hair that reaches way down to, Where?

____________________________________________________
There was a young lady in Germany
Who turned nineteen, but did not hear from me.
With her hosts she ate torte and ice cream,
Clearly this is a girl's second best dream.
What else is she hoping? What can that be?

2007-05-08T20:48:00.001-06:00

There was a fine lass who dozed in the sun.
Her tan, it deepened; she dreamt "Men! oh what fun!"
Unknown to her, though, her father crept sneaking
With a cold water hose to cool her thinking.
Hot lightning soon struck what that Dad had begun
She turned on the hose and made him run, run, run.

19 March 2006