The New President

The Pumpkin President by Mark Ryden


I survey my kingdom:
a horse skull/ jungle gym
with blond bee-striped boys,
sparrow-sized, halfway in

an eye hole to hide;
the other on top,
staring straight down
to a devilish Scot

who winks at the camera,
that handsome pariah,
his gaze set on us,
he forgets the messiah,

who, perched in his house,
points down from a tree
in a gesture of patience
to him and to me.

For with my striped stick
I'm a cruel master.
Out of ten subjects
there's only my Aster

who sits in the undergrowth
reading a book.
(Though not really reading
by her vacant look.)

She's grown a new president,
one that's honest and true,
and when he is my size
what will I do?

Play Along

O, the moon.
O, the stars
and all the heavens' light,
I said. You're being an ass,
she said and I gestured toward the sky,
flailing my arms, catching
moonlight on my polished teeth,
feeling the wind comb
the hair on my head.
I knit my brow to a fine line
and showed her how deep the creases
on either side of my mouth could be.
She stood steadfast,
impatience pooling from her formal gown.
Play along, I said,
but she wouldn't have it,
We are aristocratic debutantes
and we don't behave that way
in front of the queen.

On A Winter Canvas

A field of Santa Clauses
Huddle together, whispering
through pursed pink lips.

It sounds like whistling.
When they sway, the song
changes, suddenly a requiem

of clouded breath uplifts
the sheet of fresh snow,
which tendrils toward the sky.

The moon: stark, white, whole,
glints off their beards, illuminating
a sea of rosy cheeks and wet red

noses, but their eyes remain
shut, turning coal into diamonds.

We Just Live The Quiet Life

Saturdays, out for a drive.
We just live the quiet life.
Early, turning out the lights.
Always kissing her goodnight.

Sundays are for sleeping in
till my wife's infernal din
wakes me with the tasty sin:
bacon and its buttered kin.

Mondays, lessons at the dojo.
Dinner, six o'clock in Sodo.
Working up my manly mojo
then we can't because... you know.

Tuesdays, all my time at work:
pushing papers as a clerk.
Leaving early is a perk
for my boss, that stodgy jerk.

Wednesdays, time for toast and tea
and a little time for me,
which I spend quite pleasantly
charting Fluffy's pedigree.

Thursdays are so very droll.
So much so I'd rather skip them altogether.

Fridays, Oh, the week is over.
If it could be done forever
I would gladly leave my boulder
and I'd find a something better.

My Expectations Bring In The Tide

When I grow up I want to be the moon:
object of desire, mystery, subject of too
many poems. I'd show you my dark side
and you would be amazed. Nothing to hide,
I'd gaze into oceans, shake my cratered
head to bring the tide to bed later
than ever before. My celestial mantel
grazing stardust, disbursed like an ant hill.

Lovers would promise me literally and figuratively,
my fault line turned up, knowingly,
sparing their soft red hearts the trouble
of finding an unlikely dream impossible.