Archive for the ‘Proems’ Category


Rock- & Pop-inspired Proems…


courtesy at google images

1970 saw the start of my non-air-guitar performances.  I preferred the tangible hockey stick Hendrix.  Here’s my acrostic (not lacrosse stick) proem to the legend:

Jimi.  The legend.
Angel of Woodstock.
My little wing’d hero.
Eulogising the voice, the face.
Still he lives on in
Music out of time:
Army boy’s blues,
Riffs on his guitar,
Sending me blind.
(Hyde Park, Isle of Wight.
And I? Born too late…)
Lost in this voodoo chile’s
Laudable guitar wails
He plays with his teeth.
Experience his band of gypsies:
Narcissists, barbiturates & babes…
Drifted away in his electric ladyland.
Raise hell in heaven unholy Hendrix.
Infidels & initiates celebrate thy legacy.
eXit genius.  Stage lefthand.

©  Luc(e) Raesmith


As for this bunch, they didn’t inspire me to ought but this culinary parody… (more trans*pired than inspired)

Sassy Spice

My sister’s a true spice girl.
The first thing she showed off
in her new home
were those thirtysomething jars
with the oh-so-neat labels.
There tiered shelving in the cabinet
awaited her precious cache.

Baby spice pots mounting the base
for ginger and other warm sweet exotics,
rising to the sporty set:
fenugreek, mustard and coriander.
Seeds lead to scary chilli,
turmeric and cumin, with room
for posh saffron on top.

She’s a cordon vert lover in the kitchen.
She’d make a nice bomb on the box
if she chose to do a Delia;
exploiting the masses’ desires
for meatless dishes and
‘desettling’ those chief male chefs
with her cruelty-free tarts.

But my sister’s not one for flashing
her all in public.  At home
with her chopping board,
mouth a-pout, gaze fixed;
she raises two fingers in a V,
licks the butter smeared between,
and her dressing gown slips apart
to reveal cleavage and navel as she poses
the question to her espoused, shouting proud
“Do you want paprika on your ciabatta pizza?”

And as mozerella melts and spices sizzle
with the heat of her passion,
her gas hob-top oven, she hugs
herself with the thought:
“I’ve got me here some real hot grill power.”

©  Luc(e) Raesmith

haikus have their say…


… after an absence of 6 weeks & more – due to non-network connectivity / wifi-lessness (and that not due to storm nor mobile battery failure), here now a gentle return to blog-fullness (something akin to Cognitive Behavioural Therapeutic mindfulness) with a haiku or two (or 8) from a writing group session’s escape from the weather (but there’s no climate change without climate change)…


snow (not hail) from last February…

hailstones clattering
thru blue green and magenta
icing cyclamen

sibling’s marmalade
jogs buttery memory
Sunday school breakfast

flailing writers’ pens,
conbobulated mindsets:
blown cobwebs away…


approaching the fated (& fêted) Dawlish, south Devon…

hurricane’d landslide
renders asunder journey’d
“outstanding beauty”…

rain daggers stabbing
steamy fingerprint window
seals in escapist

oatmeal biscuits dunked
sweet tea break from stuffy space:
calorific flight!

and inspired by tutor-given text  [  mountain,  snow,  tree,  flower,  moon ]
and the Lego film poster at bus stop …


cheating with morn (not moon) light here…

net curtain moon spill:
nylon white petals flower
naked black elm twigs

snow mountain goddess,
square Lego head deity’s
plastic Zen practice


13 Days of Yuletide…


On the Thirteenth Day of Yuletide the Universe behove to me:

13  shelves for dusting  (ignored)

12  plants for watering  (well, not 3 cacti…)l

11  pots for scouring  (3 soups, 2 veg, 2 peas, 2 eggs, 1 noodles + 1 plums)

10  tweets @ trending  (didn’t follow)

9  twits a-twerking…  (not really, thank All That Is!)

8  moods a-cycling / meds side-effecting

7  spots a-sprouting  (bloomin’ 2nd puberty…)

6  ciders ‘bottling’  [= not resolving #8 issue(s) ]

5  mouldy sills  (eek: J-cloths to the rescue!)

4  junk mail cards  (plus TV licence threats… but I don’t do TV!)

3  Facebook friends  (confirmed✓)

2  rain-splat’d gloves  (no ‘biggy’, just soggy at the time)

… but vanilla custard vaping† liquid   (Lush!  †See Glossary, part 2)


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Solstice  /  Yuletide  /  Xmas  Greetings  One  &  All  !


Finding the Positive+ in Aspie…


… & when personal relations appear to be perpetually going down the pan, then it’s pleasing to come upon some past [proetic] positives for being Aspie…

(+ to ponder the mysteries of the silent ‘p’ in psychic)


Minding Your ‘P’s on Cue

Strolling across the lawns for
a picnic with poetry in the park
I became possessed with minding our ‘p’s on cue.
We searched for a sheltered spot by a stream
(that remind one of other pimply and pissy words)
because the wind was up and I said
‘it’s parky’ when the sun hid behind the clouds.
You called the sky perfect, only you pronounce it perfick.
I got out the flask of peppermint tea,
and cucumber sandwiches – salted but not peppered.
You told me ghost stories, but we didn’t hit on
poltergeist. (And when you said your acupuncturist
had pressed your points to do with fear of people
we didn’t mention paranoia or panic, only agoraphobia.
We were playing this game protectively.)
Then you kissed me on the cheek,
and I said ‘there’s one: pecks’.  You thought
that I meant pectorals and pointed
to your quads!  Later as our cues were down
I gave you a pinch and a punch – like on the
first of the month – but these were on your bicep.
And I asked you if your mother ever called
you a ‘pestilential pumpkin’?  No, you said,
and told me the Hebrew for cow and cows which
began with a ‘p’ but I don’t recall the singular nor plural…
You read the poetry – e e cummings and another one
about the hoi-poloi coming to the opera.
But when you kissed me on the lips
that was the real performance – especially
for the drama students perched on the hill.
Just as well they didn’t know your purple pants
were in my bag as they might perchance have
got even more pop-eyed…
But don’t let me get pernickety;
it really was a peachy afternoon

©  Luc(e) Raesmith  (circa 1995)

thanks Home Skillet for the cucumber sarnies pic:


Aspergic Word Played Out…


Whilst this blog’s ‘retro diary enquiry’ posts may reveal my Andro self, albeit lived subconsciously pre-age-of-40, then my proems writing period (1994-2004) can reveal my also-unrecognised Aspie self…

This summer I was formally diagnosed as being on the Autistic Spectrum with Asperger Syndrome: a fact that is both a blessed relief and a source of further angst-riddled self-consciousness…  It is fortunately now-recognised that Aspies can be more right-brained creatives and not-necessarily the stereotyped maths and science ‘specialists’…

On re-reading my proems (up to 19 years on), I realise the Aspergic word play: the cacophony and dissonance of constant alliterative and assonance banter dancing about my non-neurotypical brain, was channelled into for-performance writing. Currently, however, I appear to be more caught up in a chaotic choreography of over-punctuation and dis-spelling…

I proffer here one of my favourite – and possibly most Aspie – proems: ‘Verisimilitude’.  I can never remember what *’verisimilitude’ actually means; it sounds like ‘very silly mood’ which is appropriate to the content…

[* a definition of this title can be found in Part 2 of the Glossary post under said same blog Category]

This ‘foodie‘ proem was composed in a-total-of-23 minutes from a list of 70 words that I really liked the sound of and which I had spontaneously put-to-paper in 5 minutes.  (I can now only recall **52 of those words – the most obvious sound-wise – and these are alphabetically listed below the poem for my/anyone’s interest…)

[** perhaps not coincidence that 1-of-the-52 is ‘testosterone’: the andropausal medication of choice…]



The seditious plebian matriarch
of the voluminous – nay pulcritudinous – stature
was concocting a jambalaya:
a sublime recipe with a hint of vanilla
(“prevents flatulence” she would yodel onomatopaeically).
She served sassafrass to complement this dish,
and would gesticulate eruditely at her guests,
who dared not be cacophonous
nor proffer claptrap in her presence,
for she had a temper both
maniacal and diabolical,
and globular spittle would emit
from her tubular vocal regions
should any testosterone-imbalanced male
be so obstreporous as to call her cooking

Such was her pernickety nature,
garnered through antiquity and germinating
virginal maidens who had met
with disastrous liaisons to local rascals
who lured them behind iguana bushes –
with tart pomegranates or falafels
in the dusty hectares of that region.

Our matriarch would gather
her rumbunctious crew
in the vestibule, its décor
alluding to zen and cello music,
and offer pontrifract cakes and
invite them to browse through encyclopaedic
tomes on lesser-spotted aardvaarks,
and how to perform an endoscopy,
and the initiation of the hierophants.
In short, as hospitable matron she was incandescent.

©  Luc(e) Raesmith


antiquity      aardvaarks       cacophony      cello       claptrap       concoct      decor      diabolical      disastrous      erudite        encyclopaedic       endoscopy      falafel        flatulence       gesticulate       globular      hectare       hierophant       hospitable       iguana       incandescent      initiation        jambalaya        liaisons        maniacal        matriarch       obstreperous       onomatopoeia        pernickety        plebeian        pomegranate        pontifract      proffer        pulchritudinous      rascal        rambunctious       sassafrass       seditious        spittle        sublime      tart      testosterone       tome        tubular       vanilla       verisimilitude       vestibule       virginal       voluminous       wundebar       yodel      zen

(pomegranate, falafel & vanilla images courtesy of google: artists unknown)


Sickening for SPAM: a dining dilemma…


1.  Continuing an edibles theme this week and entering a contentious arena:

to SPAM or not to SPAM?

2.  That Hormel tinned treat – gourmet delicacy-4-some – became septegenarian last decade & is enjoying a come-back in these austerity times.  Get ALL the facts from Wiki…

3. SPAM does sometimes wend its meaty way into my recycled-black-plasti-crate ‘larder’ when it’s ‘on’ BOGOF special at my local supermarket…

(for the non-shopaholically-inclined, see Glossary Category Part 2 re ‘bogof’)

4.  I recently encountered someone using Marmite (the veggie-if-not-vegan savoury sandwich filler and toast topper) as a verb, as in you either marmite something or you don’t. So it is too with SPiced hAM: supposedly love it or loathe it…

Spam Poem, July 99

5. Not-quite-dissed (but bombed) during the Poetry Slam performance at Ways With Words literary festival of 1999, in Dartington’s Great Hall, my rendition of the mid-Nineties-composed ‘Sickening for SPAM’ was, ironically, immortalised by festival artist, Sue Kendall…

Hopefully the proem will express the mélange of my emotions on this aforementioned contentious & meaty issue…

Sickening for SPAM

My dad was in advertising
when he went to work on an egg.
To beat the foetal nausea
my mum guzzled SPAM.
(Sperm’n’eggs coalesce.
Ergo SPAM’n’coal cravings.)
Thus was “healthy appetite”
graffiti’d on my genes.

As a special Sixties treat
Sunday’s roast was the
clove-studded tin-shaped
Yummers! they said, swooning
over the dinky winding key
that unlocked all that
succulent SPAM goodness.

Going on Cornish holidays:
cornflakes at 6 am, then
on-the-road in-a-layby
9 o’clock SPAMwiches
(white sliced with crusts on)
and Camp coffee in a Thermos.
If you’re going to be carsick
have your bathing cap
at the ready.

By the time Monty Python
had gone “Spam’n’eggs,
Spam’n’chips, Spam’n’Spam”,
we’d gone upmarket
caravanning in France.
But first, our mum went
down market, bottom-ranking
SPAM-substitute “Mozart”
in her bag-on-wheels.
SpamJigsawFrontOh! Je vais vomir
with pommes de frites

Living près de l’English Riviera
The S.A.D. – and sometimes
nauseating – grockels now
come to us, craving sun.
On May Day they’ve thrown up
all caution to the deceptive wind
and turned Spam-flesh-pink with
white halter’n’straps striping.

Retaining my tofu-pallid
complexion, I day-trip into
no-man’s-land: surfing
the world-wide-web for
haikus on SPAM.
Cybernetic reams of
puke-up-pink and
seventeen syllable offerings.

SpamJigsawBackToday, we take these
vacant vacations,
sitting right-at-home
with the gnawing fear
of being ‘spammed’:
for virus-spawning
advertising to spew
all over our microchips…
Quel horreur!
grafitti’d on our screens.

©  Luc(e) Raesmith

And for those who dare…


How Diplomacy Fails & War Thrives…


I proffer a proem to illustrate the microcosmic scenario mirroring the macrocosmic dilemma…

With apologies to those who:

have a solvent abuse  habit
are not allowed to marry
have chosen a vegetarian/vegan lifestyle
are challenged by being mute
have only the use of a bath
are offended by stereotyped/clichéd management labels

and  –  wishing peace to those who live in an actual war zone


A Factory Fracas

Tongues still, eyes steeled, hunching backs
Jill and Liz set records with adhesive –
for power shower top notch thermostats –
glue-raced against the enemy:
Sylvia (over 65; for work she lied) and
Sandra (only 16; witless woman-child).
Glueing signatures now faked;
thermostats cracked, half-baked.
Management comes unstuck: abusive…

With shop floor sanity abated,
our Liz and Jill retaliated:
coded signatures hastily created;
tales of wedding bells and frocks related.
With saveloys warming in the thermostat oven,
they form the bitch-witch shower parts coven.
Nattering fingers, deft tongues, never slack,
yet management stuffed shirts strike back…

All the ladies sent to Coventry.
Jill struck wedding dumb and blue –
amidst the men’s machining din –
now counting endless logo pins: one, two, three
hundred; whilst Liz – for her polymer bond sins –
nicks plastic notches in the new
superior just-cut shower heads.
Management glowers: white collars seen red…


So, when you next anoint your bod (with gel)
for sluicing shower on steel-mount rod,
spare a prayer for the women who
went to glue war just so you could
relish your thermostat guarantee,
flush your sleep-dusty aura well – and clean –
as management fat cats profits glean…

©  Luc(e) Raesmith


For explanation of ‘Coventry‘ and ‘saveloys‘: please see Glossary Part II post