THE HOUSE THAT CHIMED MIDNIGHT

The House That Chimed Midnight

I have escaped the clock again

You know the one............

The gingerbready thing

Carved in the black forests of Germany

And copycatted by the Renoirs of Resin.

The clock

Hanging on every grandmama's wall,

In every dark wall-papered dining room,

Over the polished buffet,

Beside the Norman Rockwell collector plates

And the oval photographs of old people.

The cuckoo clock..........

My prison

The noisy condo I share with Bavarian boys

And pigtailed girls who dance in circles

And never sleep, for it is their job

To rouse me from my comas

And thrust me forth on springs to sing the hours.

Damn them with their plastic smiles!

But I have escaped

As I often do

On Monday mornings at precisely 1 till 3

Between the oom-pa-pa of the polka

And the minute hand stumbling

Over the bump on the defect on the face of the clock.

I have escaped

And here I sit on a telephone wire

Surrounded by other birds

Who stare at me suspiciously

And spread rumors that I am not alive

And that I cannot sing or fly or pick up refuse

With my beak.

But neither can they fit into the tiny hole

From which I escaped.......

So there!

I am free

I am wooden and I am mechanical

And my eyes are painted white blobs

But I am free!

And unlike them, I cannot die

No matter how I long to

No matter how sick I am

 Of Wagner and Valkyries

And German Chocolate cake.

On the other hand........

I cannot sleep out here

Insomnia haunts my every bird step,

My raven clawed nightmare,

My moment of respite in the cave of a tree

For if I close my eyes for a minute

There will be a woodpecker knocking on my door.

"Come on," he will say, "Say "Cuckoo!" for me."

"Pop outta there and make me say "Ooh" and "Aaah",

Give the kiddies a thrill and make Grandpa throw a shoe

And curse and bellow for disturbing his dreams

Come on, Cuckoo, come on, Cuckoo, come on, Cuckoo."

Damn all Woodpeckers with their obscene appetites!

I can't wait for the day when all trees are made of concrete

And all poles are made of steel

Let him peck his stupid little beak off!

Let him torment me then when his face is shredded

And his teeth are hanging by threads!

But he is the least of my worries..........

You probably don't think that a bird has hands

But in my mind, I do, and I cover my face with them

And I sigh like this:  s-s-s- i- g- h

And I think of waltzes and little Cuckoo girls

With big pretty wings and songs that are silly

And real Cuckoo eyes that look only at me.

I am an angry bird

I should have been born a dog....or a cat

Or a piece of carpet

For they don't have to do anything but lie there

While I have to pop in and out, in and out

All the damned day long!

Before I go back this time

I'm going to do what I've always wanted to do:

I'm going to sing Beatles' songs!

"Michelle, ma belle," "Yesterday,"

A few choruses of "I Wanna Hold Your Haannaanndd."

And end it with "The Long and Winding Road."

You know the one......that leads me back to the clock.

Look at them staring at me!

Lined up for miles on every live wire in the county!

Watch that, will you?

They're selling popcorn now and filming me for YouTube!

"Why don't you fly north for the winter?" I shout.......

"Like maybe, Siberia!"

Stupid real-life birds!!  Who needs 'em?

I am too noble for this crap.

I begin my solo

Mentally thumbing through the songbook

That someone left on Grandmama's buffet years ago

The one I perused every time I popped out of the clock

And memorized and recognized

When the songs came on the radio.

My fowl audience is silent, expectant,

Not a feather stirring, not a peck from a beak

I raise my voice to soar above the traffic....

"Cuckoo-ka-choo....I am the Walrus!"

And the birdbrains erupt in laughter, sneering and jeering.

Someone throws a tomato

Wounded, I bravely try again

"I am the Walrus; I am the Cuckoo...

I am the........."

Aww, the hell with it!

    

©by Voo

(For Poet Man

On the occasion of his birthday, Dec 03)

written on

Nov 30, 09

6:15 p.m.