*Bruce Niedt*

Mosquito Truck

In my neighborhood
with the exception of the ice cream man
no one attracted kids
like the mosquito truck guy.
He’d cruise down the streets
in that battered gray tanker
with “County Pest Control” stenciled
in no-nonsense black on the side.
Behind him a nozzle spewed
a cloud of insecticide,
pluming and roiling like a sudden white fog.
And we were close behind
on our red and blue Schwinns
plowing through this haze
pretending to be jet fighters
cutting the cumulus toward the stratosphere.

Who knows what we were inhaling
on those muggy summer evenings?
I’m sure DDT was in the mix.
But these were innocent times
before cancer was something everybody got,
before we wondered what was killing
all those fish and birds,
before we worried what our enemies
might put in our air,
or what we had done to it ourselves.
All that mattered to us at the time
was imagination, aspiration, purpose.
We would plunge oblivious
through those dangerous fumes,
pedaling willfully toward the unknown.

05/24/2006

Building a Metaphor

At the red light,
a construction site on the corner
reminds me to have all the right tools

and materials, before I begin –
to use a blueprint,
or just wing it,

to measure twice, cut once
and cut again,
to nail it in place when I think it’s perfect,

to plane and sand it to a smooth finish –
seamless, no splinters,
then step back to regard the work,

a sturdy frame, till someone comes
and finds a piece out of place,
so I tear it down and rebuild.

A horn from behind wakes me –
the light is green. I pull away,
but not before someone catches my eye –

my muse,
walking toward the structure,
carrying a bag of cement.

07/23/2006

Lube Job (Limerick)

When Jack and his girlfriend Justine
Ordered oils from a sex magazine,
They were two basted lovers
Who got under the covers,
And worked like a well-oiled machine.

08/03/2006

Author's Note: Inspired by true events.... d;-)

A Catchy Title Would Make You Want
to Read This Poem

…or maybe a carnival barker:

“Hi-ya, hi-ya, step right up, ladies and gentlemen,

boys and girls of all ages,

and see the amazing acts of alliteration!

See the vigorous vagaries of verse!

See incredible imagery, sensual similes,

magnificent metaphors!

And it’s only a dollah to come inside!”

…or maybe a telemarketing technique:

“But wait!

If you read these four stanzas in the next ten minutes,

we’ll give you a fifth stanza absolutely free!

Call now – operators are standing by!”

…or a cinematic blurb:

“It’s the best poem I’ve read since Joyce Kilmer’s ‘Trees’!”

-- Gene Shalit

No, I’ll forgo all the flash and glitter,

the trumpets and fanfare.

I’ll try to craft the best piece I can,

from humble ink and paper, or

modern-but-humble keyboard and screen,

and hope the world comes to appreciate it.

…but maybe a catchy title wouldn’t hurt….

09/24/2003

Beard

I could indeed let it grow wild,

like the weeds in my neglected garden –

let it take over the cheeks and chin

like fragmities or kudzu.

But I hold it in check with a sharpened blade,

mowing close to the skin, hoping not to nick,

trimming the chinnish overhang with scissors –

a bit of facial topiary, really.

There are times, though, I yearn to be a mountain man,

tonsorial terror, uncombed, untamed,

or a long hirsute wonder, like ZZ Top,

or the guy in that Lear limerick, with bird nests in his beard.

Wouldn’t I be a sight, toting a shotgun through the hills,

or ripping out a fuzzy guitar solo,

or carrying an aviary on my face,

instead of sitting here, neatly groomed, in my cubicle.

11/20/2003

Haiku Syndrome

I had a disease
for which there seemed no known cure,
called Haiku Syndrome.

I could only think
in seventeen syllables –
I talked that way, too.

I’d describe nature
a lot, to sound like Basho –
apple blossoms, frogs –

you know what I mean.
But you can’t be poetic
ordering your lunch:

“Double cheeseburger
and a large diet Pepsi.
No, I don’t want fries.”

Then a poet friend
said, “Forget 5-7-5!
Don’t worship old rules!

American style
isn’t stuck on seventeen!
Loosen up! Use less!”

So I did.
Now I write on anything:
cities, begonias,

a sunset,
a burning cigarette,
a chipmunk.

It could be worse –
I have a friend who suffers
from Sonnetitis.

She always talks in
iambic pentameter
with pirouette turns.

04/07/2006

Mars Looks Down

You can’t miss me tonight,

the second-brightest thing in the sky,

unmistakably orange, unblinking as an eye,

slowly arcing through the south,

color of blood or rust,

albedo poking a bright hole in the dark.

The last time I was this close,

your ancestors were hunting mammoths.

Since then you have named me

after one of your gods of war,

dropped snooping little robots in my dust,

and built missiles on your shores.

I have no quarrel with you, neighbor.

I have always been here, trolling the firmament,

staring down without sparkle, never quite so large,

as you move, like mortals may,

toward greatness or self-destruction.

And I marvel at how far

and how close you’ve come.

09/06/2003

Author's Note: Honorable Mention, Nonrhyming Poetry category,
Writer's Digest 2004 Annual Writing Competition;
first published in Up and Under: The QND REview, Spring/Summer 2005.

all poems © Bruce Niedt

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