Dancing with Rhinos


Jorge Luis Borges was a fine Argentinian poet. One of his poems, “Instants,” expresses his thoughts on living life with regrets. At my age, I have a few, but I do not plan on adding many more. Like gathering seed packets at the local farming co-op, these regrets only tend to grow a host of weeds along with those somewhat clouded memories. Still, in the tradition of The Argentinian, and a host of “old” people, I have written a sad little poem expressing all the things I most sorely regret…

what height, what depth, what deep despair

lingers in my mind as I sit upon this chair

these horrible regrets, oh make no mistake

they tear at my heart like a Hello Kitty Cake

But I must release them like ink upon this page

Else I’ll feel like a Tweety Bird stuck in his cage.

Now first and foremost, I must seriously declare

I regret I have no feeling ’bout the length of my hair

I regret I have never chased angry lemmings down a street

Nor sang with Hugo Chavez to the Venezuelan beat

Nor ran with grey wolves through the harsh tundra alone

Nor hung upside down naked while kissing that stupid stone

Nor whistled the tune of Dixie while dancing with rhinos

Nor sought out the Gypsies when researching whinos

Nor snuck into a brothel with a full load in my pants

Nor courted a “cougar” with a fist-full of Ramps…

It is at this point that I must interrupt, for there are a vast number of you who do not know what a Ramp is. One might say such poetry is not fair, one must grasp all the words to understand the concepts behind the poet’s deep dark abysmal thinking. You would be right- normally.

A Ramp is a precious thing. It is sweet, it is pungent, it is tender. It is, in essence, a wild leek, though the term “wild” might apply to the after-affects of the pungent gold upon one’s digestion or semi-digestion of this member of the lily family. One must not taunt a Ramp, for it bites back. It grows freely across the tree-veined landscapes of the higher mountains of Appalachia. But, it is not prolific until it is time for it to be prolific….especially in the category of inducing random and repugnant gas flow from those who consume it…but this is not what this poem is about…and that is what I really regret…

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About thelostkerryman

Thelostkerryman is an author, and entrepreneur- this side of Tir Na N'Og- living in the forests of a consistently confused country. Here in this hill country, hurling doesn't usually involve a hurley, store-made soda bread resembles an inedible Irish megalith, and Kerrygold is only found hidden like a luck penny in the belly of Kroger. His blogs are an account of his adventures, thoughts, eclectic -and eccentric- ramblings, random or insightful poetry, humor and non-humor, pictures (photos), video, essays, fiction, poetic fiction, nonfiction, drama, and writing he has not classified in the description above. All of his posts from thelostkerryman.wordpress.com, talesinastrangerstrangerland@wordpress.com, everydayasadisciple@wordpress.com, and mrandmrsboring.wordpress.com are copywrited according to international copywrite law.
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One Response to Dancing with Rhinos

  1. Pingback: Hilariously Funny: 2013 | thelostkerryman

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