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2021 0922 trish justrish

The superlative poet who calls herself Trish Justrish has been involved in the Valley poetry scene forever, both solo and as a member of The New Subterraneans. The last time I saw her perform, pre-pandemic, I was moved to caption a photo of her “This is Trish Justrish, whose cerebral and yet heartfelt poetry reveals a more-than-passing knowledge of certain of the sciences. You have to love a person who can wield the word Omicron effectively. You have to love her more for the layered expression on her face when she delivers the line “I KNOW you want to kiss me.” She brings a quality to the New Subterraneans that helps them be more NewTrishous.”

Doing her page got me thinking about the “Just” part of the name Trish Justrish. It does not have to mean “merely” or “ordinary.” Another definition of the adjective Just is “righteous” or “fitting” or “demonstrative of appropriate karma.” She IS righteous. Her poetry is honest, as I attempt to convey in the convolutions of my acrostic.

Trish Notjustany Trish

The words so coherent dispelling the mist
Tell thoughts that would wow a devout scientist
Rewoven reality makes to career
Reverse/hearsals juxtapose woes far and near
If heartache’s subsumed in a vain search for Pi
In fact it will wrestle on deck or lanai
Submerse in the New Subterranean blues
Set poems to paper and pay up more dues
Her work is True Blue it is not Bait & Switch
Her clear voice will stymie the false then enrich

That “Thanks, Trish!!!” I put to the left of my signature is for more than Trish’s gracious permission to do this page. I sent her an early draft of the acrostic, and it was much more ambiguous than this final version. She wrote back expressing confusion over my reference to Abercrombie & Fitch, makers of fine suits and other clothing and accessories. And she was right as rain; the obscure reference in the second-to-last line knocked the acrostic’s integrity way off plumb. Trish Justrish knows poetry, whether she is writing it or reading it. She is a cerebral wonder.

2021 0619 icad19

I drew a face trying to think of no one in particular. To me he looked like the illegitimate son of Salvador Dali and Adam Driver. And he seemed to be looking intently at something right in front of his face. So a waspish creature came to be, singing a lyriuc corrupted from “Summertime.” So my surreal actor corrupterd the word “Awesome.”

I have been blessed to know a good many Susans in my life. One, a fuel truck driver, hiked Havasupai with me. One, a six-foot lawyer, had the assertiveness of a runaway locomotive. One, a sculptor, sold over ten grand’s worth of her wares in a single day. One, a department chair, decided to explore reducing the toxicity of the hydrocarbon-laden printing medium Intaglio. There are others, but we have a lot to cover here, because while there’s not a lazy Susan in the bunch, I bring to your attention Susan Vespoli, the unlaziest Susan of them all.

Susan is a poet. She’s also a teacher. She’s lived in Guam and in a cabin in the woods in Arizona. She’s loved and lost and lost and won and fought cancer and won some more and fixed up a house and sold a school. She has a website with the unforgettable domain name susanvespoli.com, where you will find out much more about her in her remarkable essay “Autobiography in Eight Hairstyles.” She has a Taylor Swiftian propensity for going into detail about past relationships, but in this hairstyle odyssey she nails down the best reason possible for doing so: “More lethal than bad food, bad drink, and bad exercise habits, more toxic than chemical exposure, is the act of not owning your thoughts or speaking your mind.”

And that is what makes her writings so valuable. She is showing you cinéma vérité with her poetry. You must believe it because it is immediate and it is real. Pardon the bluntness, but she’s not fucking around. She has been there and now you are going to be there too, no euphemism, no denial. No dancing. (She has said “I can’t dance.”)

So it was she who reawakened my desire to resume my “Eminent Poets of Greater Phoenix” project. Volume I was published in 2010. I did about two dozen poet/acrostic/portrait pages since then but never lashed them together into Volume II. Now I want to.

So, to rewet my feet, I have done the first one in over a year, thus:

2021 0217 susan vespoli iv

Susan Vespoli

Sure as RSTUV
She knows what it is to Be
Undeterred. The Truth she grasps
Speaks and makes her readers gasp
And Writes of Wildness gallop so
A hoofbeat rhythm helps her go
Now a Captain, now a Stray, she’ll
Nestle Life-blooms like a Lei

One more thing: She recently trounced me in Words With Friends, not for the first time, nor the fifth. Then in the next game she lobbed me a watermelon-sized Home Run pitch, using the word INNER so that I could make WINNER or DINNER or TINNER or some other, and get a triple-word score. I suspect she’s trying to let me win one. Hey, she’s an all-caps POET; she knows what she’s doing.

Not to be falsely modest; so am I. I flirt with her a little sometimes with some of the words I use–why not? It’s fun, and I’m harmless. In the game I show below, the one she got me good in, she played DUEL and I crossed it with LUV. If you’re going to Duel, do it with Luv. 🙂

2021 0218 wwf screen print

Another Bad Pun Brain Teaser today. Here is the contest, and the response, as it appears now on my Samsung laptop:

2021 0128 bpbt dolly

Scott and Jess are frequent flyers with my contests, and frequent winners. So this time I made an Executive Decision:

WOW, that didn’t take long. Scott, multi-Bad Pun winner, has the correct answer. Jessica, multi-Bad Pun winner, has THREE brilliant answers, and the Judges say they would accept at least two of them, the left one and the right one.

What am I going to do with you two brilliant people? I don’t want to discourage you, but I do want to give ordinary mortals a chance. So here’s the deal: henceforth, you two must WAIT TO POST a minimum of ONE HOUR. As soon as you get the answer, write it down and take a time-stamped pic, so if you both get it the prize will go to the first.


Meanwhile, I’ll try to come up with harder Bad Pun Brain Teasers. Truly, I am in awe!

Oh, the Judges would also have accepted “River Deep, Mountain High,” and, if Dolly were wearing too tight a bra, “PLEASE Release Me, Let Me Go.”
ETA on the two Dollies is three days or so. I want to do them justice.

One more acceptable answer–blinding flash of the obvious from Yours Truly–“Hello, Dolly.”


And here is what Scott will receive in the mail in a couple of days:

2021 0128dolly01

And this one’s for Jess:

2021 0128 dolly02

Congratulations to the brilliant Winners!!

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The five Joneses, in no particular order, are Tommy Lee Jones, John Paul Jones, Davy Jones, Jeffrey Catherine Jones, and Davy Jones. By far the most fascinating life of the Joneses goes to Jeffrey Catherine. She was not wearing a monocle in the photo i used as source, but I needed an eye-magnifier to catch her arresting gaze.

How this came to be: Yesterday I wrote a poem whose protagonist, receiving bad employment news, got a bit sloshed and decided to spend the four idle days making five amazing portraits and falling out of love. Though I am not myself the poem’s protagonist, I will own that I did get a little sloshed yesterday in the interest of the poem’s verisimilitude. 🙂 How amazing these portraits are is your call, not mine, dear Reader. To my eye they all miss the Amazing mark, some more widely than others. (I will give the Davy Jones Monkee sketch an honorable mention for sheer economy. Zoom in on it and you will see that the illusion of detail disappears snd it becomes lines and blobs, and not many at that. Placement of features turned that trick. It took about thirty seconds to draw.) But the poem’s protagonist did say it was an intention and not a promise.

This was a good idea, a tribute to four deserving women with lovely singing voices who also happened to inspire, and thus be Muses. The execution isn’t so hot, but that’s what I get for using the Unforgiving Pen for this one.

Mama Cass Elliot was compared by Graham Nash to Gertrude Stein, that patron of the arts of yesteryear. Joni Mitchell inspired Nash to write “Our House,” one of the loveliest songs ever written in the service of describing the bliss of ordinary life. Linda Ronstadt inspired Jerry Brown, called by some “Governor Moonbeam.” She also showed up in one of Paul Simon’s songs in his classic “Graceland.” And Carole King inspired an entire generation in general, and James Taylor in particular.

Brava, sweet-sounding Ladies. I hope some day to do you better justice.

2020 0506 muse

Sing O Muse

Saintly Mama Cass had donned a muu-muu with some room
Innocence in Joni Mitchell fed her aperçu
Next came Linda Ronstadt with a songbird’s light caress
Go-to gals like Carole King rule airways with finesse

Day Fourteen, and here is a paste of the prompt:

“Today’s optional prompt asks you, like Alice Notley, to think about your own inspirations and forebears (whether literary or otherwise). Specifically, I challenge you today to write a poem that deals with the poems, poets, and other people who inspired you to write poems. These could be poems/poets/people that you strive to be like, or even poems, poets, and people that you strive not to be like. There are as many ways to go with this prompt as there are ways to be inspired.”

So I thought of the poets, and there are too many. Then my inner acrosticist took three cards out of the Rolodex: Rudyard Kipling, Edgar Allan Poe, and Sylvia Plath. All left their mark. All were driven and bedeviled and haunted. And they haunt me. I know the opening lines of “The Raven” and “Daddy” and I know all of “IF-” And Kip, Poe and Syl uniquely identify them with three letters. So there may be an Acrostic in the future…but I’m not feeling Acrosticky right now. But let’s see what happens.

2020 0414 kip poe syl

Kip Poe Syl

Rudyard and Edgar and Sylvia Plath
Let us be shaped by this odd Threefold Path.
Let us get Kip for the blood and the bone,
Firmly embed in Testosterone Zone.
Poe is for Passion so darkly uncomic,
Endlessly rhymed with a beat metronomic.
Syl’s so unsilly, such willies she gives,
Pouring her hope into such porous sieves.

Put them together, you get KipPoeSyl,
Mournful and frantic as Hank’s Whippoorwill.

“Hear the lonesome Whippoorwill.
He sounds too blue to fly.
The midnight train is whining low,
I’m So Lonesome I Could Cry.”
Hiram “Hank” Williams, Sr.