Four Creepy/ Comedic Poems by Richard Stevenson

 

RICHARD STEVENSON

 

Killer Bees

 

Killer Bees! Buzz Buzz.

We came from Puerto Rico,

passed through Mexico.

 

Don’t need no passport

to get by security. Buzz Buzz.

We just make a cloud.

 

Ride in on a breeze.

Buzz Buzz. Killer bees!

You’ll soon be on yer knees.

 

Killer Bees, killer bees.

Ain’t gonna declare

our hypodermic needles…

 

Ain’t gonna wipe yer arm

with no cotton swab.

We’re just gonna sting.

 

Buzz buzz. Sting! Sting! Sting!

That’s how we wile the time away

in the land of just because.

 

***

 

Lac Wood Screecher

 

 

The Lac Wood Screecher don’t need

to be seen to be believed. Not in these

parts anyway.  His screech is unique —

 

like someone shearing steel off

the side of a fast-moving car

or screaming brake pads giving their all.

 

He’s probably some sort of Sasquatch.

A little taller maybe. More aggressive.

His scream is his calling card, you bet.

 

Leave him apples or bananas.

You’ll live to see a few mañanas.

He’s not abusive or rude —

 

Just a little peckish, maybe famished;

a little rumbly in his tumbly. That apple

pie on the window sill should do nicely.

 

***

 

Last Call, No Alcohol

 

Ladies and gents, time to fold up yer tents –

Rented a tent, rented a tent —

Put away yer Trix and Zoodles.

Oogle Boogle’s Googled humans.

and now I’ve got the drop on you!

 

Gonna wrap you in Christmas bunting

tonight. Tha’s right! D.J. Boogle’ll

be yer M.C., and together we’ll polish

the dance floor with the best platters on wax —

old Stax and Motown. Know there ain’t no town

 

gonna be without a cryptid critter tonight!

Ogopogo’s out-of-sight Hip Waders

gonna get us in the mood and Tazuma’s

Two-Step Montezumans gonna keep us

in the groove. Ain’t no smooth jazz, jus’ funk!

 

Roll call is over. Roll up yer sleepin’ bags.

At midnight we watch the saucer show

and Saquatch and his Bigfoot Boys

gonna rock ‘n’ roll you stoic doubters

into remote site readers and believers!

 

Yeah!  Ready to boogie? Ready to reggae?

Oogle Boogle’s got da riddem, got da drop.

 

Tooti  Fruiti Rudy! Don’t stop! Boplicity

simplicity!  Shake that booty! Two-step

country bumpkins, Bump! Bump! Bump!

 

Memphre’s Memphis Horns gonna blow

the roof top off this joint. Orange Eye’s

gonna stare you into some somnambulate

Voodoo trance.  So… Dance! Dance! Dance!

Try a little romantic human-boogle boogaloo!

 

***

 

Nguma-monene

 

Can’t spike you up like litter, Holmes.

Can’t whack you with a thagomizer

like my buddy Ankl O Saurus,

but I’ve got a crocodilian grin

and sharp enough teeth to take

a sizable chunk of your hide in one bite.

 

Got the planks along my back that

need scraping and a paint job too,

and also don’t take kindly to the prospect

of living in some cement pond in a zoo.

Got a long neck as thick as your thigh,

two-tone grey-brown top, cream underside.

 

Surviving dinosaur or close relative to some

Jurassic puddle jumper? Who cares?

I’ve outlived yer lot by a few centuries

and didn’t do so by ravaging the jungle

with logging trucks and chain saws, dude.

Don’t want no mod cons or princess phones.

 

Just wanna be left with my brood

to snuggle and cuddle and chew

 

a little local Likoualan produce.

The Congolese jungles are just right —

not too many of you honky homo s. fools about.

Lots of food and shelter too.

 

Leave me alone; I’ll leave you alone.

Don’t need no streets or roads.

No asphalt or gravel or Jeeps to creep up

on my brood as they’re

scarfing food off low-hanging branches.

 

The less we see of humans, the better.

You’re too noisy and destructive;

pollute our lakes, strip farm our lands.

Why must you catch, name, and contain

everything you see but never get to know?

Mguma nonene’s my name — large python

in the Likouala language, even though

I’ve got legs and ain’t no snake, baby.

Just a lollygaggin’, salad-munchin’ cryptid

reptile biding my time as long as you’ll let me.

 

***

 

 

Richard Stevenson has recently retired from a thirty-year teaching gig at Lethbridge College and has published thirty books and a CD of jazz and poetry in that time.  His most recent books are Rock, Scissors, Paper: The Clifford Olson Murders, a long poem sequence from Dreaming Big Publications in the US (2016), and A Gaggle of Geese, haikai poems and sequences from Alba Publications in the UK (2017).

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