One Long Poem by Lorie Greenspan

 

Whack the Retchling!                                                                               

 

a spider, a snail, an injured quail

all abiding that mercenary trail

to find the thing that shined most brilliant

a thousand times and a thousand million . . .

 

 

The chair led them into a room

fine of embroidery

golden in palate

rich in treason

and pointed, sit, give all your jewels

and the little girl said, her dimples highlighted red,

tis a pity I don't listen to chairs,

then proceeded to dismantle a leg

 

The chair, nonplussed as chairs ought to be

reckoned with whom it dealt

horrible in infancy

an incorrigible child, not dead, it said

tis more the pity you expended the effort

for little did I need that peg.

 

It covered its face with an arm

and proceeded to dismantle hers

in one clean swipe, it did

leaving a phantom but no blood

no oozing, spill, or spritz

and it chimed, there you see, two can play that game

let you wander with motion lame

 

The little girl, oh how pretty she

merely covered the missing item with her skirt

gleefully smiling away her misery

for wilful chairs would find their fate

one way or another before too late

 

The leg was still there, you see

with all its perfect pedigree

for chairs cannot willingly swipe

common knowledge for those come a calling

easy to feign a missing leg

when a skirt can cover the chair’s malevolent slight

 

 

Twas it violence the pair was after

each eradicating the other's limb?

the chair could not hurt from a missing leg

but it's power could grow dim

and that was what the girl was after

a chair with lesser skill or whim

 

For the fortune guarded by the chair

was more than she had ever seen

inside this retched palace, on the banks of river gleaning

she, not shy of fortune’s hunt

nor knowledge there she might confront

 

a spider, a snail, and injured quail

all abiding that mercenary trail

to find the thing that shined most brilliant

a thousand times and a thousand million . . .

 

The chair covered its face again

from evil certainly not from pain

and roused another injurious whacking

until another leg was lacking

 

It would have been most wearisome,

had this contest reached faint of heart

a tantrum here

a tear jerk there,

but whilst among the treasonous, not fear

so it happened as the chair struck out

that all the furniture in the room

rhythmically and quietly did part

 

The little girl observed advances

and weighed herself fortune’s chances

the sofa shimmied from its place

the end table staked out its own space

drapes shook off their ornate grace

she blinked as her adversary conducted them apace

with an arm over a beguiled face

 

It now was time for her to strike

along with the others on her side . . .

a spider, a snail, an injured quail

all abiding that mercenary trail

to find the thing that shined most brilliant

a thousand times and a thousand million . . .

 

 

True to form, she, equipped and cool

rose from her seat to get that jewel

how could they think that she would blink

when faced with recovering that royal trink?

the chair arched its back, no little girl this

but a maiden and warrior

to pound them to fits

 

It’s you! the chair cried, to which she cooed, tis I

what legends spoke have come to pass

the great black spider spun from her sleeve

the snail unravelled and slithered across

gaining momentum its body it tossed and out from the shell

came a formidable hell

that injured quail, no wound did he suffer

it was all a fake for treasure sake

 

Give us the jewel! she declared

to the chair and the furniture

or I will make sure you stay where you are

for all eternity and more

 

I cannot get it, the chair lamented

the couch nodded and then relented

when out of a side door a large dog scruffed

grey and whiskery, ten hands from the floor, they sized

yet bound and crawling on furry tuff

 

The chair had known most assuredly

about this brazen child

smarter much than she looked

but not as smart as he

 

And he too rose taller and taller

drawing daggers from his arms

and fur along his legging

the quail and spider and snail cried out

it’s he – it is the retchling!

furry monster fanged and terror

around the room it clawed and struck

a king enchanted for its evil

now bade to conquer all who errored

 

 

So two legends faced each other

across that glowing room

while the great grey bound on four paws

watched the growing gloom

a mercenary warrior missioned to recover

a jewel perched in the large dog’s collar

fashioned and sparkling like no other

but difficult to grasp, you see

long ears to paws bound handily

 

The retchling stopped before the maiden

hair in helmet, arm on sword

it breathing smoke from open mouth

smiled wryly at the sight

of four soldiers poised and wondering

not certain how to end their lumbering

 

The dog came forward, do you not know?

how to whack a retchling, oh!

It trounced toward the quail and jerked

When retchling caught off guard,

The quail slid its claws to swipe

That taught rope broke, the dog did smirk

 

It craned its neck toward its collar

spilling magic to the fore

insects and birds grew in stature

when in the presence of magic spurned

the retchling near fainted and did holler

do you not do that!

too late, with large teeth scruffed

pulled the jewel from behind its gate

 

 

Give to the quail!

Give to the snail!

Give to the big black spider!

and tossed among them was the ruby

each hand and leg embedding power

until a hatchet it did form

to which the retchling careened and cajoled

never thinking their hands could hold

nor command a talisman

given from another land

 

 

Do you not know where we are from?

she in full and warrior armour, sung

the retchling snorted, from whence you came,

from whence you come

killing me cannot be done

 

Fortune led us on your trail

called out the mighty quail

and with the hatchet brought it down

solid on the retchling’s head

but the thing would not be dead

the spider and the snail did try

until the scruff gave out a sigh

and laughed a laugh so annoyingly fetching

are you all for real?

that you cannot whack a retchling?

 

Around around around they went

with all the furniture in tow

this way and fro

the room a scramble

a hob nodge and framble

end tables ended

sofas untended

until the maiden figured it out

the retchling had to bring its own ending

 

Forcing the hatchet into its grasp

By magic purse it forced to clasp

her snail and quail, her spider and spruffet

each sent a whack around its guffet

and the retchling, fur froth fangs and cockeye

bowed to end the bleeping shanghai

 

Whack me! it yelled and I’ll abide

hit with my fist it turns my thinking

and place me in a domicile

this time only I’ll take my side

but hear me you from an outside land

you’ll see me again and feel my hand!

 

Whack, whack, whack they hacked

until the retchling curled

for the thing it most detested

the notion it had not digested

was the innocent, incorrigible little girl

 

Armor pierced and morphed and spun

in all her cute regalia won

the little girl winked and smacked

the chair with another whack

Don’t you ever think you can

outsmart a quail, snail, a spider

no ordinary soldiers, they

but loyal vessels in my employ

faithful to end a retchling’s curse

and retrieve for me my magic purse

 

And the grey spruffet barked:

a spider, a snail, an injured quail

all abiding that mercenary trail

to find the thing that shined most brilliant

a thousand times and a thousand million . . .

to help the hound escape its bounds

to hunt the next a retchling found

 

Don’t touch me ever, the retchling soared

the thing on earth I most abhor

legend’s curse, a warrior’s might

in the head of curls and beauty sight

and it sized her up once more

terror in infancy

a horrible bore

this child raked from another place

two legends come and one disgraced

 

Strung out on the floor the retchling smacked

the furniture all spent and hacked

could not rearrange themselves to save

the thing the dog willingly gave

power could not be contrived

to change scruff back to mortal size

 

And so they left these guardians four

with jewel no longer seeking blind

a spider, a snail, an injured quail

on fortune’s hunt, one less to find

 

Where’s next? the little girl sang,

wiping her brow with a petite hand

any chair I see could be for me

but I’ll not be so fooled next

when I seek a seat to best

hankering for a precious jewel

I’ll know it’s trickery and jest

 

 

She laid a hand upon the scruff

chairs, you see, will goad and test

but the ones that are most worthwhile

would never a leg swipe or molest

for they are far too docile.

 

a spider, a snail, an injured quail

a princess enchanted behind a veil

a scruff rescued from its jail

now all abiding that mercenary trail

securing these things that shine most brilliant

each stolen by the retchlings’ minion

they walk the world and sail the sea

on through time and eternity

through a thousand steps and a thousand million . . .

Lorie Greenspan is publishing director at a Deerfield Beach, Florida, book publishing company. Her poems originally were inspired by the death in 2020 of her husband of twenty years, but have broadened to encompass the quirky thoughts that spring to mind from life’s transitions and occurrences. She has been published on the online poetry sites MONO, Your Fire, and GAS. Four of her poems have been composed into songs.