Eight Poems by Rustin Larson

 

Lions, 1974

In Africa they have their organized

patterns of hunting and community--

a grunt in the magical night,

the icy stars. I lie awake

listening to the lions in the dark,

the neighbor's security light

neutralized by black-out curtains.

I live near the zoo. I hear the lyre

birds call. I hear the lions mate

languidly in their enclosures.

This isn't Hemingway's savanna

in Kenya, although all around

me my neighbors oil their guns

and keep them ready.

The moon is bright over the city.

It's an avatar sleeping in a hammock.

I hear the neighbor's 1970 Super Bee

pull in, early Sunday morning, its

hemi engine intake peering above

its orange hood like a fat

many-eyed periscope. I can hear

my parents snoring and I am envious

of their unconsciousness. I will

not sleep, but will listen

to Tales of Topographic Oceans

on headphones. When light comes,

when the sun makes it so,

I will sleep.

Yogi

I carved a whistle

from cheddar cheese

and played Clare de Lune.

A yogi never dies

said the yogi.

I carved a clarinet

from a bright orange carrot.

Not only is Rock'n'Roll

here to stay,

it will never go hungry,

smarter than the average bear.

Standing in line

at Misty's Malt Shop

behind four people

who look stupefied.

I ask. I swear they say

yes, so I cut the line.

Wuttya think you're doing?

The woman is a lioness

of the breaded tenderloin.

My mistake. I hold

my hands up in surrender.

My eyes go on

a honeymoon

with each other.

Her husband is frightened

of my celery

colored shirt.

The room screams

“STRANGER!”

It's a Saturday

in Ruby Red

at the crook in the river.

I fart and pat the trash

receptacle and quietly wait

my turn, thinking hunger

is overrated.

2025

I acknowledge the year

has only a few weeks

to live. It's a lock of hair

that keeps falling over my

eyes so people call

me Captain Oatmeal

wherever I go. My therapist

today is a maple tree. It

houses the soul of a monk.

It celebrates full moon nights

with a shushing silence.

In daylight, it is an airport

for sparrows. They

come, they go. At 1:20 in

the afternoon my body still

remembers this is nap time

for three-year-olds. I never

knew if I was any con-

sequence to NASA or the

government, but I think Disney

had a stake in my attention

as a consumer of animated

motion pictures, or live action

starring Dean Jones and

That Darn Cat. I packed

my mother's travel kit with

Kleenex as she left me in

the care of our Boston Terrier

whose name smacked of

tea parties and massacres,

and I trusted Walt Disney as my surrogate dad.

Two Hours 'Til Midnight

My daughters are in

the living room, communicating.

Let's face it. They are all

pushing 40, right? Peppermint.

Come off the bench. Lemon.

Vishnu Sahasranam. I am Licorice

going to the duck show,

duck show, duck show,

on a Yamaha! Hit by the pitch

and hit like that, bang, bang.

Orange roughy or God

baked potato? A turkey canoe?

I remember1983. Pass the gravy please,

Uncle Jed, Dr. Root Beer float.

The winning run was in position,

game 5, 10^th inning, tied 2-2.

It's gotta be fair

to the peas in the green pod.

And it's all edible. My second

daughter says she once dreamed

about being trampled by cows.

The cows were stomping down

the basement staircase. What

a terrible dream. There is

a yellow praying mantis watching

me from my bookshelf.

Yellow Praying Mantis

came from nowhere, now

is here, meditating upon me,

tilting its yellow head.

Driving home, a rainbow

ahead, a few miles off.

Where does it begin?

Where does it end?

What happened?

I drove to the store for Ibuprofen,

Zyrtec, bananas and blueberries.

Everyone behaved peacefully.

Sleepy kitty buries

his head in my wife's

pillow. It's the first really cold

night of autumn.

Groundhog stands at the basement window

with his little hands

pressed against the glass.

Fish

Fish may feel pleasure,

fish may feel pain.

Fish may feel confusion

as they circle down the drain.

October Something or Other 2025

After breakfast, that cat

decided to go right and not

left down the path as usual.

Why? The trees are coloring

yellow and red. I'm in my

private classroom for 66 year

old kindergartners. I'll have

tea instead of milk and cookies,

but I'll still have nap time

to soft music

and the distant sounds of earth

excavators building roads

for a tract of new houses.

There was a baptism last

Sunday my wife tells me.

She searches for something

yellow to wear. It is

the day we clothe ourselves

in sunlight.

1965

My mother trained

the philodendrons

to run along the ceiling

near the tin clock

that ticked like a black

and yellow sun.

*

I drink orange juice

from a red plastic

cowboy boot.

*

A yellow mongrel

saunters down the tar road

looking for children

to play.

*

I eat buttered toast

and grape jelly.

The moose puppet on TV

wants me to pay attention.

A bientot! Okay?

I pull on my brown coat,

put on my black rubber

boots and walk to school

over the glowing blue

snow.

Rustin Larson's writing spans poetry and prose, with his work appearing in notable publications such as The New Yorker, The Iowa Review, North American Review, and Poetry East. He has published several collections, including "Crazy Star," which was selected for the Loess Hills Book’s Poetry Series in 2005, and "Selected Later Poems," released by Cyberwit.net. His recent collection, "Red Wing," showcases his ability to blend the past, present, and future in a unique narrative style.