Joe Dolce: Two Poems

Bush Chinwag

Why do we assume birdsong profound?

Why don’t we grant birds the intelligence

to motor-mouth on,

and be as superficial as us?

Those two Rosellas, chirping back and fro,

could be discussing the bright blue feather,

of Esmerelda, a Fairywren, just flown

in, for a visit, escaping weather,

sporting the latest plumage, fashionable on the Strait.

The Cicada babble might be debate

as to whether that far off rumble means rain,

or commentary on the latest pain-

in-the arse, full-of-himself dolt

emerging from his final moult.

The Willie Wagtail, perched there,

on the side of the FJ Cruiser mirror,

peering at himself, peering back—

could be whistling, with pleasure (or lack),

at his most recent narcissistic inspection.

Birdsong might be no more than a crazy collection,

of radio frequencies, gossip, news, recipes,

weather report, political opinion and philosophies,

well-seasoned with dollops of flirts,

not to mention scream and rant over perceived hurts.

Why do we assume birdsong profound?

Why don’t we grant birds the intelligence

to motor-mouth on,

and be as superficial as us?

Joe Dolce

Prost

May you live to be a hundred years with one extra year to repent.
—Irish toast

Let us lower our glasses.

To the grumbletonians and ultracrepidarians;

mugwumps engaged in jargoyled trumpery,

zwoddered cockalorums and snollygosters,

purveyors of twaddle and fudgel,

callipygian lanspesados,

(exuding shivviness),

in elflock and groke.

Let us lower our glasses.

To adversaries.

May they overcome chronic dysania,

to expire in crapulous throes

of hubris and hum durgeon.

Joe Dolce