Photo by Jayson Hinrichsen (Pexels)
Photo by Jayson Hinrichsen (Pexels)
William Ross
YODA LOOKS FOR LOVE
In a galaxy remote, or so the poet wrote, he travelled
with a man from Mandalore.
In a swamp on Dagobah, Luke Skywalker he saw. He
taught the boy about the Jedi code.
Princess Leia was a human, with skin just like albumen,
and hair in lovely buns above her ears.
But he barely reached her knee, so their love was
not to be; his little heart’s been aching all these years.
Now his planet’s sundered, and he’s going on
nine hundred. He’s looking for a lady, short and green.
He’s sending out a vibe that he’s looking for his tribe
and hopes a lady hears what that would mean:
For who will love you only, when you’re sad and lonely,
Yoda lady, Yoda lady, who?
PLAN B
Let’s go incognito—
sign up for witness protection,
get new noses and a bungalow
in the middle of nowhere.
I’ll get a job where you stare
at a computer all day. You could
stay home and clean the house.
Or wear a wig. Hand out
perfume samples to ladies grazing
the department store.
I’ll buy power tools
and make knick-knacks out of wood.
At night we’ll sit in front of the TV
and watch until we fall asleep.
Enough of this wasted life
being ripped superheroes,
beating up criminals using our
superpowers, saving our country
from the devious plots of
terrorist cabals and evil aliens
bent on the destruction of the world.
Let’s get a real life.
TIME TRAVEL
Lying on moss-coloured clouds,
eyes closed and drifting,
I travel back half-a-million years
to a river’s edge,
the lush forest echoing with bird song.
A high-pitched whine makes my jaw vibrate,
stirring a memory.
I can see my reflection, the fur-clad
hominid, rippling back from the water.
I put my agile fingers in my mouth
and wiggle a loose tooth.
The bloody tooth comes away
and I throw it in the river.
Lush ferns dance in the wind,
the river makes its running-water sound
as a woman’s voice floats down from
the blinding light overhead:
Can you sit up now and swish?
PLOT DU JOUR
Main course on the flight today is
a mélange of locally shredded morals
roasted to irresistible perfection
on a steaming bed of sweetened lies,
drizzled with a soupçon
of the chef’s height-of-arrogance reduction
and slow-cooked in zesty conspiracy theory
for twelve hours with constant
stirring up of resentment and the addition
of fragrant excuses.
Sides include glazed facts infused with
a velvety topping of nut-based drivel.
BET ON THE LITTLE GUY
the odds are against us
not a fair fight when
tiny flies fuzz about
rope-a-doping us
our eyes barely follow
the loopy dancing
while their giant compound eyes
bird-dog us
big galumphing buffoons
telegraphing our jabs
they swerve and swoop
around our flailing arms
land on eyelids for a second
then away again
we slap ourselves on the head
imagine them laughing
William Ross is a Canadian writer and visual artist living in Toronto. His poems have appeared in Rattle, The New Quarterly, Humana Obscura, Bicoastal Review, New Note Poetry, Underscore Magazine, Amethyst Review, Bindweed Magazine Anthology, Topical Poetry, Heavy Feather Review, Passionfruit Review, Anti-Heroin Chic, *82 Review, and Alluvium.