Charms & Knots (A Book of Original Verse)

Part I: Plato’s Pigeon Hole

Part II: Aristotle’s Remainder

Part III: Anthology of Moons & Other Nouns

Dedicated To: The Late Kenneth Hovey, Former Associate Professor of English, University Of Texas San Antonio.  The cover pictures is of Abby (b. April 20, 1991 & d. April 2 2004).

Who read a Chapter, when they rise,

Shall ne're be troubled with ill eyes.

--George Herbert

Revised version December 2009/June 2016

 Part I

Plato's Pigeon Hole

Sonnet Sonnet

If all things have a Form as Plato thought

Then there would be a poem’s Form as well,

And though we’d be but shadows still we ought

To know the Form such theory would compel.

How so?  Unless mere babbling, verses need

An object to address. If we used more

Than four lines we’d be wordy.  We’d impede

Precision having fewer--back to four.

For those same reasons four lines each should do

The exploration of the object and

The options.  Endings sum up, thus demand

The brevity of splitting four in two.

Such lines all add up fourteen and would be

A Sonnet as the Form of poetry.

Partus Dei (Chang)

God took a risk with Mary.  Women’s eggs

Can duplicate, can deviate.  What if

Hers had produced an extra Jesus?  Just

Superfluous atonement?  Or would a

More sinister religion have emerged?

Would hypocrites have double testaments

From which to pick and choose as circumstance

Required?   Would good men follow separate Christs

Unless by chance Christs were conjoined, too.  Then

Could Christs have chased the money changers or

Hung on a cross in such a form?  If not,

Could Christs be split?  If so, could Christs be cloned?

Could that be why Ascension took away

From further science all the DNA?

Partus Dei (Eng)

As wombs can deviate was there a chance

Of twins when God became a man?  Could there

Have been a needless God-Man born or just

An extra portion of atonement?  Could

Two Christs have said the same upon the Mount?

(If so, who plagiarized?  If not, whose was

The proper speech?  Could God in either case

Be right and wrong?)  Could two have led the same

Disciples?  Sixty silver pieces then?

Could Peter have denied both?  If they'd been

Conjoined could one cross hold?  Divide them?  If

Divisible were they then clonable?

Could that be why Ascension took away

From further science all the DNA?

Pieta

In Rome I have seen Christ himself laid out
Across his mother’s lap. His gentle face
Displays no evil. Everything about
Him signals justice, purity and grace.

His mother, too, convinces in the way
She holds her child just crucified. Her eyes
Speak volumes more than lips alone could say
As she caresses God and man and cries.

There must of course be something quite profound
In art that speaks so well, that moves one when
It neither moves itself nor makes a sound.

It must of course unsettle thinking men

To see stone wearing piety — if it
Convinces, how much more the hypocrite?

Mummy Sonnet

Nobody someone, neither good nor ill,

I was unseen, a mediocrity

Of flesh that showed no depth or wisdom till

Embalmers shared their scholarship with me.

I took their gift.  Why not?  I did as they

Would have me do, let them rewrap me, and

Endured the drastic changes at their hand.

Finished, they put their instruments away

And left their masterpiece.  Though nothing saw

Me living, yet now vermin even will

Investigate me, wondering in awe

Along a Nile of bile my innards spill

Who made (and when) this old, decaying sphinx

And who can crack the riddles that it thinks.

Church Sonnet

What motives might entice such different kinds
To gather briefly in a Sunday mass?
Perhaps in such ephemeral crowds are minds
Drawn by the Holy Spirit, the stained glass,

The sacred music and the homily.
Perhaps some broken hearted people come
In search of explanations. Possibly
Some come in fear of brimstone — maybe some

Are children who don’t always sleep at night
Because of Hell. Perhaps some others burn
Quite differently and mingle where they might

Find mates or status or a little turn

At good, warm Sunday spirits where it’s fine
For even drunks to have a little wine.

Surgeon Sonnet

Of all the arts the kindest surely must

Be medicine.  It suffers no disease.

It heals impairments, mends deformities

And lessens pain, embarrassment, disgust.

Behold the wretched cripple.  Surely he

Would have his limbs cut up and remade good.

Behold poor twins tied Siamese.  They would

Of course bisect a monstrous unity.

Behold the beasts both foul and pretty, too.

They’d surely be reskinned so they could be

Lords of the Earth.  Behold the Maker.  He,

Too, has our face and frame.  It’s generous to

Wield knives therefore at what does not conform

When God, freaks, animals all want our norm.

Dead Coward’s Sonnet

His live feet, too, were cold.  Perhaps behind

Experience lurked things he could not see

Including perils hid beyond the mind.

Trapped in his head, he acted carefully.

For though myopic, still he wisely knew

That if an organ or a limb were lost

There would be none made new.  He had to do

As those unsure of risk but sure of cost.

He saw his proof in Nature, too.  The rat

Would sniff before it bit.  The mole would not

Live eyeless in the light.  The fiercest cat

Would pick the weakest zebra of a lot.

The worm liked caution, too.  Less risk was bound

To leave a more pristine piece underground.

God Loves A Garden

We lend our dogwoods' yearly stage of white

Now to our little band of daffodils

Whose golden trumpets sway from left to right

In annual concert as our green hall fills

With nibbling rabbits come to hear as well

Our towhee divas sing a little spell.

Too, bumblebees come savoring our parts,

Our visual and culinary arts,

To see and lick our canvases they find

Displayed about in brilliant colors round

Our galleries that we have been so kind

To raise from what was once mere weedy ground.

God loves a garden!  Thus we've no regret

For little lives we chopped in hoeing it.

Sonnet On Genius

What has no depth upon reflection when

Upon reflection nothing has amazed

Us?  (How’s it possible Jehovah raised

Creation from a void?)  Mere trifles then

Are deep by their own terms by being more

Than nothing.  Thus, mere dust mites have to be

Profounder than the void’s profundity.

Thus, on reflection even an old door

Knob turns with physics and geometry

As complex as nine planets and a star

Employ.  Why, even shallow verses are

Deep on reflection--all words have to be

Profound when even tiny strokes of ink

Are deep by their own terms when people think.

Sonnet On Soundness

A road's unbalanced briefly--soon we grow

A callus underfoot that cushions or

The texture changes or it doesn't so

We redefine the thoughts we had before

And smooth them out regardlessly.  Although

Quite shocked, we only briefly may deplore

New notions as unbalanced--they'll soon go

Into the annals of quaint history or

Live realigning thought so our minds are

Thus balanced either way.  Order's maintained

And equilibrium's thus foreordained

It seems.  If so, if nothing falters far,

Of course it follows no man's truly mad

Unless off kilter only by a tad.

Abomination Sonnet

Although it may at first seem strange to read

Carved altars are abominable to God,

The verity of this is plain indeed

Upon reflection.  Foolish priests! It's odd

You clerics would attempt a better rock

Than God Himself created in the field

When chisels of a man could not unlock

A better form.  Blasphemers, He's revealed

Himself in all His Work. No mortal's hand

Should vandalize His Labors or redo

Their message.  Preachers, God is telling you

He doesn't err, His rocks don't need help and

Those "different" kinds of people you would slay

Were made to "deviate" in such a way.

Sonnet On Omniscience

Omniscience is a wondrous thing.  It must

Intoxicate to know Pi's digits to

The end and negative square roots discussed

But never grasped by men, to know all, too,

The numbers of celestial bodies and

Their endless complex movements, to have known

Its riddle long before the Sphinx found sand

To crouch upon in Egypt, and alone

To know where past and future hide.  It would

Be wonderful--yet awful knowing all

The joys of every vice and crime.  Lord, should

I suffer that vast knowledge, that downfall,

I'd nail myself upon Golgotha, too,

As punishment for filthy things I knew.        

Testament

Though never chosen my executor,

Time has cremated moments of me with

No grief or rites.  I do therefore appoint

Each present self instead to handle each

Estate of me just past and each allied

Ephemeral corpse.  Although like Time each may

Consign to pyres its corpses, too, I ask

That some be stuffed at times to prop around

To grieve, to mock, to ponder, to instruct,

To decorate, to keep a history of

Me, to experiment--would all arise

At Resurrection for example?  Stuffed,

Such bodies should of course be kept just where

They fell so one preserves the proper air.

Grief

The chant grows louder in some minor key,

Dark evidence the circle's soon complete,

Suggesting the procession's nearing me

Again--There are the thousand shuffling feet!

Black hooded heads hang down.  I cannot see

A single face as they come creeping back.

They snarl all other movement, trapping me

In a melee of sackcloth, tears and black.

Their awful spectacle disturbs a rook

Abode each time.  The wailing black birds swarm

And cast a screaming shadow as they look

Below at that horrific slinking form

Of endless mourning circling round and round

While you sleep still, my Daddy, underground.

Bubble Sonnet

Godlike I blew soap bubbles as a boy

From my small pipe.  The First Cause thus of their

Existence, their First Mover, I’d enjoy

My spheres, my little bodies in the air--

Till I grew and diminished.  Then to me

There seemed no joy in snatching any breeze

Jehovah in the first days had set free

To close it up in cages such as these.

Instead it seemed fool hubris to believe

Such fleeting cells that barely held within

A breath were something wondrous to achieve.

Growth pares!  From baby days where we begin

Divine in little heads, we shrink as we

Grow down to man from what we used to be.

Crusades

What first distinguished man?  Fire and the wheel

Are common answers though the facts reveal

A third distinction one should not conceal:

Crusades.  Though some omit this third tool, we’ll

Examine it.   In a crusade, the backs

Of others (not wheels) move ambition.  Blacks,

Another’s wine, most anything that lacks

Defense will do.  Though not fire, it attacks

By using others’ fuel.  A parasite,

It leaps from host to host, is only bright

Consuming others to the point it might

Move worlds around.  It’s thus a tool that’s right

For easy heavy lifting.  With its aid,

Fools shine and therefore love a good crusade.

Rule Of Gold

As Faith is measured by itself alone,

It follows true believers have to hold

Creeds whether they are rational or prone

To the absurd or both.  Therefore the Gold

Rule's reasoned and unreasoned.  Christians do

As they'd be treated.  Thus, as they would be

Delighted at the chance to give alms, too,

Good Christians take their neighbor's charity.

As they'd be grateful for correction when

They err themselves, they will therefore chastise

Their neighbors.  As they recognize that men

Have no more constant neighbor, they likewise

Fall for the Devil, too, lest they condemn

Themselves for loving neighbors less than them.

A Hindu On Purusa

Can moderns contradict us Hindus who

Believe some primal man was carved up and

Then sacrificed in parts that formed the land,

The sea, the heavens, and the living, too?

His mouth made priests? His mind the morn?  His two

Arms princes? Eyes the sun? His thighs the band

Of common folk? His mouth fire?  His breath fanned

First winds?  His feet made serfs?  Can this be true?

Since instruments don't prove such things, since we

Perceive no unperceived and must hold thus

Experimental science ends with us,

The "primal" by our own terms, too, must be

Some first mind which is primal man before

Terms carved him up to make him something more.

Razing Babel

In simpler times a single tongue served as

A single handle on a broader world,

A single inventory of the means

To praise a multifaceted Divine.

In simpler times a single king sat throned,

A single hunter wearing Adam's skins

That claimed one sovereignty unchallenged of

Both man and beast without conflict of laws.

In simpler times a single way rose up

Unto the Heavens, a single tower men

Devised with one geometry and built

With proper symmetry of form until

God's thunderbolts, O Nimrods now and then,

Roared God will have diversity in men.

The Elect

Take that long-suffering slave:  if she instead

Were master, could descent dissent and shed

Vile arrogance slaves shirk and in its stead

Renounce that life that life inherited?

Take that starved, broken pauper:  if instead

Of life so harsh he often would be dead

He had a fuller purse, was fuller fed

Would he have known to offer paupers bread?

Take that queer soul who's “different”:  if instead

He'd turned out “normal” would he think a dead

Queer's better than a live one, too, and spread

Intolerance majorities have bred?

Is this not Grace?  Spared from such tests as these,

Has God not favored his minorities?

Looking Back

Though brief, sometimes when shaving I

            See someone different in

The glass--an altered eye or mouth,

            A varied brow or chin.

Sometimes my voice will resonate

            A different way, will sound

Just briefly like some other's from

            Some memory.  I've found

Presumptuous ideas that

            I've never had still yet

Seem somehow intimate.  As man,

            Christ also had I'd bet

Such moments and (like Buddha) said

            Samsara's in the head.

God's Hide

A million eyes that watched a universe

At once of present, past and future as

A million mouths at once spoke and performed

All present, past and future speech acts, and

A million arms with thunderbolts and blades

That wreaked their justice through all time at once

Borne on a million legs that bolted joined

In all directions after evil and

A million noble thoughts and boundless love

Mixed with a million sins omniscience must

In perfect, awful clarity teem would

Have overwhelmed Golgotha had God failed

To hide such awful things the day He died

Upon His Cross behind a human hide.

Zeno Phobia

With flawless logic Zeno bowed to proof

He could not eat a meal while it was hot

(Since moving spoons would put spoons where they're not,

A contradiction of such wares).  Aloof

In flawless logic Zeno bowed to proof

He couldn’t win a race however hot

The chase (since endless points on lines cannot

Be crossed as needed to advance).  Aloof

In flawless logic Zeno bowed to proof

He could not doff his cloak when he was hot

(Since it was where it was and thus could not

Be elsewhere, too, in doffing it).  Aloof

In perfect sense and nonsense, he betrayed

The fool who merely did as grammar said.

Buddha Sonnet

A band of oriental children played

By some stream's bend.  There they'd build in the sands

Small castles.  Their tired sweaty little hands

Would implement there plans small heads had made.

They finished.   With much effort they surveyed

There their small group of structures.  All works raised

Were judged and by such means babes damned or praised

Their builders who were vigilant, afraid

Their efforts might be crushed.  Therefore with care

Each guarded his own feat and physically

Defended it from feet that carelessly

Might trample work a builder must repair.

Then dark fell.  Then the children ran home and

Abandoned to the night such heaps of sand.

Sonnet Proving Grace

A country-club wife gives some wealth

            Her husband earned to prove

Herself.  A crippled old maid would

            Give her own could she move.

A monk who'd never had the chance

            To steal dies feeling blessed.

An unkept thief who's lived outside

            Dies feeling he's unblessed.

A writer who has never seen

            A bloody field of war

Dies proud of his brave words.  In shame

            A soldier flees real gore.

God's tests aren't standardized.  As He

            Is Moral, Grace must be.

Athenaeum

Apparently club members were just here--

Their fold-up chairs remain though they've gone home.

They've placed another hieroglyphic tome

Within their athenaeum.   Here I hear

They've expertise and stories stored in sheets

One cannot read yet--what's the meaning in

Such awful pictogramming as blue teats,

A sunken eye, a spot upon the chin

Or teeth clinched so and so?   Yet there are spines

With more wear than the others which suggests

Good reading if the hieroglyphic lines

Prove readable one day.  Thus, club and guests

Pray Champollions will come again who may

Decipher what for now is tucked away.

Cycle Of Months

    March

My calendar's first page was Springtime's, too.

Though Caesar's last, both Spring and I marked there

Our first month when we both emerged a pair,

I crying first the elder of the two.

That month three things (at least) something made new

(I, Spring and twins) from nothing more than air,

A Genesis beyond pure reason where

From naught new triplets (four things?) it withdrew.

Nor was there any lesser sorcery

In fixing essences then christened "me"

And "them" in those chaotic winds of March

Or in the faith somehow we would remain

Despite the permutations and the pain

Implicit in the terms of life's death march.

    April

Once live, the novel being had to stir.

Its essence was to shoot some tendrils out,

Imparting thus the motion which without

It would have not been quick but dead.  There were

Implicit in a novel character

As well those buds that soon formed on each sprout

And, too, the blooms since being comes about

Through self-expression.  Having to occur

In such an essence, buds came out to show

Themselves when every living thing must go

To Canterbury brandishing its tale

And playing simultaneously the fool

Away from home those first days at life's school

Too early for degrees, to pass, or fail.

   May

There were some weeks of may be that seemed time

When anything was possible, when we

Had form enough (we thought) few goals could be

Beyond our reach if we would only climb.

It was intoxicating, was sublime

To stand before the canvas feeling free

To plan a thousand masterpieces--we

Weren't wedded to a single paradigm.

It was therefore the time to dance around

Its poles to show the many ways we wound

(Or would or could) the world of some hot May.

It was therefore the time to do the same

For the intoxication of a game

That palliated fears of come what may.

    June

When night was in retreat, when day was in

A chariot parading victory,

I put on laurels, too.  I had to be

One of the victors Right assured would win.

For as Day's subject (not as Dark's) within

Life, I submitted to Light's sovereignty

With Proper Logic.  Music!  Poetry!

By my own terms, I was Apollo's twin

Although I shadowed from his Light risks run

When mortals proudly took on too much Sun

(Like Phaethon and Icarus who'd found

A son is not a Sun when one in flame

Crashed felled by Jupiter, when one in shame

Plunged head first, pigeon feathers swirling round.) 

   July And August

Lord in fee simple now, I walked the field

With compass in my hand as I surveyed

The boundaries the season's seisin made

Anticipating harvests we would yield.

I was quite busy.  Time awake I kneeled

To pull the timid "weeds", to take the spade

To the more stubborn ones, to take a blade

To prune "good plants" and carve up fruit. I peeled,

I was quite busy, had not noticed there

Was weathering, was gradual wear and tear

Upon the aging leaves of my fig tree.

I was quite busy, had not noticed light's

Stealthy retreat before the front of night's

Advance that nipped at Summer's "victory."

   September

Though Reason legislated still, Mind met

Its edges.  Jurisdiction's giving way

By such a Change thus left some answers gray

Through laws' conflict or absence.  Strange regret--

Though days were warm, though blossoms opened yet,

Though trees still wore their leaves and birds the way

They'd dressed since Spring and kept good makeup, they

Were trembling underneath faced with the threat

Of bolder shadows now, dark demons that

Were making more of Time their habitat.

Black aliens had left some place of birth

To aid the treason of a Harvest Moon

That mocked the Sun in brilliance planning soon

To rule Night's new majority on Earth.

           

   October and November

Although the Sun no longer shone supreme,

Reality remained unshattered--there

Was only need to tweak belief somewhere

For faith to work again and thus redeem

Us.  Faced with data that at first might seem

To contradict our systems, our repair

Was Bacchus.  He explained the dim affair

Of Fall: God's more than Mind.  To fix our scheme

We concentrated on the grape instead

Of vineyards now the leaves were withered, dead

Upon the barren, stripped and humbled vine.

We gave up blind devotion to a Sun

That fled as fast as Autumn shades had run

To find more stable warmth and light in wine.

           

   December

Awash in Black too awful to abide

By drink alone, we tweaked our faith to find

Implicit in that way we had defined

Our Dionysus pleasures yet untried.

We turned thus to a spit where we had tied

A family pig (whose foolish, simple mind

Had thought us kin) above some coals to wind.

There alchemy made pork from pig.  We tried

To feast away light's famine feeling more

Slaked till Persephone opened a door

Below to plunge to Winter's habitat

And loosed an awful draft.  The cold that burst

Through, froze us to the bone.  Being the first

Hard freeze, most other life it touched fell flat.

    January

As I had thought it first the Highest Good,

I was betrayed by Reason's perjuries

Before I was by more mendacities

Of Sense.  In disbelief, I freezing stood

Without the luxury of time.  I could

Just warm me now.  Without complexities

Of Thought or Feast, forgetting both of these,

I turned to Fire.  I offered Vulcan wood

And kept the rough god's altar in the grate

Lit constantly.  I would ingratiate

Myself with him within that present when

(Although in theory rendered two faced) I

Could hardly think too forward to the cry

Of wolves that scavenged in the city then.           

   February

Bizarre--a rap I'd never heard before

Awoke me.  I pulled my blue blanket round

To quit the fire, investigate the sound.

It was the North Wind tapping at the door.

Bizarre--the wrap, blue blanket that I wore,

Whose was it?  Had some owner's vermin found

Its covers first?  I dropped it to the ground.

Some novel knocking proved the North Wind's roar.

I took an inventory of my box

Of deeds and gold then re-secured the locks.

I heard strange knocks. I checked the door. Wind did

Such things I learned.  My blue quilt warmed me when

I found some old locked box.  Whose was it?  Then

Beside the fire I heard strange knocks and hid.

Ponce’s Fountain Of Youth

An old conquistador by queer

            Twist cursed he’d undergone

The very change a bold career

            Had wildly set upon

And shed himself a baby tear

            Lamenting age withdrawn

            Too soon. He wailed

Maturity’s a thin veneer--

            May seem thick going on

Till wear shows round the median year,

            Till more and more is gone,

Till drooling gummies reappear,

            Till diapers come back on

            Too soon. He wailed.

Part II

Aristotle's Remainder

The Form is in the thing?

Then any way we sing

Is Formal.

I Went Away To World

I went away to World

As boys are called to do

To banners they unfurled

And diagrams they drew.

Beneath the plate and male

Myself I never knew.

I fought to never fail

As proper soldiers do--

Till duty's done,

The battle's won

And armor's in a stack

So day can show

No soul we know

As bones come walking back.

He Holds Himself Wiser

He holds himself wiser

Than those who hoard instead,

Their gold, their stock, their bread.

Yet Learned Man's a miser

Of thoughts piled in his head--

Although it's rarely said,

Despite the life he's led,

His brain's fertilizer

As soon as he is dead.

What Need Has God Of Man’s Army

What need has God of Man's Army

With powers such as His are? Me

I find it quite extremely odd

That some kill in the name of God--

What mortal aid could He require?

They say He set the Sun on fire.

Impetuous Trees?

Though countless centuries

Would counsel no, instead

Fool and thoughtless trees

Will torch their leaves in red

To warm the Autumn's chills

With no thought in their head

Of Winter's lurking ills.

Passing

There's much I passed

Along the way.

I passed in every chase.

I'd come in last

Were I to stray.

I passed at every place.

I passed the notes

That commerce took.

I passed up other kinds.

I passed with votes

I thought it took

To please the proper minds.

I passed on me.

I passed as them.

And time passed on as well.

I passed away.

They passed me down.

Some passed my stone. It fell.

Branches

How can I doubt you, Darwin?  My

            Own two evolved eyes see

That like the primates I too sleep

            In trees--mahogany

Or oak or pine or maple make

            Fine poster beds for me.           

Doubles

By sleight our site, our sight

Are multiplied till quite

Confounded.  We are out

Yet in and cringe about

The strain of double place.

Across the room our face

Appears quite boring while

A man attempts to smile

To cover up a yawn--

Yet we have also gone

(Though never moved) where we

Are better noted.  She

Hangs on each sentence, word,

Reflects on all she’s heard ....

And so and so and so

Our doubles’ numbers grow

More more we go out.  We

Meet us more frequently.

We cross us in the street.

In trains, in crowds we meet

Our reputations who

Are circulating, too.

Of A Carolina Queen

Waft vessel,

Rote vassal,

Of a Carolina Queen,

A winged burr

Dusts flowers

For amber alchemy.

 A Pauper's Plot

Though late, his fee has sprung--

His bones are dressed

And now he'll rest

With gentry he's among.

To A Grey Rock On Tempe Butte

Old rock I've stooped to take away

That Nature's cuniformed,

I wish Rosettas, too, informed

Me what your markings say.

Our Alumni

We yearly graduate

Another class of selves

Expanding our alumni

We catalogue on shelves.

Time’s Lesson

What does time Teach?

Those who can, Do.

Those who can't, Preach.

I Took Their Dose

I took their dose

Of awful prose.

Was blinded, quiet,

Stunted by it,

Wasting slow away

Till Byron, nurse,

Injected verse,

And Virgil sobered me

And Pushkin made,

With Dante's aid,

A poet's remedy--

Now clean, I lack

A monkeyed back!

Regress I'll never do!

Sobriety's

The way for me--

I bid their prose adieu!

         Five Ways

(Or A Poet's Thomas) 

            i

When sinners pitch their piece

In God's communion plate,

The chain of motions cease

With God they'd contemplate--

Else endless motion's done

And that could never be--

No push could ever reach

The pennies here we see.

Hah! Copper's in the bowl,

With clangs we all can hear,

And God we can't deny

Has started motions here!

            ii

As man is made between his sheets

And chickens in a shell,

The universe itself repeats

A need to hatch as well--

Else endless mating's done

And that could never be--

Though some might find it fun,

It'd be debauchery.

Hah! Birds are in their nest,

Their clucks we all can hear,

And god we can't deny

Has started breeding here!

iii

If not a must, we've only may

And lay would do as will,

So God must be if we're to say

That lay must fill the till.

If not a must, we've only may

And lay might never be,

And yet we've ever got our lay--

Ergo Divinity.

iv

We know a noble's better than

A common wife or working man,

While plainest bishops rank a priest

And popes are still the better beast--

Yet were no God to meter men,

They'd all be just a citizen.

v

The world we see is wound!

A watch of sky and ground!

It's plainly some design

When every sinner seen

Is someone churches fine

When coffers are too lean!

A Poet's Kant

Now we must punish all of those

            Who do some evil act--

It's just what everybody knows.

            We've morals. It's a fact.

His fires we need or some won't pay

            So evil proves there's God--

Though fools would think the other way

            and call the Prussian odd.

A Poet's Anselm

Saint Anselm here's a thought for you:

            God's greater if He's not

For then it's clear He didn't do

            The evils that we've got?

Root Reversal

To roots I tap the sky--

And they must wonder why

I'm turned around

From solid ground

Unplanted till I die.

Faith In God And Me

Is Self in skin or in the bone

Or flowing in a vein

Or in the breath or vocal tone

Or in some folds of brain?

I've never found it anywhere

I've stopped to look and see,

And yet I've never doubted where

Faith rescues God and Me.

Mystery In Communion?

There's mystery in Communion?  "Dine"

Means making flesh from bread

And making blood from drafts of wine--

Just turn round what He said.

They’d Call Him Ill

They'd call him ill who frets the sight

Of mountains in a heap

Or chaos in the starry night

Or fish bumps in the deep.

And yet it's sane to fret about

A bit of chaos where

One's hat is smudged, one's crease is out,

One's comb has missed some hair?

We Look And Speak As He Would Do

We look and speak as He would do

And yet we've kept our freedom, too?

Despite the words He forced on us

At Eden and in Babel's fuss

And though we're imaged same they say

God gave us freedom anyway?

Multi-Widower Of Me

I am a Multi-Widower.

Each present half of me

I lose upon the nonce, inter

In endless graves.  My plea,

O Lord, when You at last return--

The only hope I see--

Is You'll raise from each grave and urn

The many Dead of Me.

The Flood

I'd never wash away a World

            For then I'd long to know

The treasures lost, the poets swirled,

            The musics muted so

And wonder over friends I'd miss

            And tales they'd never share--

Instead of washings harsh as this,

            I'd spot clean here and there.

 

If Number Stopped At One

If Number stopped at One

All Counting would be done

As soon as It's begun--

A Tidy Bundle spun.

But God gave Two and Three--

Untidy Sums that Free.

For Clough

Whenever I would codify

            The tablets shatter quick

Beneath the weight the words imply

            Despite the terms I pick--

            To God alone we yield

(but as the Code's revealed).

            No graven image praise

(except this code we raise).

            No swearing in His name

(except a legal claim).

            No work the seventh day

(but do what tablets say).

            Give parents deference

(though the code has precedence).

            No man should ever kill

(except as tablets will).

            Don't have another's mate

(until courts liberate).

            No men should ever steal

(though bargain as they feel).

            To covet is a vice

(except where there's a price).

            No man should ever lie

(except to codify).

The Devil Reads His Bible, Too

The Devil reads His Bible, too,

            And has His own Degree

In what the Scriptures hold as True

            And what's Iniquity.

"Abominate!" He'll saintly scold

            And then apply the Flog

While counting Interest on His Gold

            And roasting up His Hog.

He threatens Slaves who'd run away

            With horrid flames of Hell

And cites what Paul and Peter say

            (Yet Exodus won't tell).

To hide Himself or flame a crowd

            He'll gladly bait a Jew

By shouting John and Acts aloud

            (Yet Jesus was one, too).

And if the mortals in His way

            Are women there as well,

Some Timothy He'll quickly say

            (Galatians He won't tell).

And if He's gratified by pain

            Inflicted on a child

He'll sing Proverbs in sweet refrain

            (Though Matthew would be mild)--

Perverting Rhetoric he plays

            A Hornèd Cicero

That picks his Prophets by the ways

            They make his Profits grow.

Success’s Gun Is Loaded

Success's gun is loaded and

            Its barrel's in our back.

Its ropes and cords have tied our hand.

            It's built for us a rack.

We fear, yet blush.  For it was we

            Who let the thug inside.

We heard his pitch and willfully

            Made sure the door was wide.

This Word’s A Box

This Word's a Box that holds a Note

            To open up and read,

While here's another that I tote

            That holds a little Deed,

While still another holds a Twig

            To laurel up your Head,

While here's another just as big

            That holds a Taunt instead--

We pack these Airy Crates with all

            We wish to ship and send

And claim a right to frank our haul--

            It's Freedom we contend.           

Reverend's Raven Beatrice

The Preacher says it is a complex world--

Dark things our simple mind can't comprehend

We leave in God's dominion.  We're but men.

We leave in God's dominion (we're but men)

Small tithes, our little bit of good brought to

Dark things our simple minds can't comprehend.

Though it is difficult to spare a tenth

(The Preacher says it is a complex world),

Such sacrifice must pale beside the Cross.

Envy turns men from God.  Though we are dumb,

Though it is difficult to spare a tenth,

Such sacrifice must pale beside the Cross.

Begrudge that meager Sunday giving?  Which

Base appetite has equal claim to tithes

We leave in God's dominion?  We're but men--

Base appetite has equal claim to tithes?

The Preacher says it is a complex:  "world

Envy" turns men from God.  Though we are dumb,

Begrudge that  meager Sunday giving, which

Base appetite has equal claim, too?   Tithes!

Such sacrifice must pale beside the Cross!

Though it is difficult to spare a tenth

We leave in God's dominion, we're but men--

Envy turns men from God.  Throw Bea her crumb!

Some Lessons From The Iliad

Be wary of the deals you make

            Or you may pay the price

Of liberties that others take

            When baser thoughts entice.

Be wary of the way you wield

            The power given you

For though Achilles seems to yield

            It's Pyrrhic when it's through.

Be wary of revenge You take

            For often in the end

It's nothing but a grave you make

            For you and for a friend.

Be wary of the public show

            Of wooden piety--

What's Truly Good is hidden.  It

            Is never there to see.

Born Again

You're born again?  Well, so am I.

        Some Muse delivered me--

A second self, another try,

        A further bit of be.

If second times are better then

        Have I not joined at last

The Order of you pious men

        Who claim a Higher Caste?

Cyclops

Where the viewpoint's the cave's alone

            There lacks the other side

So even were a second grown

            The beast remains one eyed.

Odysseus

Nobody trusted words, he did.

He kept them quivered and he hid

Behind the phrases No One said

Till he could spear the one-eyed head.

Words shielded years of long attack.

Words took No One to hell and back.

Words wooed a princess at the shore

And smote her mother even more.

Words bagged the wind and tamed a witch

And rivaled every siren's pitch--

It seems no one has spoken so

Since No One did so long ago.

George Eliot

They tried to make you Mary. Yet

            You Georged yourself instead

And didn't suffer any fret

            About what others Said.

You Middlemarched.  You Marnered and

            You did Deronda, too--

If that's the fruit of being banned

            Exile me now with You.

To Monsieur Descartes

I am the Perfect Instance here

            De Moi, so I must be.

For Nothing lacks which means it's clear

            There must exist a Me.

A Mouse In The House

The caller I would crush in fear

            Would seem instead a peer

If I'd but stop and ponder here

            Its genealogy.

It's from those mice that scurried round

            On Noah's ark undrowned

And others waiting on the ground

            When Jonah went to sea.

Its mothers lived when pharaohs did

            And Moses' mother hid

Her babe beneath the basket's lid--

            And yet it comes to me.

Price Of Order

I've heard that Furies even bite

            And terrify the Sun

If it should waiver (even slight)

            In courses it should run.

If that's the price of order then

            I'd rather have the night--

If there's no choice in stars or men

            What blessing is the light?

Inhospitality

Inhospitality's a sin

            Of the most wicked kind

As Lot and others of his kin

            And Sodom's lot would find--

And yet the birds leave starving and

            The smaller beasts receive

No more than callous swats of hand

            From men who would believe.

Jason’s Rhetoric

Vain Jason did deduction and

            Was sure the world did, too--

He thought he had her in his hand

            With just a word or two.

Yet proof that's pitched into the fire

            Is merely burned away--

Poor rhetor found Medea's ire

            Singed all he had to say.

1969 A.D.

We Trojans walked across the Moon.

            Apollo took us there

To add to English Realms the boon

            Of those beyond the air.

Wooing

I say a Rule--its words are clear--

"So what?" they say unless they fear

Some consequence or think they see

Some benefit in pleasing me

Or feel something requires they do--

A Hammurabi has to woo.

Time’s Market

Time's market's all in disarray.

            Its curves are in a mess.

Inflation nibbles every day

            And every moment's less.

We've come from when a day would take

            A century or more

To times when days will only make

            What minutes did before.

Infallibility

The Pope is right in Japanese,

            And Barking of the Hounds

And Signing Dances of the Bees

            And Bullfrogs' Croaking Sounds

And Ravens' Calls and Pythons' Squeeze

And Hawkish Shrieks and Mousy Pleas.

A Fluent Priest in all of These--

            Inerrancy astounds!

The Kindest Thing

The kindest thing He did for us

            Was guard the Tree of Life--

Although it would seem obvious

That He was being generous

Temptation is continuous

            To covet endless strife.

Ex Nihilo

If He who's perfect is unmade

            What need have we

            (Who'd lesser be)

Of any maker's aid?

Hypocrite Of  Venice

Pure Portia's such a Christian she

            Can slander an Old Jew

And pilfer all his property

To fine and punish properly

            What money lenders do.

Idols

 (After Psalm 115)

They've mouths yet never say a word.

            They've eyes yet never see.

They've ears although they've never heard.

            They've feet yet never flee.

They've noses, too, yet never smell.

            They've hands, yet never hold--

Although they're molded very well

            In silver or in gold.

Strapless

Poor Crusoe was condemned to hell

            Since he could not receive

The sacraments or go to church

            With others who believe

And clearly prove the adage wrong--

            They pull themselves on high

By their own bootstraps while the souls

            Of others rot and die.

More In One

Just three in one's

The Trinity

Though just a gnat's

Infinity?

Sphinx

The beast's a Ding-An-Sich it is

            And Ahab's strung its head

To ponder on and claim as his,

            A marvel now it's said

That once swam in the noumenon

            In back of all that sea

It swings now as phenomenon

            In front of all that see.

Trains

            I doubt.  They say:

"Then take some trains and round the Ball

            And judge it as you may."

Their counsel's safe.  For after all,

            Their tracks will point the way.

Natural Logic

What is a syllogism of a squirrel?

An oyster's sorite stringing out a pearl?

A modus ponens of a mother bear?

A middle term of clover and a hare?

Their worlds cohere

Which means it's clear

There must be Logic there?

Monopoly

If Nature doesn't seem to like our walls

            What inference should we make?

Creation loathes division yet installs

            A Peak, a Fault, a Quake,

            An Ocean?  It would take

            This stance with us yet make

            Itself the same mistake?

Frost--maybe she's protecting her own love

Of keeping things apart--a jealous shove

That shakes each flimsy Babel till it falls.

Keeping Time

She's our Crazy Auntie who

Hides herself when others call,

Hangs eight-legged pictures from the wall,

Knits corner doilies old maids do,

Paints our rooms a dingy hue,

Spots our books and breaks their glue,

Nips at any open rum,

And fiddles with our pendulum.

GAAP

Accountants guessed

That God drew west

When cost of brown

Was down,

And then drew east

When brown's increased

And green then cost

Him least.

Hell Is Ninety-Some Degrees

Hell is ninety-some degrees.

            It's cooler than we're told

                        From pulpits.

It's a roof and not a floor.

            Hell's higher than we're told

                        From pulpits.

Its demon's in the red mush. He's

            Hiding in some fold

                        Of pulp. It's,

It's--no, enough.  I'll say no more--

            I'll never be as bold

                        As pulpits.

Ticks

The ticks we'd keep

Clocked up still creep

All over us--

More ravenous

To wound the hand

That's wound them and

Won't let their pendulum sleep.

Slicing Logic

Logic's cut's surgery

For tumors of the mind,

But often simple butchery

In cuts of other kind.

Murdering Light

Although would seem required

To keep it pure and white,

Strike one band of rainbow

Instead you've murdered light.

Sewing Words

We sew a word Frankenstein

From new and shoveled parts

With no idea of the line

Of monsters that it starts . . . .

Light Frauds

I hear they've found some comets roaring by.

Forget the sun and moon!  Up in the sky

Some dust and ice put on a glitzy show

Portending and pretending proving why

Amazement is required.  From down below

I'd grab their sparkling tails and toss them back

Were tails not one of many things they lack.

Seurat’s Dots

How bad the distant rattlesnakes behave

Until you see them gobble down a rat

And prove that coils improve the habitat

And show they're better focused from afar

Like Seurat's dots--how sweet the roses are

Until you're close enough to see the worm

Some robin's left half-eaten there to squirm--

No--focus close and well--back off and find

Certainty and clarity's more blind.

Depression In The Grass

Depression's in the grass.

Depressions in the grass

Display some proof--

It preys aloof.

I've never seen it there.

It's blended well.  The hair

Is colored with the land

Like lions'. It can stand

As blades. Like deer I strain

But cannot see--Again

More evidence: a breath,

A filthy whiff of death,

Is carried on the air.

We wait. We know. It's there.

I Took A Walk Around My Brain

I took a walk around my brain,

            Looked in some open doors,

Yet passed on by the closed ones I

            Encountered on some floors.

To do it right, to be polite,

            A knock would be required

When doors are closed.  My hands opposed

            The tap.  They were too tired.

Difference

When we're alone he is the best of friends

But in a crowd he taunts me.  He depends.

In Ant

They built it well in Ant,

Their precious pyramid.

They ran the tunnels deep

Where royalty is hid--

Though nothing we should keep.

We stepped on what they did.

The Good Book's Dusty

A cobweb's claimed it.  One

Of such more modern thread

We can't see past what's spun.

The spiders speak instead.

Anselm’s First Draft

Imperfect Worlds imply imperfect parts.

Death's peace (like other pieces) is flawed, too,

And must have resurrection.  Faith is true.

Far Is Polaris

Though their best landmark is a star

            Some million years away

They’re confident.  They know they are

            On course and do not stray.

I’m shyer. I look down, not far,

            Before I walk the day.

Abnormal Morality

There cannot be a normal man

            Of character.  He would

Prefer the title rather than

            The risk of doing good.

2000 Line Dance

I stepped at once in different days,

            Months, years and centuries

To waltz between them as I made

            An hour’s dance.  For these

“Momentous times” occurred “just once”--

            As often as I’d please.

Haunted House

A cricket's ghost sits in the hall

            And watches without eyes.

A phantom web upon the wall

            Entangles airy flies

While extra footsteps in the house

            Are nothing other than

The patter of a former mouse

            Still running where it ran.

Peine forte et dure

Majority is weighty. Ribs

            Are cracking, they are pressed

Without Minority to roll

            The boulder off the chest.

Asylum

The sane must shutter up the mad,

     Must square the evidence

That two and two won't always add

     Up four--it's common sense.

Cuckoo Clocks

The endless circles of debate

            Where best to place a hand,

The constant swinging left and right

            Just follow the demand

Of Reason--anything that runs

            Of course can’t take a stand.

Puppy Love

The Moon must have a little crush.

            Those nights she walks with me

(Though I may tarry or may rush

Through open fields or densest brush)

            She follows doggedly.

Skull Hound

I raised that wolf within my head.

            How could it threaten me?

I had to kill it first instead

            Of letting it kill me.

I’ve done the murder--though it’s dead

            It still is stalking me.

I razed that wolf within my head.

            How could it threaten me?

When Melancholy Visits

When Melancholy visits me

            I haul that cripple round.

I show her hospitality.

I’m fearful of the penalty

            Those folks in Sodom found.

Who’s English?

Who’s English?  He’s the firstborn of mankind,

The sum of all the corners of the mind

That sail and wheel and bravery could find

Worth wedding in a common heir combined.

Will Time’s Teeth Fall Out, Too?

Will time mature one day?

Will its teeth fall out, too?

Will it no longer prey

Like Nosferatu?

Distressing Things

“I’ve messed it up.  My coffee cup

            Has left an awful ring.”

The present frets.  The future gets

            An improved antique thing.

Our Town

Why's every architecture book

            About our town abridged?

Should scholarship not have a look

            At all the building.  Did

Our robins have a Queen Anne, too?

            Did our wasps ever work

In marble?  Did our moles attempt

            Gothic above the ground?

How did our serpents first build? Where?

            And what about our bees?

Our rats?  Our beetles?  Shouldn't there

            Be plaques and notes for these?

Deus Ex Machina

A spider’s dropped--a fly cannot

            Unaided end a play.

A cricket scoffs, “It makes bad plot

            To intervene that way."

The Prick

Paul had a thorn stuck in his side

            He never named.  We see

The barb imbedded there no less,

            The razor bigotry

That sliced up Christians then the tongues

            Of women (silent you!)

And different men.  How could he be

            A Good Book star and do

Such things?  A bad example might

            Be good for us as well

When it identifies some snare

            Laid out for us by Hell.

Thus we’ve an argument the Book’s

            Good though a prick’s within

That dull or devious minds might use

            To validate the sin.

What’s The World Coming To?

 (Or A Puritan Judges The Buried Dead)

Those worthless legions grow and grow

            Of lazy bums who lie

In their own filth without a cent

            And never work.  Oh, my,

Why, even lawyer Rich who used

            To work the whole year round

One day turned lazy.  See!  He's joined

            Those deadbeats underground. 

Three Minute Egghead

It’s easy for the egghead--just

            Three minutes and he’s done

While my own time--to his disgust--

            Is not a constant one.

Family Tree

The Sabbath’s made for man. Why not

            Enjoy it by the birch?

And so they’ve fetched a frightened man

            For lynching after church.

They tie a Sunday tie for him.

            “Those look like Grandpa’s eyes

In that dark face,” one notes as they

            Then hoist him.  As he dies,

Some shriveled planter planted, lost,

            Stares upward in his tomb.

The empty sockets that once held

            Those same eyes (an heirloom

Now) watch a rusty lid and not

            Some little Sunday whim

As Klan drops clan, another line

            Of hushed descent from him.

Hitchhiking

To lord above the beasts man rides

            The coattails of a few

Exceptions to himself and proves

            A wonder--wonder do

The warthogs have a Washington,

            The crows a Callas, too?

An Average Maid

Time seems at best an average maid--

            Before we’re there real long,

She sweeps our dust beneath the rug

            And shuffles on along.

“Good help is rare.”  I think she does

            Not prove the maxim wrong.

 False Cognates

“Attend” means something else in French--

            How draw the line?  Maybe

These words are false cognates and this

            Is foreign poetry.

Metamorphoses

Man is Actaeon.  He believes

            He’s master of the beast

Till death transforms him and deceives

The servile worm that then perceives

            No master in the feast.

It’s Hard To Keep Me Straight

It’s hard to keep me straight with so

            Much multiplicity--

The squeezing into baby skin,

            The stretching out to three,

The schoolboy forms, the midlife looks,

            The dirty elderly

Wraps I now wear.  Why must there be

            Such varied dress for me?

If could I write me fewer garbs,

            If my own script could be

My draft instead I’d pen me clothes

            From thirty to maybe

Round thirty-five.  The quill’s not mine,

            Alas, and I’m not free

To dress myself.  I thus go out

Each day more shabbily.

Craving Suicide

The bigot craves his own demise--

            Without diversity

He’d melt himself into a blot

            Of seamless unity.

Poison Weed

Do swords still keep the Garden shut?

            I pray so!   Lord, I dread

That Tree Of Life (that poison weed,

            That even kills the dead)

Will manage to escape before

The days here can be fled.

Defining Contradiction

An independent universe

            Half wears clothes made for it--

A button pops off here and there,

            Some seams around it split

As fools lament it contradicts

            Itself where it won’t fit

(Though some like Zeno have their fun

            Instead.) The sharpest wit

Can’t find the end of pi or solve

            Two duties that are split

Or solve how God and man in Christ

            Are somehow interknit

Or ever tie me down. I’m not

            Consistent I admit.

For what is contradicting but

            refusing to submit?

Jack Being Stomped

House crickets chirp their fairy tale

            Of two-legged giants that

See jumping Jack leap from the veil

            Of dark and crush him flat.

There’s Fee, there’s Fie, there’s Fo, there’s Fum,

            And songs of Monsters who

Will stomp on any child as dumb

            As Jack in jumping, too.

Design

Just chasing tails?  Could be.  Could be

            We’re wheels instead and thus

Advance Higher Machinery

            When we’re circuitous

(Unless we’re running backwards!)  We

            Can’t know.  Our radius

Is too small for Theodicy

            To run outside of us.

(sōl īl)

Shipwrecked in me though when

Or how I don’t recall--

Long days (too long!), Soul Aisle,

I’ve walked You now.  Are You

Part of a chain, Soul Isle,

Sea links or simply sole?

I’ll never see by just

Sol--I’ll take poetry’s

Torch, too, along with me.

Angles*

All symbols, icons, indexes are bent.

  No reading lacks an angle which has meant

   Good language is as warping as bad--mind's

  Lacking a single point of view and finds

Each sign thus bends what it would represent.

*A poem using Peirce's three signs: symbols, icons & indexes

 

Rush Hour Funeral

He made good time until he hit

            A rush-hour funeral.

It snarled the intersections. It

            Confused the synchrony

Of stoplights.  Stalled, he grumbled as

            He watched a worm of cars

Inch slowly by him to a grave:

            “Why slink out at the worst

Of Times?! Death is eternal!  It

            Had all that time to crawl

Out more conveniently!”  He cursed

            The rudeness of it all.

 

Easter Fog

Behold the resurrection!  Now the rain

That fell on Friday climbs back out again

From underground.  Though it had slept there just

Part of three days, it's called back up and must

Abandon Earth.  It therefore stretches out

Faint spectral limbs in waking, moves about

The grass till Heaven opens, till it starts

Its slow ascension and at last departs.

 

Life Is A Journey

Proof's in the pudding.  "Journey" strums

            The ego.  Truth works so

Diapers to diapers, gums to gums,

            Life is a "journey" though

There's little difference how man comes

            And how he'll finally go.

JEDP

Were we formed first or last?  Words read

            Both ways--we're proud and need

To wonder if the millipede

            Is longer pedigreed.

 

Alzheimer's

Where am I now?  Have I some purpose here

That brought me now forgotten?  Lord, save me.

My mind is slipping way from me I fear.

I know things aren't always as they appear

And therefore still inquire, Lord, hopefully:

Where am I now?  Have I some purpose here?

Is there some conversation, Lord, that we're

Now having?  Lend a hand, Lord.  It could be

My mind is slipping way from me.  I fear

I don't recall the topics though I hear

Those last words trailing off.  Perplexity!

Where am I now?  Have I some purpose here?

What shall I say when nothing can cohere

Through time?  There is no truth?  Or must it be

My mind is slipping way from me?  I fear

Both answers are the same.  What were they?  Queer,

It seems I spoke though no one's here I see.

Where am I now?  Have I some purpose here?

My mind is slipping way from me I fear.

Wading At The Beach

I dip in my "Emotion," watery

"Irrational" and "Womb."  Might I begin

Again?  Warm waves of "Possibility"

Entice.  Archetypes, warm Sirens lure me in.

I'll take the bait yet keep "Reality"

Intact--until that dread epiphany

That freezes to the bone comes.  Any sea

I see by definition is in me.

 

The Viewing

I came upon some shriveled skin

            A colleague left behind

And wondered where the being went.

            Of course it crossed my mind

I’d done the same last week when I'd

            Passed snake hose left behind

And hadn't doubted some beast still

            Lived.  I was not inclined

To think less of a man despite

            The fact no soul's reclined

Beside its corpse and touchable.

            I had a moral kind

Of sense I could no less ignore

            Than the cadaver. Mind

Would not mix types of proof and faith

            Would be the blessed kind

That comes when no proof's laid before

            The eye.  I thus opined

With Christ until I felt a nudge

            And saw more mourners lined

In back.  Polite, I moved along,

            Made room for those behind.

Some Tracks Of Me

I've left some tracks of me in time

            Though no one knows me now--

Perhaps my little prints in rhyme

            Will prove me anyhow.

Part III An Anthology Of Moons And Other Nouns

Invitation

They tell us, children, truth is found

            In an objective way.

So let us all now gather round

            And hear what others say.

On The Moon

An Artist:

I watch imagination’s face

            And wonder how she can

Have all the vigorous thoughts that race

            In her yet limp in man.

A Musician:

There’s Rhythm’s mother overhead.

            She’s teased her silver hair

Up in a ball tonight instead

            Of other coifs they wear.

A Madman:

That awful eye looks down at me!

            That eye without a face!

O cruel Irrationality,

            Go prowl another place!

A Clam:

The night's inside an oyster. That's

            The only way that I

Can give an explanation of

            A pearl up in the sky.

A Crab:

I see some shell has got away.

            It rode some albatross

Up to the sky.  As good crabs do

            It walks sideways across.

A Lawyer:

The dark is prudent.  Learn from it.

            It burns a little light

So if some person trips and falls

            It’s not its oversight.

A Pharmacist:

There is some kind of tablet in

            The stomach of the night.

It’s taken every thirty days

            If I am counting right.

A Mistress:

The night’s paid monthly with a coin--

            No need of hoarding.  It

Is shopping time at dusk and she

            Will spend a little bit.

A Crow:

I see the block of powder that

            The hypocrites apply

To cover up true colors. When

            So many would deny

Just who they are there’s never more

            Than just one month’s supply.

A Businessman:

What is that extra vein of rock

            Belonging to the Earth?

It’s essence is no more or less

            Than so much gravel’s worth.

An Old Man:

The Face Of Time is mocking me.

            It shrivels then it brings

Its youth straight back to underscore

            Old men can't do such things.

A Physician:

There is a boil upon the night

            That never fully clears--

It’s hardly shrunk away until

            Infection reappears.

A Geometrician:

That “Orb” is a miscarriage.  It

            Would be a circle.  Yet

It never has true shape.  It is

            An error, I regret.

A Cyclops:

The single lens is looking down

            On me with cousin’s pride

Until it shuts its lid--it hates

            To see the double eyed.

An Entomologist:

They glow in the cocoon as they

            Grow.  Stars hatch in the sack.

They soon will molt and spread their wings

            And fly off in the black.

A  Shepherd:

I see the Silver Face and know

            The Dog’s at work tonight--

It herds the tides and oceans with

            A constant tug and bite.

A Child:

If I had such a pretty ball

            As stars play with above

I’d keep it better--full of air--

            And shower it with love.

A Believer:

God shares His monthly watch with us

            Not only for the hour—

His cosmic mechanism proves

            A Cosmic Maker’s power.

An Atheist:

That pitted, ever changing blot

            Is Chance’s signature

Upon night’s mottled canvass.  God’s

            Work cannot be impure.        

           

On The Sun

A Firefly:

When mother's finished with her walk

            And tucked herself in bed

We children will slip softly out

            And wing round overhead.

An Old Soldier:

The day's confused.  It can't decide

            Which side of it is best

To wear its golden metal on--

            The East side or the West

Or somewhere in between.  It tries

            The options on its chest.

A Percussionist:

The other cymbal's gone.  Alas,

            It's incomplete now and

Can make no clamor greater than

            A single clapping hand.

A Botanist:

I've found a hardy citrus that

            Can grow in any clime.

At every place on land and sea

            It has a growing time.

I'm working on a name for it.

            Of current options I'm

Inclined to name it after me

            In Latin.  How sublime!

A Robin:

The day is such a massive egg!

            I wonder what could squat

Upon the shell and keep the yolk

            Above me there so hot.

A Tailor:

The day's sewn a big button on.

            I wish I had some thread

From that same spool.  It must be strong.

            I'd sew with it instead.

An Opera Singer:

The fiery prima donna hogs

            The stage alone all day--

Her hothead and her treachery

            Keep all the rest away.

A Fish:

Some busy-body's fumbled with

            The yellow plug of day

And now the stopper's popped and all

            The blue's draining away.

On The Stars

A Farmer:

The sun-pod's burst.  The seeds are spread

            About.  I pray that one

Will take good root tonight and grow

            Into another sun.

A Chimney Sweep:

The day's long banked out in the West.

            The grate's extinguished though

There are still cinders spread about

            That have some little glow.

A Camper:

The day's in its old sleeping bag

            And resting for the night.

The fraying portions of the cloth

            Expose some bits of light.

A Captain:

I wonder where so many ships

            Would sail so late at night.

It must be far away for I

            Can barely track their light.

An Anteater:

I wish my tongue were long enough

            To lap those flashy ants

From off the sky.  Alas, it is

            Too short for the expanse.

A Child:

Look at the crumbs left over from

            The cookie moon that took

A month to eat!  It’s time to sneak

            Another from the cook!

On Mountains

A Wet Nurse:

If I had nipples like the Earth

            On every side of me

I can’t imagine what my worth

            Would calculate to be.

A Coveter:

Who took the dirt that was around

            The piles he left behind?

What thief came first and dug the ground

            So this is all I find?

A Nobleman:

Come see there’s even rank within

            The dirt itself.  Come see

The heights that valleys underpin.

            Come see the hierarchy.

A Believer:

There’s comfort in a holy seat

            So visible to us

That proves the Owner more Concrete

            And less Mysterious.

An Ant:

Who needs a hill as big as that?

            We’re not impressed.  No.  We

Have stumbled on, are looking at

            Some insecurity.

A Puritan:

Those filthy heaps where witches lurk

            When night’s polluted day!

I won’t look at the Devil’s work!

            I’ll turn my eyes away!

A Sceptic:

Behold that monument to doubt,

            That flaunter of the way

Perspective shoves the constant out

            Of anything we’d say.

What is Poetry?

A poem is a change of eyes,

A verbal surgery

That lets the patient see

The old balls rolling in the drawer

Through new--if one asks me.