Masked Olivia
The sleeping lady whose closed eyes
Conceal the wisdom of the wise
Contain the laughter children know
And barricade a world below
Keeps in closed eyelids cool release
And in her heart a realm of peace
Beauty Sleeps
5
Tag Archives: poem
I’ve Always Counted on Good Transportation
People have always remarked on the elegance of my carriage . . .
Road Tripping
On Friday I will hit the road by after-office evening light,
Hit it so hard it’ll snap up and roll like it’s a window shade,
Because a Friday evening is the sort of thing a road is made
For best—what else can put me in a frame of mind so near to right?—
And Saturday will likely see me tearing up the countryside
At speed, pretending I’ve no brakes except to let coyotes dash
Across (or ease me through the turns so I continue not to crash,
But rather, feel that sideways pull, the curve that makes my world so wide)—
And Sunday I’m still flying fast, and though turned homeward, yet a streak,
Because I must keep breathless joy searing my lungs, tearing my eyes,
Crowning my windy hair as though I’d won the biggest ever prize,
Since all this traveling is what will pull me through another week
. . . but what I had in mind was always a hot set of wheels . . .
Joy in the Morning
Morning, Waking
Starting anew with a fresh clean slate
I feel a sense of freedom, youth
A breathing moment where the truth
Is not unlikely, not too late
I have arisen and begun
Not just by law but for desire
Alit with unaccustomed fire
From some oft-hidden ray of sun
These days when age most often stings
The simple joys right out of me
I slake my thirst with ecstasy
When a rare morning-welcome sings
The Price of Innocence
Wye Not
Wye was an impoverished man
Because he didn’t know
The answer to all questions was
‘Because I told you so’—
Wye was a pauper and
He lies in Potter’s Field
Because he tried to find the truth
That others kept concealed—
Wye lived in such poverty
And died alone, unmourned,
Because he kept on asking things
Well after he’d been warned—
Poor Wye was a mortal fool
Despite being a hero:
In heaven, truth makes you a saint—
On earth, it makes you zero.
Passages of Time
We two, when we were very small,
Walked hand in hand down avenues
Studded with poplars and long views
Of granite pavement, pale and tall
Sun-sprinkled shops, apartments set
Above them on whose balconies
Perched men like birds among the trees,
Eyeing our youth with vague regret—
How could we know, young as we were,
The brevity of these our strolls,
How every hour more swiftly tolls
Than the preceding? To be sure,
The marvel of our living lies
In sensing little of the thought
That what short summertime we’ve got
Measures in spans like butterflies’,
And realizing late in age
On balconies, as children pass,
Our tenure’s brief as leaves, as grass,
As words washed from the novel’s page
By tears dropped silently, this truth
Too hard to tell to little ones
Passing in hand-held joy, the sun’s
Brief rays alighting on their youth.
Eschatology meets Scatology without Apology
Parting Gift
No leaf is greener than the rising blade
Of grass over the grave where I am laid
I, who in life was fitted in this wise:
So full of $h!t as born to fertilize–
Useless in life, perhaps, but still of worth
In death, as food to feed a hungry earth;
Now blooms adorn my plot in dazzling wave,
Rejoicing in the cr@p that fills my grave–
Howe’er a rotter I, when breathing air,
At last as corpse I do my earthly share,
Delighting all the butterflies and birds
With brilliant lilies compost-fed by tu®d$–
Yea, e’en this sewage soul is heaven-sent:
Earth’s beauty’s nourished well by èxcrémênt.
Liar Liar (This is Dire)
I named the date
I stated my case
I sprinkled falsehoods
All over the place—
I tried to be honest
I tried to be true
But the actual facts
Never do, never do—
I told them whoppers
I gave them chase
But the truth is plain
As the nose on my face—
I just couldn’t help it
I let myself go
Let my epitaph read: Here
Lies Pinocchio
Regaining My Memory
Antique Finishes
The lovely grain of quartersawn oak
With age’s silk patina glows
And hints of many-storied lives
And past events nobody knows;
The ghosts and gossips of days gone
Are whispered in the cupboards’ glassed
Door fronts; the table’s curving legs
Bespeak its long, mysterious past;
In the looking-glass, the passage
Of the hours and years is blurred
By antiquity’s sweet singing
All the stories ever heard,
By the voices of the missing,
Of the dead departed wealth
That once filled these halls with magic,
Now reached only late, by stealth.
If antiquity should call me,
Siren-like, to take a look,
Once more in my soul I’ll draw it
From the pages of a book . . .
Bouquets of Bokeh
Pause Button
A miniscule moment of Zen
Is beautiful now and again
And a treasure, although
It is finite, we know,
And will end; O,
We do not know when
Youth in Springtime
Few pleasures can compare to children’s when they are allowed untrammeled playtime in nature’s kind and pretty places. We should all be so fortunate in Springtime, especially in the springtime of our lives.
By Babylon Creek
Babylon Creek
used to make the
children laugh as it ran
tickling fingers up
their summer-heated shins
and the older folk
chuckle shamefacedly
at its puns and the way
its hilarious licking made
them squirm like
dog-loved kids themselves
Art-Colored Glasses 