R.E.M.
Under a slab
Of cement I sleep,
Wilderness heavy,
Sorrow deep;
Sorrow deep,
Archaeology old,
Running through
Corridors untold—
Racing the hallways
Of my dreams,
Ankles shackled,
With muffled screams;
With throttled throat,
I strive to wake,
Covered in cobwebs
I cannot shake;
Cobweb-bound,
Imprisoned in doom,
Under concrete,
In the dreamer’s tomb.
Adjusting the Balance of Powers
I make no pretense of refinement,
Charm-school graces, savoir-faire—
I’m no more mannered than a monkey
Picking cooties from its hair—
In fact, I’d never boast of
Attributes I’d likely waste,
Having little use or need for
Proving further I’ve great taste
Than I did when I selected
You as partner, lover, mate;
All alone, that one maneuver
Proved my social skills are great,
Even if the sorry outcome
On your side is to undo
Any special social standing
That once appertained to you!
Exercise in MischiefWeaving webs of intrigue
And knotting people tight
Is such a nasty pastime
But it keeps me warm at night!
A Particular Kind of Homesickness
The road we ride is an old back road, a highway that goes nowhere fast,
and as we drive and drift and dream, we see the present meet the past,
the way that it has always done from cities to the countryside,
the way we know that history recycles us, and far and wide,
we all return to what we’ve known and circle back to home and hearth
whether together or alone, to best-loved places on the earth.
Is it just crazy, that we long to find ourselves in Mama’s arms,
in childhood’s safety, in our fondest corner of our homes, our farms,
our gardens, houses, classrooms, fields? Is this insanity, or just
finding our life and hope and heart in best-loved places, as we must?
Return to rooted, distant loves, become simplicity and grace,
and find the fields of gold we seek in each his own familiar place.
Summer Phantasy
One day in my car when I was a-glide
and watching the highway (mostly),
I stopped for a fellow who thumbed a ride
to go farther west, more coast-ly–
After all, the sun was high in the sky
and the temperature creeping northward,
so it seemed a mercy to take the guy
and deliver him farther forth-ward–
He was pleasant, and smiled, and tipped his hat,
but I’d hardly call him talkative,
which I took as caused by the reason that
in the heat he’d been too walk-ative–
So we rode along, Silent Sam and I,
toward the coast and the broad blue sea,
’til I blinked in the glare of the sun to spy
his hat lying next to me–
No sign of the smiling, silent bloke;
what a startled twitch I made!
My sunglasses flew right off and broke
as if put to shame by a shade–
Well, I got to the shore soon after that,
keeping watch on the highway (mostly),
and was glad for the shade of the shade’s broad hat,
if a shadowy gift, and ghostly.
If you can’t make a grand entrance, at least try to make a spectacular exit . . .
Talk about Relief!
The way my insurance is freighted
With small-print and guilt, and prorated,
I find that this chick
Who can’t risk being sick
Can afford to be
Decapitated.
Campfire Song for the Unwitting Centerpiece
Singing silly campfire songs, we sit at either side
Across the pit and toast marshmallows, making note how wide
And high the flames can leap at will, and thinking if they might
Be quite sufficiently stoked up by middle of the night
To throw something substantial in to roast before the dawn,
Perhaps a certain someone here we’ve finally settled on,
Whose camp-songs so annoy us; cook to ash before next day
Our deep-disliked camp counselor: our own auto-da-fé.
Why, certainly, cabin-master, Sir, have another toasted marshmallow! Here, just lean over a teensy little bit closer . . .
Breathe on Me, Breathalyzer
What is that sulfurous smell?
Is it the mouth of Hell?
Or is it only Morning Breath?
With you, I cannot tell.
Through mystic haze and mystery,
Through funky dark and gloom,
Throughout the house and yard and park
And to the edge of doom,
It penetrates both brain and soul
And harries unto death—
Begone! foul demon, Hell-bound hound,
And take your stinking breath.
Take Thou Thy Hindmost Hence-ward
If thou must wind down, go downwind, please;
I’ll remain up here while thou tak’st thy ease,
for I’ve found if a lady’s downwind of thee, she’s
immediately an endangered species.
Friendly Advice to a Feckless Youth
The true Reckless Endangerment
is seldom what you’d guess:
not often quite so obvious
as acting under stress,
thus putting others in harm’s way
for physical duress;
more likely, it’s just saying things
much better left unsaid
about your girlfriend’s hairstyle, or
about great-uncle Fred,
who is your mother’s richest
relative and, shortly, dead.
It’s bad enough your note on Fred
will cut Mom from his will,
and likely keep you from her own
good graces longer still,
but there’s your girlfriend left to calm.
Let’s hope the bitter pill
of your ill-thought hairstyle remark
won’t make her wish you ill.
When Ladies are Dancing
Patterns of elegance, synchronized moves,
Footsteps as fluid as flowing in grooves
Down sides of a fountain afloat with champagne,
They leap and they glide and they dance the refrain
As though they were ageless and weightless as light,
Each gesture, each pattern, each detail so right,
So proper and grace-filled, expressive of joy—
Intimidate wholly the poor sidelined boy!
When ideas and inspiration have ceased, at least for the time being, to well up from the inside, it’s a mercy that the wide world contains so many and will hand them to me if I keep my senses ready enough. I often find myself too distracted by the busyness and pedestrian chores of the workaday world to see the magical other dimensions right within my reach, and need some helpful pricking from a sight or sound or scent as I pass through to remind me to open up the eye and ear and heart and take advantage of the universe’s generosity when it’s poured out so liberally right within my grasp.
I walk in a haze of dully daily thought, lost to the world of rich and rare delights I’m walking in, when suddenly a mockingbird appears and turns its bright eye on me and seems to contemplate how absent I must be to almost pass it by when it’s quite nearly underfoot. In that shining eye a world reflects in which the other me is wrapped around with blooms, with drifting clouds sailing across a broad blue sky; with jasmine-scented breeze, with mist as the sprinklers spring to life, with happy shouts from a handful of little playing school kids passing me, looking for miracles of their own everywhere because they are yet too young to have forgotten them so foolishly as I have done. When the bird takes to its stripe-blazed wings and dives back into the air, my thoughts begin to follow and fly with it again: I am awake once more to flight and tune in to the rippling, rolling variations of its song as it rises to the trees, and soars above, and makes me remember that I am in a world full of wonder, if I will only let it fill me again.
Gleaming Afternoon
While I would soar, would gladly fly
Wide, in an arc across the sky
Whose dome of hotly burnished brass
Encompasses at every pass
The great wild height of atmosphere
That would engage to hold me here,
I can, eyes shut and spirit wide,
Pierce heaven to the great Outside.
Toast with a Time Limit
Here’s hoping the missing good cheer
That should have been prevalent here
Shows up at the door, not another old bore,
Or I’ll have to be leaving, my dear,
For your party is killing my joy
And particularly, to annoy
Me: wasting my time with dull boors is a crime
I’m not quick to forgive, my dear boy.
Coming-Uppance
Relegated to the lowest
Rank of feebleniks and fools,
I can see my betters’ failings
And their breaking of the rules,
But I keep my quiet counsel,
Counting nothing disconcerting,
Never flinch, for I remember:
Blackmail can be quite diverting!
Emptying the Vessel
Under my penitential veil,
Blue-socketed and ashy pale,
I genuflect and toll my faults,
Demurely dance a pious waltz;
I bend and bow and pine and scrape,
Dressed in hair shirts and chains and crape,
And when my guilt’s no longer sore,
I’ll dash right out and sin some more!
Close Shave
The opportunity occurs
So rarely, it is true,
That I can scarce resist the urge
To put my hands on you
With malediction in my heart
A glacier in my veins
A purring curse through smiling fangs
And voltage in my brains
That perks nefarious Nemeses
Like me to work your doom—
But I’d be left too much bereft:
No You to hate? Then, whom?
Art-Colored Glasses 