Nature, Man and Woman

Now cite for me the place that it begins –
parse the peas and carrots please; and then
the creepy-crawly things, and things with fins
and when you’re through with that, consider men!
No, really, it’s a joke to will us there,
beyond the borders of all else that breathes
[we’ve long been far less vital than the air]
and flowers growing wild surpass all wreaths;
true nature lives in us and we in her;
we are not separate from the scheme of things;
it’s skin as much goosedown, beaver fur –
your precious stones were precious before rings.
     It’s Mother Nature brought about your birth;
     we are not foreign bodies here on Earth.

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Return of the Grey Sweater

    How many are hunting & striving to find their place –
     racoons in scrimmage beneath parkway’s overpass
     as well as possibly half of the human race…
     and would you believe my sweater is in this class ?  
     Sustains itself on doorknobs and lamps in its search –
     travel buff with more than a case of jet lag;
     kitchen chair served well for awhile as perch
     then, somehow, it wound up on top of the laundry bag !
     But if I washed it, I fear it might even crumble;
     it’s threadbare now – and, ahem,  strategically so!  
     I know it can’t take a soak much less any tumble;
     should have morphed into a dustcloth ages ago –
         but I so admire how much it is like myself,
         resisting each cupboard and drawer, closet and shelf.

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Going It Alone

A pillow drenched with tears in solitude
is common among those who have not found
a mate to share or solace every mood
[as if two ever shared such common ground]
Some few choose A and others go for B
most never choose but take what they can get
feel forced to live alone not fancy free
or called to dinner like a household pet.
In secret, many ache to be alone
yet travel as if they were on the Ark,
while others find no one to share their home
or take an evening stroll with ’round the park.  
    Those ties that bind are not unlike a noose
    but most don’t have the spine to just hang loose

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idols

  All gods are  idols, whatever the size or setting
    be they of gold or simply the plaster kind
    or more important,  by concepts –  language abetting –
    idols that loom in the over-armed monkey’s mind.
    When you teach a man to bow low to a dog-headed rock  
    or treat stone figures as if they could possible feel
    or care what befalls the shepherd and all of his flock
    then it won’t be long ’til the same man is willing to kneel    
    and pray to a thing he can’t even see or touch –  
    buy a pig a poke…or a cat in a shopping bag –
    and surely it won’t take all that flaming much
   ’til he prostrates himself before bankers waving a flag.  
            You believe in Jesus ? Well I got the word from The Jew –
            The  Kingdom is closer than that:  it’s deep within YOU

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Retort to W.B. YEATS

THE NOODLE who would tally love in fractions
will find in me slight negative reactions –
I’ll bet he’s yet another standing pisser
[with stubble sproutin’ daily on his kisser]
a heart is not some citrus grown in sections
it’s at a race course one backs up selections
parlays bets and hedges all around
[love gamed like this is better lost than found]
what? save a slice for later in the day?
this isn’t love;  it’s just erotic play;
     parsimonious types arn’t worth a fig –
     where love is freely given, hearts grow big

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NEVER give all the heart, for love
Will hardly seem worth thinking of
To passionate women if it seem
Certain, and they never dream
That it fades out from kiss to kiss;
For everything that’s lovely is
But a brief, dreamy. Kind delight.
O never give the heart outright,
For they, for all smooth lips can say,
Have given their hearts up to the play.
And who could play it well enough
If deaf and dumb and blind with love?
He that made this knows all the cost,
For he gave all his heart and lost.

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Sailor’s Lament

In the wake of our ship, blindin’ white ruffles fly
like some petticoat fiesta in old Vera Cruz.
The horizon’s a gash between ocean and sky
[ Is the mail simply slow ? Has she sent me no news ? ]

I think love’s an anchor – perhaps it’s a boat
Or a shore – or a mast – what the hell do I know ?
Or it could be a fish – maybe bait that can float. . .
Or the pain that just follows wherever I go.

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Balancing Act

    I rummage in the evil words have wrought
    in hopes of maybe salvaging the good
    but not as master – what a silly thought –
    not even William Shakespeare ever could;
    this said, I’m not resigned to being slave
    and have a deep belief in quips and tickles
    and looney letters dancing as they shave
    the beard off all the prickly pompous pickles;
    let’s cut up daft decrees – make them a game
    and rhymes exchange for pious judgements too
    let limerick-led shenanigans take aim
    at orthodox excess of every hue –
         but always more for fun and less for spite
         ’til  words have made us  dizzy with delight

[My time is running out, of that I’m sure]

My time is running out, of that I’m sure
and with the sentence comes a sense of dread –
no, not of going poof  [what can endure?]
but rather that I’ll leave with stuff unsaid.
I never gave a fig for poetry –
wrote flaming diatribes when in my prime
content with prose right up to fifty-three
when – hey, what’s this? – I started spouting rhyme.
I wrote of pointless nonsense – like the sound
of rain on rooftops and of gulls that screech,
the silence of the snow upon the ground
and answers that were always out of reach.
    And now I’d like to disembowel all norms
    and rewrite rants in measured, metered forms

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closing the door

…and in the instant Summum Light had broken – shattered –
myriad gold and silver elements poured down
and clear it was – to all who saw – that nothing mattered
save the glow that fell like snow on countryside and town

so by the woodland stream that slaloms ‘cross the dale
we paused and waited – silent – by their strange oak door;
we stayed and stayed and prayed – we knocked to no avail –
The Little Ones had gone, I fear, forevermore.

farewell, thou are too dear for my possessing

        An unplanned encounter of Light with the Dark
        [before swart Plutonian night swooped to swallow]
        was known in times past to produce a wee spark
        on the supernal chariot wheels of Apollo.
        But, of course, Light ‘n Dark could never get far  
        [water douses all heat; heat will make water boil]
        It’s a question, quite simply, of who they both are
        [their pleasures are  brief and are destined to  spoil]    
        It’s plainer than pansies – it just wouldn’t do –
        should either attempt some supreme sacrifice
        The sky would go ashen or other dull hue –
        All would be fire – or all would be ice
                  Still, once in a blue moon they waltz in the wings
                  and get up to all sorts of…hmm…sweet naughty things.

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